Chapter 191 — War Isn't Fought Like This
Night.
Blackhaven.
Ruin and blood everywhere.
Simon Dondarrion stood atop the gate, his tall frame slightly hunched, his armor crusted with dark, congealed blood. Despite the bitter winter cold, sweat still seeped from his brow in thin rivulets.
He looked down at the carnage below—corpses piled upon corpses—and his bloodshot eyes brimmed with exhaustion.
The stench hit him the moment he breathed in: thick iron rust mixed with raw blood.
"Damn the Reach coalition…"
His dry throat worked as he swallowed, his voice hoarse and cracked.
As Lord of Blackhaven, Simon had inherited the Dondarrion ferocity in full. In every battle, he fought at the front. Yet even for a veteran like him, this was something he had never witnessed before—an assault so pure, so relentless, so utterly indifferent to cost.
Sixteen times.
In just two days, the armies of Randyll Tarly and Mathis Rowan had launched sixteen assaults.
Sixteen.
What did that even mean?
War horns, drums, battle cries—blended into one endless roar that barely paused for a quarter-hour over two full days.
No sooner had one wave been repelled than another came crashing in. There was no time to breathe, no time to bind wounds, barely even time to drink water.
Under such relentless pressure, the stone walls themselves had turned a dark brown—washed again and again by blood, dried, then soaked anew.
Even with the advantage of fortifications, Blackhaven's losses had climbed to nearly a thousand men.
They had been farmers' sons. Fathers. Husbands.
Each familiar face that vanished beneath the Reachmen's suicidal assaults became another crushing weight on Simon's heart.
And yet—
As the attackers, the Reach forces had suffered at least three times that number.
But still they did not retreat.
Wave after wave came on, as if their numbers were endless, as if fear itself had been burned out of them.
Both sides understood what Blackhaven represented.
For this gateway, Randyll Tarly was willing to spend lives without limit.
Such an utterly unhinged method of war had finally forced Simon Dondarrion to send a desperate plea for aid—to House Tarth, stationed at Summerhall.
"Haaah…"
He let out a long breath—and suddenly the world went dark.
Gripping the crenellation, Simon tried to steady himself, but crushing exhaustion surged like a tide through his mind. Two days and two nights without rest, constant command and fighting—the moment his taut nerves slackened, his body rebelled.
The wall.
The stars.
The silent battlefield.
Everything spun violently.
His powerful body swayed, then collapsed backward.
"Lord Simon!"
"Dondarrion!"
Several voices cried out at once.
Strong arms caught him just in time, preventing him from falling.
"You should go rest," a voice said firmly. "Leave this to me, Dondarrion."
A face smeared with blood and sweat swam into Simon's blurred vision, its expression filled with concern.
Simon shook his head, forcing himself upright once more.
"…Thank you," he said hoarsely.
"Lord Tarth."
He shook his head and refused outright.
"Blackhaven is my castle. As its lord, it's my duty to stand and fall with my soldiers."
Ser Selwyn Tarth truly was a textbook good man—loyal, kind, and dependable. In times of peace, he was the sort of neighbor every lord was happy to have.
The moment Simon's plea for aid reached him, Selwyn had gathered nearly every soldier stationed at Summerhall and marched at once.
Yet his reputation was not without blemish.
That blemish was his utterly mediocre talent for war.
Whether it was strategic vision, battlefield improvisation, or even his widely mocked lack of swordsmanship, Selwyn Tarth's shortcomings were well known throughout the Stormlands.
As a longtime neighbor and old friend, Simon understood this better than anyone.
How bad was Selwyn's military sense?
Put it this way—he could turn even a simple tax-collection expedition into complete chaos.
Simon respected his loyalty, was grateful for his aid, and cherished their friendship.
But hand Blackhaven over to Selwyn Tarth?
Not a chance.
Randyll Tarly was a cold, vicious hunting hound. Under his ferocious assaults, Selwyn wouldn't last.
Simon pushed away Selwyn's supporting hand and struggled to straighten, lifting his gaze to the men on the battlements.
They leaned against their weapons, barely able to stand. Every single one of them was wounded. Their faces were hollow, numb with exhaustion.
"My lord, please—go rest."
Red, Simon's longtime sworn sword, stepped forward to urge him gently. The old knight was wrapped in bloodstained bandages, a fresh scar carved across his face, yet his concern was unmistakable.
"Tarly's men are human too. Their last assault alone cost them nearly eight hundred dead."
"I doubt they'll attack again tonight. You must go—lie down, even for an hour or two. Drink some hot broth."
Simon opened his mouth to argue.
His body betrayed him.
The dizziness returned like a tidal wave—stronger than before. Darkness swallowed his vision, a piercing whine filling his ears.
He tried to speak, but no sound came.
His legs gave out completely, his weight collapsing onto Red.
"Quick—get the lord down from here!"
Selwyn Tarth barked the order instantly, his tone leaving no room for argument.
The guards obeyed at once. Half dragging, half carrying, they moved the famed warrior-lord away from the battlements.
Simon had no strength left to resist.
"Rest easy, Simon," Selwyn murmured, gripping his clenched fist and pinning his flailing arm gently but firmly.
"You're always complaining about not having a daughter, aren't you?"
