For this grim business of judgment, a raised of earth and stone had been erected on the southern edge of the training grounds. Upon it sat a long table of rough-hewn oak, its surface scarred by countless years of use.
Three judges took their seats behind that table: Ser Garlan Tyrell, styled Governer of Old Oak; Lord Tywin Lannister; and Ser Robar Royce . Lord Tywin sat to the right in his crimson cloak draped over burnished leather, while Ser Robart occupied the left in the pristine white mail of his order. Between them sat Garlan, the roses of Highgarden prominent upon his breast.
Below the platform stood two rows of guards bearing the golden rose—fourteen men in each line, their polished mail gleaming in the afternoon sun. The arrangement made clear which of the three judges held true authority in this place.
Garlan sat in silence, hands clasped beneath his chin as he surveyed the scene before him. His mind turned over what was to come, knowing well that today's proceedings would bear little resemblance to the formal trials of peacetime.
In the distance, a sorry collection of prisoners awaited their fate: Lord Mathis Rowan of Goldengrove, the surviving heirs of House Oakheart, and various lesser lords and knights sworn to the fallen houses—Osgreys and Webbers among them, men whose names had once commanded respect throughout the Reach.
So many noble heads to be judged, yet there was no jury of peers, no gallery of witnesses, no careful presentation of evidence. The vast crowd that ringed the training grounds served as both audience and jury, their presence lending weight to whatever sentences would be pronounced.
Soldiers of the Westerlands mingled with the King's Guard and those Reachmen who had received the king's "divine grace" and slowly gathered to witness justice done. All knew the crimes the prisoners had committed—or the crimes they would be found guilty of.
The judges' task was simple enough. No need for lengthy arguments or careful weighing of evidence, merely the pronouncement of appropriate punishments. Whether those punishments proved harsh or lenient mattered little—the victors wrote the histories, and the victors sat in judgment.
It was victory in battle that had placed Garlan upon this dais, granting him the right to pass sentence on great lords like Mathis Rowan. By ancient custom, such a trial should have been presided over by Lord Mace Tyrell himself, or even King Joffrey in person. Instead, they had only Highgarden's second son and the Lord of Casterly Rock—equals in rank if not in power—with Ser Robart serving as little more than ornament.
"Ahem." Ser Robart cleared his throat and turned to regard Garlan with meaningful eyes.
The message was clear enough. Garlan nodded toward the crowd below.
A grey-haired septon shuffled forward, his robes dusty from years of humble service. In a proper trial, a bishop would have offered prayers to the Father Above, beseeching divine justice for the proceedings. But Old Oak boasted only this simple man who served the Smith, more accustomed to blessing hammers and tongs than presiding over matters of life and death.
The old septon had been dragged from his sept for this occasion, trading his usual craftsman's hammer for the seven-pointed star and a worn copy of The Seven-Pointed Star. He raised his weathered hands skyward and began his prayer, his voice carrying clearly across the silent grounds.
When the prayers ended, the trial began in earnest.
A herald stepped forward, his voice ringing across the assembly: "Ser Harras Harlaw!"
The training grounds fell silent as a grave.
A haggard man shuffled toward the platform, his steps slow and uncertain. He still wore his battle-stained armor, though sword and dagger had been stripped away. His face bore the hollow look of a man who had already glimpsed his doom.
The light screen visible only to the judges revealed the prisoner's crimes in glowing text, while the same information appeared before the watching crowd on their own miraculous displays.
Ser Harras Harlaw, captain of Lady Alyssia Oakheart's household guard, had abandoned his post in the castle's darkest hour. Rather than remain at his lady's side, he had fled to the walls to join the general defense, leaving her unprotected. The result: Lady Alyssia's death and the shame that had befallen Old Oak.
"What grievous dereliction of duty!" Ser Robart's voice cracked like a whip across the yard.
At that moment, soldiers appeared bearing a stretcher draped in black cloth. The covering could not entirely hide the shapes beneath—two forms pressed close together in death's final embrace.
Garlan's heart sank as he realized what lay hidden beneath that shroud.
With a dramatic flourish, the black cloth was pulled away.
The crowd erupted into gasps and cries of horror!
