Chapter 185 — I Saw the Dawn Tear Through the Night
The winter gale shrieked as it tore through the towering spires of Nightsong, like restless dead wailing in the dark.
The castle—only recently captured—was still steeped in the stench of rust and blood.
Inside the command chamber, Lord Randyll Tarly stood rigid, his calloused hands holding a parchment sealed with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
The wax had already been broken.
It had come from the Reach.
"Ten days?"
For perhaps the first time in years, the famously rock-steady Lord of Horn Hill felt the muscles in his brow twitch uncontrollably as he read the message delivered by raven.
He rubbed his eyes, snapped the parchment shut, then unfurled it again—reading with near-obsessive disbelief.
There was no mistake.
Black ink on white vellum. Clear as daylight.
He recognized every word.
Yet when combined, their meaning made his scalp prickle.
[Lord Randyll Tarly is hereby ordered to use Nightsong as a forward base and feint an assault on Blackhaven, pinning the western Stormlands.
The Regent, Lance Lot, shall personally lead eight hundred light cavalry south from King's Landing and, within ten days, shatter Storm's End and present the head of Robert Baratheon to the Iron Throne.]
Ten days.
It really said ten days.
"Mathis."
Randyll slammed the parchment onto the table and turned sharply to the man beside him.
"You're sure," he demanded, disbelief edging his voice, "that this letter contains no error?"
"I'm not blind yet, Tarly."
Lord Mathis Rowan of Goldengrove shot him a flat look and answered without hesitation.
He wore a fitted white doublet, the great golden tree of House Rowan embroidered across his chest in fine gold thread, glinting softly in the firelight.
Five days earlier, he had received Tyrell orders to bring three thousand men to Nightsong and join forces with Tarly.
He tipped back his waterskin, swallowed noisily, then looked at Randyll's stunned expression.
Despite his normally severe demeanor, the corners of Mathis's mouth twitched upward.
Because only moments earlier—when he had first read that very same order—he had worn the exact same look.
Like someone had just cracked him across the skull with one of Robert Baratheon's warhammers.
Ill omen.
"I can read every word clearly," Mathis wiped his mouth and said dryly, "but tell me—has our illustrious Regent been so intoxicated by hatching dragons that he truly believes he can take Storm's End in ten days?"
"That's madness. The dragons aren't even grown."
Randyll did not laugh.
When two men this rigid and humorless spoke, the exchange was always blunt—unadorned, heavy as iron.
His brow knit even tighter.
Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knew the strength of Storm's End.
It was the Baratheon family's foundation, hardened by centuries—built upon a jagged stone peninsula, sheer cliffs plunging into the sea on three sides.
Eight hundred light cavalry?
Even if those eight hundred were all Barristan Selmy, Randyll would not believe Storm's End could fall in ten days.
What was that man thinking?
Randyll did not know.
Randyll could not see it.
Even he—acknowledged as one of the Reach's finest commanders—could not conceive of any method to breach Storm's End head-on within ten days.
A direct assault would be suicide.
The only conceivable path was a siege—months, perhaps years—starving the fortress into surrender.
He lifted his gaze, staring through the window as though he could see far south, all the way to King's Landing.
And yet—
"I've seen him, Mathis."
Randyll's voice dropped, steady and deliberate.
"Whether as Lance Lot or Rhaeseryon Targaryen—I've seen the man in King's Landing."
"His swordsmanship is exceptional. Even without crossing blades, I know he's stronger than I am. Later, even Arthur Dayne fell to him."
"And the way he conducts himself—decisive, ruthless even—but in all I've observed, he does not boast. Every promise he makes, he fulfills cleanly and completely."
"Duskendale. The Kingswood. Dorne. And… Dragonstone."
Mathis blinked, surprised.
"Even you speak of him this highly?"
To him, Randyll Tarly was the embodiment of caution, pragmatism, and discipline—his governance and generalship respected across the Reach.
He had never seen Randyll lavish praise on anyone so freely.
He had assumed the Regent was merely a fortunate Targaryen—lucky enough to hatch dragons, bolstered by exceptional personal strength.
Now, it seemed there was far more beneath the surface.
Randyll did not answer the question directly.
The mind that habitually dissected battlefields and weighed outcomes was already racing—processing every fragment of information, every possibility.
Then he looked up sharply.
"When was this message sent?"
The raven had arrived late last night. Judging by its flight time, the message itself was likely sent a full day earlier. Accounting for the delay in delivery and reception…
Mathis thought for a moment, quickly calculating in his head.
"If the Regent mobilized fast enough," he said slowly, "he's probably already riding south along the Kingsroad, somewhere near the Kingswood."
Randyll stepped to the wall where a detailed map of the Stormlands hung, his eyes locking onto several key points.
Without warning, he spun around and barked,
"Order the entire army to assemble. Immediately."
Mathis Rowan froze, half-convinced he'd misheard.
"The entire army?"
He stepped forward, frowning.
"Think this through, Lord Tarly. The Iron Throne's orders are explicit—make a show of force. Convince Blackhaven that we're preparing a full assault, force Robert Baratheon to divert troops west, and pin him down. That's all."
"If we commit fully and the assault stalls, Robert's forces could latch onto us—worse, encircle us in the Stormlands' mud. The risk is enormous."
