Chapter 192 — The System Is Matching You with an Evenly Matched Opponent
It was deep into the night.
Selwyn Tarth leaned against the crenellations of the city wall, fighting a losing battle against drowsiness.
Not long ago, he had been full of resolve, determined to shoulder the night watch in Simon Dondarrion's place—eyes wide open until dawn, no matter the cost.
Yet less than two hours had passed before sleep came down on him like a hammer, striking again and again. His eyelids grew unbearably heavy.
Before he realized it, Selwyn—his back pressed against the cold stone—slipped into sleep.
In his dream, his daughter Brienne of Tarth had grown into a poised, graceful young lady. At her side stood a handsome, refined young heir of House Dondarrion.
At his knees, several beautiful grandchildren laughed and danced around their grandfather.
One small child reached up with a soft little hand, tugging at his vambrace, calling him in a blurred, half-formed voice—
"My lord… my lord…"
A sudden shake jolted Selwyn awake.
Enemy attack?
His body reacted before his mind—his hand flew instinctively to the sword at his waist.
But instead of flames or steel, what greeted him was the anxious face of a messenger.
"Have something to eat, my lord."
The messenger didn't scold him for dozing off. Even if Selwyn had fallen asleep on duty, it wasn't this man's place to reprimand him.
In his hands was a small earthen bowl, thin white steam curling upward. Inside was stewed meat, cooked until soft and tender.
"Where did this come from?"
Selwyn's relief was quickly replaced by suspicion—and a flicker of anger.
In wartime, who dared light a kitchen fire in the dead of night, let alone stew meat?
Selwyn Tarth prided himself on being a lord who cherished his people. If word spread that his men were oppressing Blackhaven's civilians, where would he put his old face?
The messenger, clearly anticipating this reaction, answered at once.
"I rode to Lord Simon's keep myself. The food came from his kitchens."
"Lord Dondarrion hasn't slept for two days and nights. The cooks stayed awake as well. When they heard you were still guarding the walls, they scraped together something warm."
"I thought… you must be exhausted too, my lord."
Hearing that it came from Simon's stores, Selwyn finally relaxed.
The rich aroma rose from the bowl, and without another word he drained it in several deep gulps.
Warmth spread instantly from his stomach through his limbs, breathing a little strength back into his weary body.
"Ah… that hits the spot."
As a great lord, he had never imagined a single bowl of meat stew could taste so good.
Even the fog in his head seemed to lift.
Handing the empty bowl back, Selwyn rubbed his face and asked, "What time is it now? How long until dawn?"
The messenger received the bowl carefully. "About three hours, my lord."
After a pause, he raised his head cautiously and ventured, "The soldiers are sleeping very deeply. Is that… safe? Should I wake them and restore the watch?"
"No need, Jamie."
Strengthened by the stew, Selwyn's voice carried confidence again. He clapped a heavy hand on the young man's shoulder.
"They won't attack tonight."
"The men have fought for two straight days. They've barely slept more than an hour—let them rest."
"If there's any movement at all, I'll sound the alarm myself."
Jamie straightened instinctively, fist striking his breastplate. "Yes, my lord!"
Selwyn studied the young man before him—the clean bowl in his hands, the fatigue lingering in his clear eyes. His heart softened.
Jamie was the son of a master smith from Tarth Island.
Years ago, that smith had forged a sword so fine that Selwyn finally agreed to take the boy on as an attendant.
For nearly a decade now, Jamie had served tirelessly—fetching water, polishing armor, cleaning blades—never once complaining.
Time truly flew.
"You're always thoughtful, Jamie."
Selwyn's voice gentled. He patted the young man's shoulder again, planting a promise without hesitation.
"When this war is over—when we drive off that damned Randyll Tarly and return to Tarth—I'll knight you myself."
"I'll preside over your dubbing ceremony."
Jamie's face flushed scarlet at once, his eyes blazing with disbelief and joy.
All these years—his daily humility, his careful obedience, his tireless diligence—had never been about proving how remarkable he was.
No.
It was about proving that a blacksmith's son could still rise, could still become a man worthy of respect—a knight.