Garlan forced himself to look at the light screen's enhanced image, which showed the scene in terrible detail. Lady Alyssia's pale form lay beneath her son's naked corpse, both frozen in the moment of their shameful death. It was a sight that would haunt every witness for the rest of their days.
Tens of thousands of people now shared in viewing this abomination.
"What monstrous crime is this!" Ser Robart slammed his fist upon the table, the sound echoing across the suddenly silent grounds.
Garlan glanced to his left, where Lord Tywin sat unmoved as granite, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts.
Ser Robart continued his tirade: "Ser Harras Harlaw, how could you allow such villainy to occur? How could you fail so completely in your sacred duty?"
The prisoner stared at the corpses beside him, his mouth hanging open in mute horror. No words emerged from his throat, though his lips moved soundlessly.
He is finished, Garlan thought with something approaching pity. Ser Harras came from House Harlaw of Red Lake, a respectable family with an honorable name. He should have lived and died as a knight of good standing.
But now? Who would ever trust a guard captain who had allowed his lady to perish in such shame? Even if he somehow survived this trial, the stain would follow him to his grave.
"Ser Garlan," Robar Royce said formally, "how would you deal with this man?"
Garlan blinked in surprise. Even as Governor, must he pronounce every sentence?
But the light screen provided guidance, and Garlan read from its glowing text: "Ser Harras Harlaw, you stand guilty of grave dereliction of duty as captain of the guard, and of treason against your rightful king. The evidence is clear and undeniable. I sentence you to exile at the Wall, to take the black and abandon all former titles and holdings. Let this sentence be carried out immediately."
Two soldiers stepped forward to seize the prisoner. Ser Harras Harlaw was dragged from the grounds without uttering a single word in his own defense.
The herald's voice rang out again: "Denys Oakheart!"
Lady Alyssia's eldest son approached the platform with more spirit than the previous prisoner, though his fate would prove far grimmer.
After the ritual recitation of crimes and evidence, Garlan pronounced sentence: "Denys Oakheart, as heir to Old Oak you betrayed your liege lord and fomented rebellion against the crown. As a knight, you defied your rightful king and brought ruin upon innocent smallfolk. The evidence is conclusive. I sentence you to death by beheading, to be carried out when these proceedings conclude."
The soldiers dragged him away, though unlike Ser Harras, Denys Oakheart fought against his captors and hurled curses at his judges. His burning gaze fixed particularly upon Garlan, the Tyrell rose who had pronounced his doom.
"Torgon Oakheart!" came the next call.
The crowd had grown larger still, soldiers of the Reach standing at a distance yet able to witness every detail through the miraculous light screens that showed each prisoner's face as clearly as if they stood mere feet away.
The sentences varied: some men were sent to the Wall to take the black, abandoning forever their names and birthrights. Others were condemned to death, their heads to roll before the sun set. A few received terms of imprisonment or heavy fines, their lives spared but their fortunes ruined.
At last came the final name: "Lord Mathis Rowan of Goldengrove!"
Even for the great lord of one of the Reach's most ancient houses, Garlan showed no mercy. The light screen's guidance was clear, and he read the sentence without hesitation: "Death by beheading."
The trial had ended.
The crowd watched in hushed silence as Garlan Tyrell rose from his seat and descended the platform, drawing his longsword as he walked. The blade caught the dying light of afternoon, its edge sharp enough to part silk.
...
After taking the heads of the Oakheart sons, Garlan approached the final prisoner. Lord Mathis Rowan knelt upon the bloodstained earth, his grey head bowed but his back straight with the pride of a thousand years of noble blood.
"Lord Rowan," Garlan said quietly, "have you any final words?"
The Lord of Goldengrove raised his head, and for a moment his eyes met those of his executioner. When he spoke, his voice carried clearly across the silent grounds: "May Highgarden flourish as Goldengrove once did."
Garlan's face remained impassive as he raised his sword. The blade caught the last rays of sunlight, casting long shadows across the execution ground.
The steel fell with a sound like breaking branches.
Lord Mathis Rowan's head rolled across the bloodied earth as the sun touched the western horizon, and with it died the last hope of Goldengrove's ancient line.