Randyll didn't flinch. He stared straight at the Lord of Goldengrove, his finger slamming down hard on Blackhaven's marker.
"A feint?"
"No."
His voice was deep, resonant, iron-hard.
"We turn the feint into a lethal threat. At any cost, we take Blackhaven—fast."
"Only by truly severing, or at least gravely endangering, this road into Storm's End's hinterland can we relieve pressure on a man who claims he'll end this war in ten days."
He paused, then continued, even more sharply:
"Or, to put it plainly—if he meets resistance, if he needs relief—we must be positioned inside the Stormlands' heart, ready to tear open a breach."
Randyll brought his palm down against the stone wall.
"In short, Mathis—we cannot wager everything on Lance Lot alone."
"We must make sure that when he needs it, the path ahead has already been cleared as much as possible."
"This is real strategic coordination."
Mathis's chest rose and fell heavily as he listened, his expression shifting between storm and shadow.
"…That's reckless," he said at last. "Bold to the point of madness."
After a long silence, he shook his head helplessly.
"With the forces we have, if we're trapped in the Stormlands, we may never come back."
"Ha!"
Randyll Tarly burst out laughing, clapping Mathis on the shoulder.
He knew it already—his old friend and comrade had agreed.
"Don't worry, Lord Rowan."
For once, Randyll even cracked a joke.
"My son Samwell was just born. I have no intention of dragging you, me, or these loyal men to an early grave."
"Before this campaign, I knelt in the sept. I swore before the Seven that I would raise that boy to be the greatest warrior in the Reach—no, in all of Westeros."
"Trust me."
Mathis said nothing more. He only nodded heavily.
He knew Randyll Tarly never broke an oath.
"Begin the preparations, my lord."
Randyll wrapped his hand around the hilt of his ancestral Valyrian steel blade, Heartsbane, strode to the door, and shoved it open.
A blast of icy wind and snow flooded the warm chamber, snapping his heavy fur cloak like a battle standard.
Watching that broad, unyielding figure disappear into the storm, Mathis clenched his fists and followed—stepping out into the snow, the horns, and the gathering roar of war.
The war was about to begin.
---
South of King's Landing — The Kingsroad
Thunder rolled across the earth.
Eight hundred warhorses galloped as one, the ground itself trembling beneath their hooves.
Had it been summer, dust would have swallowed the Kingsroad whole.
But this was winter.
Snow lashed against armor and cloaks, clung to steel and saddle, crusted the manes of the horses in white.
Cold crept through every seam of mail, gnawing at wool and leather beneath.
Each breath—man and beast alike—burst into the air as thick white mist.
Within the ranks, Brynden Tully, newly forced into a white cloak, pressed his lips thin—not from the cold, but from doubt.
Ten days?
It was madness.
A veteran of the War of the Ninepenny Kings, he could not fathom how anyone planned to take that cursed fortress in such time.
"Hey, Blackfish!"
A young, cheerful voice rang out beside him.
Brynden turned to see a blaze of gold hair dusted with snow.
"What's wrong?" the man laughed. "This damned weather making you homesick? Or are your hemorrhoids acting up? You look constipated!"
The voice was carefree, utterly lacking the tension of an impending siege.
Brynden scowled.
"You don't know a damn thing, you green mule!"
"Ten days. Eight hundred cavalry. No siege towers. No trebuchets. Not even enough infantry for a frontal assault. What are we supposed to fight with—our heads?"
"If ten days pass and we're still gnawing frozen bread outside Storm's End while Baratheon's archers use us for target practice—"
"The Regent loses face. The Iron Throne loses face. You, me, every one of us, and this cursed white cloak I'm wearing—"
"We all become the laughingstock of Robert Baratheon and all Westeros!"
His voice carried, drawing sidelong glances from nearby Crownlands knights—many of them equally uncertain.
"Ha! Hahahahaha!"
But the answer he got was laughter—loud, booming laughter.
"What the hell are you laughing at, pup?" Brynden snapped. "You think this is funny?"
"I'm no pup," the man replied easily. "I know how war works, Kingsguard."
Still smiling, Balman Byrch continued,
"You know I was in Dorne with the Regent. Nearly died there."
His tone shifted, a trace of regret creeping in.
"Once, by sheer bad luck, I lost His Grace's sword."
"Not the Valyrian steel one he took later—an older blade."
"I swore I'd never lose his sword again."
"Later, my brothers and I were poisoned, ambushed. Everyone died. I was the last one standing."
"But no matter how they attacked me—I held onto that sword."
He drew a slow breath, icy air filling his lungs as if savoring life itself.
"I was covered in wounds. Bleeding out. Thought it was over."
"Thought I'd failed my oath again."
"But just when I believed it was the end—"
He grinned.
"Want to know what I saw?"
"Your story's terrible, Byrch," Brynden muttered. "But go on. What did you see?"
Balman's grin widened. He straightened proudly, glancing around at the knights listening in.
Then he looked forward—to the very front of the column.
There, riding through the storm, stood an unshakable figure in pure white.
Behind him crossed two enormous blades—one white, one black.
Balman's eyes burned as if reliving that night in the Old Palace of Sunspear.
His voice rose, cutting through the wind and snow.
"I saw—"
"The dawn… tearing through the night sky!"