Chapter 431: The Fall
Ser Daven Lannister ascended the battlements, his armor still reeking of blood. As he gazed out at the enemy soldiers swarming toward the walls like ants, a heavy weight settled in his chest.
He could see it clearly: today's assault was entirely different from those before it. Across the battlefield, Storm King Samwell had seemingly decided to go all in.
Yet, even as he realized this, Daven felt no fear.
Just hours earlier, he had executed over two hundred deserters, including a member of the Lannister family itself. The unwavering resolve he had demonstrated had inspired the remaining garrison, lifting their morale to an unusual high.
Under the sound of rallying horns and barking officers, the soldiers took up their positions.
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The sky quickly filled with a storm of arrows raining down on the advancing southern forces. Screams echoed as men fell, but the waves of attackers did not slow.
The relentless pounding of war drums reverberated across the field, matching the thundering footsteps of the soldiers and the frantic beating of their hearts.
Shrieks and the clash of steel merged into a cacophony as the battle reached its fever pitch.
Blood poured in rivers, and life was extinguished in an instant.
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Scaling Ladders Rose Like Forests.
Southern soldiers climbed desperately upward, shields held high to ward off the rain of stones and arrows.
Many screamed as they fell from the ladders, but for every man that dropped, another took his place.
Those who reached the battlements found waiting for them not safety but thrusting spears and slashing swords.
The deafening sounds of battle, begun at dawn, showed no sign of abating by dusk.
This time, the attackers refused to retreat once they reached the walls.
The battlements, narrow and crowded, became packed with struggling soldiers from both sides.
Meanwhile, southern archers inched closer, using shields for cover, and began exchanging fire with the defenders atop the walls.
At the rear, catapults and cannons were rolled forward. To avoid striking their own soldiers, they now targeted the town's interior.
Explosive cannonballs and massive stones tore through the air, crashing into buildings with deafening blasts and sending clouds of smoke and dust spiraling upward.
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The fiercest fighting unfolded at the western wall, where Samwell had deployed the Unsullied Army.
These soldiers from Slaver's Bay were unlike anything the Westerosi defenders had ever faced. They were unnervingly silent, fighting without the customary shouts or cries.
The eerie quiet of the Unsullied unnerved the defenders, who watched with growing horror as the enemy soldiers advanced without pause.
The Unsullied seemed inhuman.
Arrows pierced them, spears stabbed through them, and even boiling oil scalded their skin—but they uttered no screams. Pain and fear appeared foreign to them.
They fought in silence. They died in silence.
Anyone who encounters such a terrible enemy will feel palpitations and panic.
Sensing the danger, Daven Lannister personally took command at the western wall.
His presence bolstered the defenders, inspiring them to stand firm despite their growing terror.
Yet the true horror of the Unsullied soon became evident.
Unaffected by pain or fear, they fought with deadly precision. Their discipline and training turned them into unyielding killing machines.
Once they gained a foothold on the battlements, it became nearly impossible to dislodge them.
The defenders crowded on the top of the city wall were quickly cut into sections by the Unsullied who swarmed over. If their numbers were not too large and Daven was not personally supervising the battle on the top of the city wall, this section of the city wall would have been lost long ago.
Despite Daven's leadership and the defenders' desperate resistance, the cracks in their defenses grew.
More and more Unsullied climbed up to the top of the city wall, and the soldiers of both sides entangled with each other in a narrow place, killing each other. People kept screaming and falling to the ground, blood splattered everywhere, and broken limbs flew around randomly, completely turning this section of the city wall into a meat grinder.
The ground was littered with severed limbs and broken weapons. Blood sprayed like mist, painting the battlements in gruesome red.
Realizing the western wall was nearing its breaking point, Daven pulled reinforcements from other parts of the defense.
But this tactic—robbing Peter to pay Paul—quickly exposed weaknesses elsewhere.
Samwell, who was watching the battle from high in the sky riding a white dragon, quickly discovered the enemy's troop movements and immediately made corresponding deployments, arranging heavy troops to attack in the other two directions.
Here, the charge was led by Lord Selwyn Tarth.
The disgraced lord, determined to restore his honor, fought with unrelenting ferocity.
Wielding a massive greatsword, Selwyn cut through enemy spears and charged into groups of defenders, scattering them like leaves. His armor rang with the sound of impacts, but the steel held firm.
Close behind him was his daughter, Brienne of Tarth, whose towering figure and unmatched strength made her a terrifying presence on the battlefield.
With a feral roar, Brienne smashed into the defenders, her sword swinging like a battering ram.
She hacked through spears, cleaved through shields, and split men's skulls with brutal efficiency. Within moments, she had carved a path of carnage through the enemy ranks, her armor drenched in blood.
The ferocity of the Tarths inspired the southern soldiers, who surged forward with renewed vigor.
The eastern wall quickly buckled under the pressure.
As more southern soldiers climbed the battlements, the defenders began to falter.
After a brief but fierce resistance, the eastern defenses collapsed entirely.
The fall of the eastern wall triggered chaos across the town.
Defenders, unable to hold their ground, fled into the smoke-filled streets, their panic spreading like wildfire.
Fires raged throughout the town as cannonballs and flaming arrows continued to rain down.
Hearing of the breach, Daven realized the battle was lost.
His reserves were already committed to the western wall, leaving him with no soldiers to plug the gap in the east.
To make matters worse, some defenders began opening the northern gates in a desperate attempt to flee toward the Blackwater River.
"We've lost, my lord!" an aide shouted, his voice trembling. "We must retreat while we still can!"
Daven didn't respond immediately.
Standing amidst the blood and smoke, his golden hair matted with sweat and grime, he resembled a lion cornered by hunters.
Finally, he spoke.
"I won't run."
As soon as he finished speaking, he heard someone suddenly shouting towards the sky in fear.
A sudden roar cut through the din of battle.
Daven looked skyward to see the white dragon descending.
Its massive wings beat the air like thunder, sending waves of heat rippling across the battlefield.
The soldiers around him screamed in terror, scattering like frightened sheep.
But Daven laughed—a wild, fearless laugh.
Raising his bloodied sword, he roared a challenge:
"Come on, Caesar! Let's settle this—just you and me!"
(End of Chapter)