Lance Lot had carved his way out of a smithy in Duskendale and risen all the way to Regent of the realm.
So why couldn't he?
Why couldn't Jamie?
The overwhelming surge of happiness and hope washed every trace of exhaustion from his body.
Almost by instinct, he dropped to one knee, his right fist pressed firmly to his heart, his voice trembling with emotion.
"My lord!"
"I swear before the Seven, I will give my life to protect House Tarth for as long as I draw breath—"
He never finished the sentence.
It was as if fate had merely plucked an invisible string.
Whish—
A shrill, tearing sound split the air.
Out of the pitch-black depths below the wall, an arrow shot upward in a perfect arc.
Selwyn Tarth's smile froze.
He didn't even have time to react.
The arrow slammed down with a wet thud, punching through Jamie's side—just below the heart—and bursting out the other side.
The force carried with it Jamie's unfinished oath, his newly ignited dream of knighthood, and his not-so-large body, hurling him hard onto the stone.
Blood spread rapidly.
Jamie's eyes went vacant, his throat producing nothing but a thin, rattling sound.
The warmth of the meat stew mixed with cold blood, seeping slowly into the cracks between the stones.
"Enemy attack!!!"
Nearly two seconds later, Selwyn finally reacted.
His terrified roar exploded across the battlements.
Arrows followed like rain, streaking up toward the walls—most clattering uselessly against stone and merlons, causing little damage.
And unlucky Ser Jamie…
Seemed to be the only casualty of that first volley.
Dodging the next wave, Selwyn scrambled on hands and knees toward the parapet, hastily straightening the helmet that had been knocked askew when Jamie fell.
He leaned half his body over the crenel.
Sure enough—within the inky darkness below, countless black silhouettes surged toward the walls.
"Wake up! Wake up!"
"Grab your weapons! They're at the walls—at the walls!!!"
Selwyn screamed himself hoarse, kicking and shaking the nearest soldiers who were still slumped asleep against the stone.
Gone was the kindly lord of moments ago.
But the men who woke were like startled sheep.
Anyone who has endured forced night watches knows this truth:
The hardest moment isn't staying awake—it's being torn from deep sleep before the body has recovered.
After barely two hours of rest, the soldiers' fatigue hadn't eased—it had deepened.
Their minds were blank, ears ringing, vision blurred and swimming.
Some fumbled blindly for spears or sword hilts at their feet, grasping at empty air.
Some staggered upright out of habit, rubbing their eyes, unsure where to look.
Others found their limbs numb and useless, unable even to stand.
Confusion, panic, curses, and whispered questions rippled through the ranks.
Men collided, tripped, scrambled for positions—each movement worsening the chaos.
Under the night sky, Blackhaven was swallowed by the stench of smoke and blood.
The Tyrell assault surged again.
The briefly silenced cries of battle were torn open by fresh horns, shredding nerves already stretched to breaking.
"Well shot, my lord!"
"Magnificent archery! Even the Kingsguard couldn't match that!"
At a position some distance from the main gate, Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, lowered his longbow with theatrical flair.
Two young knights at his side immediately rushed to flatter him.
Ahead, the fighting raged—but their armor gleamed spotless, untouched by blood.
Buoyed by praise, Mace puffed out his chest, chin lifting high.
Never mind that the arrow he'd just loosed might have landed among his own men…
With a flourish better suited to a stage than a battlefield, he tossed aside his ornate bow—far more decorative than practical.
An attendant stumbled forward to catch it, clutching it reverently.
Soaking in the attention, the great lord adjusted the golden rose embroidered on his chest, striking what he imagined to be the pose of a heroic knight sung by minstrels.
Just a few paces away, Randyll Tarly silently stowed his plain, heavy war bow.
With his veteran eye and powerful draw, he had deliberately aimed high—he was certain his arrow had reached the wall.
Yet there was no pride on his face.
His brow remained deeply furrowed as he watched the battle.
Five thousand Tyrell soldiers hurled themselves forward, enduring stones and boiling oil from above—again and again, futilely.
Simon Dondarrion truly was formidable.
He hadn't relaxed his defenses at night in the slightest.
