69 Battle of Highgarden - II

Captain Harry Strickland steadied his nerves, swigging from a skin of sour wine. 'Not good, not good at all.' Highgarden village was a godsdamn slaughterhouse, the lead thousands of his men blundering into a village aflame and a castle secured by wildlings. "Fucking wildlings!" he muttered. Tales of them crossed the narrow sea and made many a boy in Braavos shiver. It was quite fitting for Joffrey's propaganda organs that the Imperial couple had both them and Dothraki in their army.

The sound of a galloping dispatch rider seemed to be a herald of bad news in this battle. Strickland felt his head pound just upon hearing it. "Captain!" Turning his head, Strickland saw it wasn't a courier, but a junior knight - armor drenched in blood, obviously not his or he would be long dead. "The Starks took the Heights of Luthor!"

"Fuck me!" At once, Strickland urged his horse into a gallop. "Follow me, ser!" The trampled grass - littered with corpses or pieces of corpses starting to bloat and attract flies - passed by with a blur as he rode with a singular mission. 'I told that fucking idiot. I fucking told him!' But just because he was a sellsword fighting for gold, his opinions were worth nothing… or was it his relation to the Blackfyre bastards of House Targaryen? "Fuck gold. The King can have it," he hissed under his breath. He fought for his men.

A battery of rockets letting loose a deadly payload to the left of a marching column, Strickland pulled back the reins. Two stunned commanders deftly bowed from their horses at their leader. "Captain what is…?"

"Is this the last column of men?!" Strickland demanded.

"Umm… yes Captain. We were waiting for Lord Lannister's order to send us forward."

"How many?!"

"Four thousand, ser."

'Fuck.' Not nearly enough, though Tywin was undoubtedly sending in the last of the cavalry reserve. "Any Westerlands forces?"

"Two thousand kept in reserve…"

"That will have to do. Full about face, and bring whatever rockets you have. We're going back to the Heights!"

The commander blinked. "But Lord Lannister's orders…"

"Went out the window once the fucking Starks took the fucking Heights from under our noses. If we don't take them back then they can roll up our forces in the town! Don't fuck with my orders and move!" It didn't take a moment before the new orders were barked out along the line.

On the hill, Jon watched as Grey Worm raced towards his command. Rhaegal breathed softly underneath his rider, resting his fatigued wings while he had a chance. "Are you sure this will work, Pod?"

"No… but I have a good feeling about this, sire. Especially with the new men Caryn sent us."

"New men?" Jon looked at a collection of odd soldiers he had never seen before. They appeared to be a mix of Westerosi and Essosi, sporting pointed helmets and short stubs of wood. They looked to be a mix of spear and cannon, metal barrels sticking out from the front and slivers of rope tied to the base.

A man that appeared to be the leader, a rather decrepit lad with a thick, bushy beard and leather armor, bowed. "Your Majesty, Tomias MacKenzie. Captain of the first hand cannon battalion. General Caryn sends me with his complements."

"Hand cannon?" Jon shifted atop Rhaegal, wishing to get airborne before a scorpion could zero in on him as had happened outside Winterfell. "Another one of Caryn's inventions?"

"Aye." He hefted the device, which looked like a bulky crossbow without the bowstring. "It ain't much, but it packs a punch. We've got foive 'ounded of us. Where shall we be?"

Jon pondered it. "Podrick, where are the crossbowmen?"

"In the frontlines with the Unsullied, sire. We don't have enough to cover my Hoplites, so I'm moving our longbowmen there…"

"Put Ser MacKenzie's men with the hoplites." Jon turned back to MacKenzie. "Good luck, Ser Tomias. Do me proud."

The officer beamed, showing off a mouth of white teeth… odd considering his outward appearance. "You can count on us, sire!"

Smiling back, at one mental command Jon sent Rhaegal leaping into the air.

Narrowing his eyes, Grey Worm watched as over double his number of men - men of the Golden Company predominating - marched forward. This would be no mad charge out of formation, but their commanders kept them within a pre-set shield wall. It was no matter though. The Unsullied had faced worse odds and triumphed. If they could defeat twenty thousand Dothraki screamers at the battle of Qohor in ancient lore with similar numbers, they could defeat only six thousand men at arms.

"Unsullied!" he cried out, voice carrying over the field. "Form phalanx formation!"

Professional, seamless, the ten-line deep Unsullied force glided into their highly drilled battle formation. The first line dropped into a crouch, spears forward. The next three raised their round metal shields in a solid shield wall as tight as any of the Lannisters. The three lines behind dropped their spears forward, coating the shield wall with extra bristles ready to stab forward at any attackers. A line of crossbowmen - an addition insisted by Emperor Jon and Lord Robb Stark - readied their weapons, bolts tipped with the sharpest steel short of Valyrian. Rounding out the formation, two lines of backup spearmen waited, weapons held high.

