Curious eyes peered through doorways and around corners, drawn by whispers that spread through the corridors like wildfire. The air hung thick with tension and the metallic scent of recent violence.
"Make way! The Lord Regent approaches!"
Steel-shod boots rang against stone as soldiers pushed through the gathering crowd. "Quickly now, let his lordship pass!"
The sea of faces parted reluctantly, creating a narrow passage lined with gawking onlookers. Ser Garlan Tyrell strode through their midst, his face a mask of grim determination as he made his way toward what would soon become his study and seat of power in Old Oak.
Yet the chamber had been defiled beyond redemption.
Garlan cast but a single glance within before turning his gaze away, his eyes alone sufficient to drive back the curious crowd that pressed close to the doorway. Many retreated, but still more lingered, drawn by the terrible fascination of the scene within.
"Who discovered this abomination first?" Ser Stafford Lannister demanded, his voice cutting through the murmur of voices.
"My lords, that would be us."
A guardsman stepped forward—unremarkable in appearance, the sort of common soldier who might pass unnoticed in any crowd. Behind him stood nine men of similar mien, their faces carefully composed into masks of duty fulfilled.
"The scene was exactly as you see it now?" Ser Daven Lannister's features twisted with disgust as he gazed upon the horror within the chamber.
"Aye, my lord," the squad leader replied with respectful precision. "Just as it appears before you."
"We were commanded to secure the main keep and eliminate any threats," the man continued, his voice steady as steel. "We arrived first among all the search parties. This is what we found—the rebel soldier's corpse beside the bed, and Lady Alyssia with her second son..." His eyes flicked briefly toward the chamber's interior.
Garlan stared into the room with eyes like winter frost. The study had been furnished with a bed for rest during long nights of work, but he knew with bitter certainty that he would never again set foot near that cursed piece of furniture.
The sight that greeted him would haunt his dreams for years to come.
Lady Alyssia Oakheart's slight form lay sunken into blood-stained bedding, half her face buried beneath a silk pillow while the other half displayed a frozen rictus that might once have been a smile. Her grey eyes stared sightlessly at nothing, wide with the shock of her final moments. One pale hand dangled over the bed's edge, fingers clenched into a fist as though grasping for something forever beyond reach.
Death had claimed her, most likely through suffocation.
Her throat bore the telltale marks of strangulation—purpled flesh mottled with bruises that spoke of desperate struggle. Her back arched unnaturally, feet rigid with the final convulsions of death, lifting slightly the naked corpse that lay atop her.
The male corpse appeared to have taken his own life.
His right hand gripped a dagger whose hilt bore the golden oak leaf of his house, the blade driven through his throat from front to back until steel emerged red and gleaming. He had fallen forward onto Lady Alyssia's still form.
Dried blood traced a crimson path from his ruined neck across the lady's pale back, following the delicate curves of bone and sinew to pool upon silk bedding now stained beyond any hope of cleansing.
Both had perished upon that bed of shame.
What horror was this? What sin so great that even the gods would turn their faces away?
And from House Oakheart—a name that had stood unblemished for a thousand years, renowned throughout the Seven Kingdoms for honor and virtue!
Garlan shifted his gaze and held his tongue, knowing that any words he might speak would only make the situation worse.
"My lords," the guardsman spoke again, his tone carefully neutral, "from what we can observe, it appears the rebel soldier first attempted to assault Lady Alyssia. Her son arrived and slew the villain, but was then... overcome by base desires, leading to this terrible crime."
"Perhaps his suicide stemmed from recognition of his own sins—an attempt at repentance and atonement."
"Bah! I think not!" Ser Lyle Crakehall, called the Strongboar, spat with obvious contempt. "More likely he feared falling into our hands alive, knew what justice awaited him for such crimes. Terror drove him to the blade—the craven chose an easy death rather than face what he deserved!"
The other lords murmured agreement, each trying to outdo the others in expressing their revulsion at such depravity.