Aside from fewer stones and arrows, there was little difference from the daytime defense.
But Tarly knew the truth.
After two days and sixteen suicidal assaults, Blackhaven's defenders were at the edge of collapse.
This war couldn't be fought like this.
"My lord."
Randyll Tarly stepped forward, his voice low and firm.
"We cannot keep throwing every man we have at the main wall."
"I've confirmed it repeatedly—the western section is the city's most fatal weakness."
"One thousand men, properly coordinated, could breach it. Once a gap opens, reinforcements can pour through."
"Not this—throwing lives into a bottomless pit."
Mace Tyrell's smug smile stiffened.
He shot Tarly a sideways glance, irritation burning behind his eyes.
I finally get to shine, and you choose now to undermine me?
"If you're so capable, Lord Tarly~~~"
He dragged out the words with heavy mockery.
"Then why have your troops been freezing outside Blackhaven for two whole days?"
"I—!"
Even Randyll Tarly nearly cursed aloud.
Two days.
Two days of testing defenses with blood, grinding the defenders down inch by inch—that was how the weakness had been found.
And this fool—who couldn't even shoot straight—dared mock him for it?
Tarly inhaled sharply, forcing his anger down.
Seeing Tarly fall silent, Mace's smile widened.
After the Summerhall debacle, his mother had scolded him for months.
This campaign had taken endless pleading to secure.
He wouldn't let anyone steal the spotlight.
"Enough. Stay here and watch."
He waved grandly.
"Watch me, Mace Tyrell, show you what real war looks like!"
"Striking weak points?"
He scoffed loudly.
"That's what thieves and cowards do!"
"If we fight, we fight head-on—through their strongest wall, their greatest pride!"
"Only that is worthy of the Golden Rose!"
Having delivered his self-satisfying sermon, Mace straightened, convinced he looked like a god of war.
Turning to a messenger, he raised his chin.
"Pass the word—whoever is first onto the wall receives fifty gold dragons!"
"Or, if they prefer, I'll knight them myself!"
The messenger blinked.
Fifty gold dragons?
For a common soldier, that was a fortune.
But on a wall like that… was it enough?
And being knighted instead meant no gold?
Swallowing hard, the messenger shouted his assent.
"Yes, my lord!"
"Come!"
Mace gestured dramatically.
"Let's go oversee the victory!"
As the he strode off, surrounded by knights in flamboyant armor, Randyll Tarly's gaze darkened.
Moments later, Mathis Rowan, drenched in blood, galloped over with his guards.
"This can't go on, Tarly!"
He spat red onto the ground.
"There's an obvious weak point—and he insists on chewing the hardest bone!"
"This isn't war. It's sending men to die in lines!"
Randyll didn't look at him.
His eyes stayed locked on the distant wall.
"We both know," he said quietly, "that the Lord won't listen."
Silence hung heavy.
Then suddenly, Tarly snapped his head up, bloodshot eyes burning.
"Go back."
"Every man of yours and mine who can still breathe—whip them, bribe them, threaten them if you must."
"Have them ready to fight at a moment's notice."
He drew in the foul air of the battlefield.
"If he keeps fighting like this, something will go catastrophically wrong."
"This is our last chance to take Blackhaven."
"No matter what—we cover his mess."
"Go!"
Rowan hesitated only a heartbeat, then nodded sharply and rode off.
Left alone, Tarly watched the chaos unfold.
Mace Tyrell paraded along the front like it was a tour, while Tyrell soldiers hurled themselves upward, trampling their fallen comrades.
Firelight illuminated the gate in blinding glare.
Stones, oil, arrows—lives vanishing by the second.
Fifty gold dragons drove the numb forward.
But Tarly knew.
If brute force alone could take Blackhaven, they would have won days ago.
If Tyrell's men truly broke through like this—
He'd eat his own bow on the spot.
Then—
"It's broken!"
"The wall is breached!!!"
A roar erupted.
Tarly spun around.
At the highest point of Blackhaven's wall, a shadow leapt into the firelight—
And the golden rose banner of House Tyrell unfurled above the city.
Mocking him.
Openly.
Cruelly.