"CHARGE!" screamed the Lannister commanders at near point blank range. Only fifty feet down the slope of the heights from the Unsullied line, the shield walls surged forward with a mad battlecry. Aside from a bellowing roar from the mighty form of Wun Wun, staff at the ready and chain mail protecting him underneath his furs, the only response from the Unsullied were the whoosh of the firing crossbows as they unleashed their deadly payload. Scores dropped as the barbed bolts punched through shields and armor, but not enough to stop the assault.

Spears and feet firmly embedded in the gradual sloping soil of the heights, the Unsullied line barely buckled as the Golden Company and Redcloaks slammed into them. Blood splattered everywhere as steel stabbed and sliced into flesh, hacking limbs and rupturing organs. The front line dropped their spears, drawing short swords to duel with the attackers while the rear lines gradually gave ground at the sheer mass of humanity pushing them back. Not too much, however - the Golden Company felt the weight of the Unsullied position on the high ground. It was far more tiring to charge uphill than retreat uphill.

With the bulk of the Redcloaks shifting to flank them, Grey Worm barked orders to send in his reserves of a thousand men to patch the left before charging into the fray himself. To his left, Wun Wun fought off his weight in enemy men, braving fire from arrows and batting aside spears as his log broke dozens of men like ragdolls.

All hopes now rested with the other third of his command and the northern hoplites. Even the Unsullied couldn't survive heavy cavalry in their rear.

Trumpets stuttered as the lines and lines of heavy cavalry formed up along a shallow hill one mile from the Heights. Five thousand horses, veterans of countless victories and defeats, never from want of fighting spirit or skill in combat. Plate armor of man and steed glinted in the noonday sun, banners of dozens of Westerlands houses fluttering along a sea of lances. They weren't the sworn bannermen of Lord Randyll Tarly, but he still saw them as his soldiers. He had led them since Tygett Lannister died by dragonfire following the Battle of Riverrun, and the knights beloved the taciturn, scowling noblemen of the Reach.

At the front of the line, resting on his horse alongside the personal standard bearer of House Tarly, was Randyll's son and heir. Strapping in his plate armor, Dickon Tarly was the son Randyll had hoped for - a little timid and green, but a worthy successor to the Lord of Horn Hill. 'Better than my worthless tub of an elder son.' "Father, it seems the Golden Company are engaging the Unsullied."

"Hmmm, at least Captain Strickland has some initiative." He wiped the sweat off his brow. "And what are we facing?"

"Unsullied along the flanks, with northern hoplites in the center." Dickon paled. "All rockets have been committed to the flanks. I don't think we can break through…"

He shut up once Tarly smacked him about the head. "Enough of that, boy. You're acting like your fat coward of a brother." Tygett Lannister was an overconfident idiot getting smashed by wildlings at Riverrun. If the Dothraki could break through a shield wall, then the finest heavy cavalry in the world could smash through this line. "Knights of Westeros! We stand as the last defense against a foreign Queen. Our King is born of our land, while the Queen and her bastard lover are of foreign shores, leading an army of savages. Will we let Unsullied slaves pollute the Reach?!"

"NO!" came the cry.

"Will we let Dothraki hordes rape and murder their way through this fair land?!"

"NO!"

Tarly drew his sword. "Then forward! Forward with me boys, until every last eunuch and Northern traitor lies dead upon this field!" Trumpets blaring, thousands of men and horses began their trot forward.

Over half a mile away from the action in the eastern heights, the remaining third of the Unsullied and the northern hoplites stared at the Lannister cavalry lurch south from across the green, grassy plains. They had yet to see action at all since the Battle of the Coastroad months before, and were itching for payback on the same swine that had defeated their countrymen at the God's Eye. Snarling direwolves on their shields were freshly painted, new steel tips adorning their pikes. All cast a wary gaze at the new arrivals, MacKenzie's men cleaning the barrels of their hand cannons and checking their powder to make sure it was dry in the still damp air. All trembled internally - and some externally - at the wall of incoming heavy cavalry.

Line loose, as soon as the enemy knights began to move from their starting position, Podrick gave new orders. "Form squares! On the double!"

Podrick had plenty of time to drill and train his men in the hot sun of Meereen. Studies of the old Valyrian tactics convinced him of a method to destroy the impact of the heavy cavalry charge, and had imprinted in his men the tactics accordingly. With the fluid moves of battles past, the northern hoplites quick-marched halfway down the slope of the hill as the knights were building early momentum. Ranks converged in a four man-deep hollow box-like formation, a wall of shields in front, two spearmen behind, and a fourth line of Ser MacKenzie's hand-cannon. Nestled within was a single cannon. Over a dozen of these squares now protected the approaches to the hill, Unsullied phalanges guarding either side.