"My daughter, Brienne—she'll grow into a fine, proper lady. Once this war is over, I'll arrange her betrothal to your son, young Beric."
Only when Simon's figure vanished into the shadows leading toward the lord's tower did Selwyn finally let out a long, heavy sigh.
In the dim light atop the gatehouse, he looked around.
Broken bodies. Severed limbs.
The surviving soldiers slumped against the icy stone walls—some sitting, some curled up, clutching wounds. Despair hung thick in the air.
"Pass my order," Selwyn said quietly to the duty runner. He hesitated—then gave it anyway.
"Rotate the men. Let them rest."
The runner's face flashed with relief, then tightened with worry.
He glanced instinctively toward where Lord Dondarrion had disappeared.
"But my lord… Lord Dondarrion ordered that at no time should the wall be held by fewer than half strength."
"We must be prepared for another assault at any moment."
"I know," Selwyn replied gently.
"But they're exhausted."
At that moment, he was no general—only a father and a lord, driven by the instinct to protect his people.
He looked past the runner at the men—broken, spent—then out toward the dead blackness beyond the walls.
"The Reachmen are even more exhausted."
"At this pace, neither side can endure much longer. Tonight may be our only chance to rest."
He paused, eyes hardening.
"Go."
"Give the order. I'll remain here. If there's the slightest disturbance, I'll sound the alarm myself."
The runner, who was barely holding himself together, finally exhaled in relief.
He struck his chestplate with a clenched fist.
"Yes, my lord!"
---
Beyond the walls, the Reach coalition's camp stretched across the frozen plain.
The battlefield, once deafening with noise, lay silent and cold.
Just as Selwyn had said, the attackers' morale was even lower than the defenders'.
Two days and two nights of relentless assaults had cost them nearly thirty percent of their total strength—without meaningful gains.
If not for Randyll Tarly's iron discipline and ruthless authority, mutiny and desertion would already have erupted.
Inside the command tent, the Lord of Horn Hill stood alone before a table.
He was like another fortress—silent, immovable.
There was no frustration on his face. No trace of discouragement.
Only concentration.
Before him lay a model of Blackhaven and its surrounding defenses, painstakingly assembled from stone.
Every battlement. Every choke point. Every weakness he had tested.
His fingers traced a protruding section of the western wall and stopped.
Thought stretched long.
Every assault. Every feint. Every shift in the defenders' response was burned into his mind.
Then—
Randyll Tarly's eyes flashed.
At terrible cost, he had finally seen through Simon Dondarrion's defense.
"We can't keep fighting like this, Tarly!"
The tent flap was yanked open.
Mathis Rowan, Lord of Goldengrove, stormed inside, fury blazing across his face.
"Two days! Just two bloody days—and I've lost over a thousand men!"
"This isn't war! It's lining up to die!"
Randyll didn't look up.
His eyes remained fixed on the model.
Mathis slammed a fist onto the oak table.
At last, he yanked out a chair and dropped into it, arms crossed, staring away in seething silence.
"My losses are greater than yours, Lord Rowan."
Randyll's voice came at last—steady, emotionless.
"If you no longer wish to fight, take your banners and leave."
Mathis choked on the words.
Leave?
After all that blood?
"I didn't say we shouldn't fight!" he snapped, calmer now but bristling with frustration.
"We're meant to pin Dondarrion here—not throw lives at his walls!"
"My men are breaking. If this continues, we'll be butchered by mutiny before the Stormlands campaign even ends!"
Randyll listened patiently.
Then straightened.
"They're at their limit," he said calmly.
"But so are the defenders."
He pointed to the western wall.
"Here. Six times we nearly breached it. The last assault reached the parapet."
"They won't hold much longer. One more push."
"Tonight, we dine in Blackhaven's hall."
Mathis's breath quickened—but he still shook his head.
"Our men are spent. They won't manage another assault."
Randyll's eyes gleamed.
"Reinforcements," he said softly.
"Are arriving."
Hoofbeats thundered outside.
The tent flap was thrown open again.
Golden roses gleamed on armor as guards stepped aside.
Then a richly armored figure entered—well-fed, unbothered by travel, polished and radiant.
"Your Grace."
Both lords bowed.
Randyll frowned slightly.
Of all people…
Mace Tyrell strode past them and dropped into the command seat.
"I hear," he drawled, looking down his nose,
"that after two days, with superior numbers, the mighty Reach hasn't even touched Blackhaven's gates?"
"Lord Tarly."
Highgarden's expectations, he implied, had not been met.
The words struck like a slap.
Randyll said nothing.
Explaining tactics to Mace Tyrell was about as useful as lecturing septons in King's Landing about women.
Mathis tried anyway.
"We're close—"
"Enough!"
Mace waved him off and, without warning, swept the stone model off the table.
It shattered across the floor.
Mathis surged forward—but Randyll stopped him.
The plan was already in his mind.
"All the same," Randyll asked coolly,
"how many men have you brought, Your Grace?"
Mace lifted his chin.
"Five thousand."
Mathis brightened instantly.
Then—
"You have no talent for war, Tarly."
Mace's voice was smug, absolute.
"Allow me to show you."
He stood, gesturing grandly.
"War—"
"—is not fought like this."