After a long moment, Garlan drew a deep breath and sighed. "What's done cannot be undone. Separate them and see them buried immediately. Handle this matter with all discretion."
"Perhaps not so simple," interjected Damon Marbrand, Lord of the Marches. "How do we explain Lady Alyssia's death? The city is full of surrendered soldiers, and countless smallfolk wait beyond our walls. They will demand answers."
"Best to announce the truth," the Marcher lord continued, his face grave. "Else we risk greater troubles when rumors begin to spread."
Announce the truth? What a cruel and calculated suggestion! Rage flared in Garlan's chest at such callous manipulation of the dead, and he opened his mouth to voice strong objection to this unjust—
But then his eyes met those of Lord Tywin Lannister.
The anger died stillborn beneath that golden stare, cold as winter ice and twice as merciless.
Garlan looked about the chamber. Apart from a handful of his own guards, every face belonged to the King's men or Lannister loyalists. The castle itself crawled with their soldiers.
Old Oak might bear his name as governor, but it remained King Joffrey's conquest by right of war.
"Then... so be it," Garlan said quietly, swallowing his protest like bitter wine. He would offer no further resistance to their decisions, at least not while Lord Tywin's army remained within these walls.
The Lord of Casterly Rock nodded once in silent approval.
The guardsman began directing his men to cleanse this chamber of its shame. They scrubbed away bloodstains, restored order to chaos, wrapped the bodies of Lady Alyssia and her son in black cloth, and prepared to carry them forth for burial...
"Perhaps there is more to consider," Ser Stafford Lannister said suddenly.
"If Lady Alyssia and her second son committed such... unnatural acts, what of her relationship with her other children? Can we be certain of their true parentage?"
How far would they push this? Garlan felt heat rise in his cheeks.
"Indeed," Ser Harys Swyft added with a laugh both knowing and cruel. "One might question whether any of them are truly her natural children."
"Enough!" Lord Tywin raised one hand, and silence fell like a hammer blow. "Whatever the truth may be, this matter ends here."
None dared object.
Garlan understood with sinking heart that rumors would now spread like plague throughout Old Oak and beyond, making the Oakheart name a byword for shame across all Seven Kingdoms. The ancient house was finished, its honor destroyed more thoroughly than any army could achieve.
A soft chime drew his attention to the light screen only he could see, new instructions appearing in glowing text.
"Victory in battle is not the end," Garlan announced, his voice carefully void of emotion. "Justice has only just begun."
"In my name as Garlan Tyrell, Governor of Old Oak, I hereby strip House Oakheart of all titles, ranks, rights, and properties. Let all members of that treacherous line be escorted to the training yard to await judgment. Especially Lord Mathis Rowan—let him be brought forth to answer for his crimes."
Garlan's eyes held depths of carefully hidden sorrow. "In the name of the law, I shall personally render judgment and carry out whatever sentence justice demands."
The assembled lords exchanged glances but made no move to act.
"You heard the regent," Lord Tywin said mildly. "Go about your duties."
"Yes, my lord," they chorused, dispersing to their tasks.
Garlan felt neither shame nor anger at their hesitation. His authority remained theoretical while these Westermen had no reason to obey commands from a rose rather than a lion. But such circumstances could not continue indefinitely.
As he walked beside Lord Tywin toward the training yard below—now transformed into both courtroom and place of execution—Garlan asked with studied casualness, "Now that Old Oak has fallen, when does my lord plan to march against the remaining rebels? I would see proper preparations made for the army's provisioning."
Lord Tywin turned his head slightly to regard the younger man. "Soon enough. We need only wait for these trials to conclude properly."
"And for His Grace's 'gift,'" added Ser Robar Royce "Once the thirty thousand surrendered soldiers accept what the king offers, Old Oak will never again know rebellion. Only then can we all attend to other matters with minds at ease."
Garlan nodded silently.
They spoke no more until reaching the spacious yard that would serve as both court and executioner's block.