Young Dickon Tarly saw the threat first. "Father!" he called out over the sound of thousands of hoofbeats. But Randyll Tarly didn't hear it - or simply didn't care. Drawing his sword, the Lord of Horn Hill raised it high and ordered the most powerful attack short of dragons. The Westerosi heavy cavalry charge. Lances dropping till they pointed straight at the enemy, the knights yelled and whooped as they urged their horses as fast as they could go. General formation was broken as a ragged wave of man and horse trampled over the grassy fields to cover the ground between them and the northerners.

"Hold steady!" yelled Podrick.

"We'll fuck them up!" many northerners shouted at the same time.

"Make ready!" Captain MacKenzie barked for his men, ready to test a new leap in warfare.

They saw the large masses of cavalry advance - the awful grandeur of the finest knights of the realm charging towards them. Hoofbeats kicking up clumps of dirt and grass, armor rattling as the enemy screamed their battlecries. It glittered like a stormy wave of the sea catching the sunlight. The very ground seemed to vibrate beneath their feet. All wanted to run, but stayed put. Podrick shouted his final command. "Prepare to receive cavalry!" Every man in the front ranks embedded their shields in the dirt, and dropping their spears to form a wall bristling with steel, held together by steady hands as the charge slammed into the squares.

The charge ended suddenly all along the line. Men and horse alike were run through by spears, hand-cannons firing at near point blank range. Knights tumbled to the ground in bloody heaps. Ripples of fire from the new weapons tore through the lines, the highly-trained men having to work to miss at the closeness. Piles of writhing mounts drenched in blood and gore stalled the rear lines as they gave up trying to storm the squares.

Momentum stalled, the knights found themselves without the power to run through the squares. Skittish mounts, nostrils flush with the metallic smell of blood and ears overloaded with the shrieks of their wounded brethren, refused to advance against the wall of spears. Whooping rhythmically, the hoplites stabbed forward with their pikes, catching many a knight off guard but targeting the mounts themselves. Behind, the hand-canonniers shifted to at-will firing. Their rate was slow and weapons cumbersome, but taken together at point blank range they inflicted countless death. Rounds tore through weakpoints in armor, flat lead shredding flesh in garish wounds the opposite of more clean arrowheads. As quickly as their crews could reload them, the cannon boomed downhill, felling man and horse alike.

In desperation, the Lannisters ordered a withdrawal, only to try again half an hour later but with their scorpions firing directly into the squares. The bolts were deadly, running through two or three at a time and impossible for shields to defend against, but they soon became the targets of the hand cannons. Even at a long range of a hundred yards, the rounds were something to fear. Podrick Payne's squares refused to break, hoplites continuing to stab forward with their pikes even as many of their comrades fell dead within the protective confines of their sheilds.

But the distraction of the scorpions opened up the skies. Free of anti-air fire, the Emperor swept onto the battlefield. He had been waiting for the right opportunity, and with no other reserves left he took it. Fire escaped from Rhaegal's maw in short, deadly bursts that incinerated scores. Whatever formation that Randyll Tarly or his cavalry commanders evaporated into ash, the green form of the Emperor's mount turning clusters of knights and each scorpion into a blazing inferno. "On boy, to the east!" A roar carrying over the sounds of wind and battle signalled the dragon's acknowledgement. Soon, Jon saw the many Redcloaks assaulting the Unsullied lines. "Dracarys!" Hundreds of screams added themselves to the piercing cacophony.

Whatever coherence in their foes was destroyed. Simultaneously and exclusively, Podrick and Grey Worm both gave a single order. "Advance!" The hoplite square broke apart as the men charged with drawn swords into the now shattered heavy cavalry. The Unsullied surged forward, breaking the Golden Company in a headlong retreat. Skillful maneuvering by Grey Worm and the one man battalion of Wun Wun, swinging his log cut off all retreat north, forcing Strickland to withdraw towards Highgarden itself, springing the trap Jon had envisioned in his mind upon looking at this very ground days before.

Flames licking at his clothes, Randyll Tarly fought with the reins to ease his panicking mount. All around him, the once beautiful Heights of Luthor had been enveloped in a scene from the hells themselves. The stench of death and burnt flesh was everywhere. He had lost track of his son - hells, he had lost track of everyone. Once a magnificent fighting force, dragonfire and the dogged counterattack by the Imperials had torn the force into a shell of its former self, more knights fleeing or even surrendering than were standing to fight like proper gentlemen.

In the distance, he spotted a massive giant, white beard matted with blood as he swung a massive bow at clusters of dismounted knights. Gritting his teeth, Randyll Tarly would not go down without honor. Ripping a lance out of the ground where it rested next to its dead bearer, he snapped the reins and sent his mount into a charge. "Forward! Forward!" Wind passed through him, followed by a blow to the free shoulder from a hand cannon. He felt nothing. Only the exhilaration of the charge. This was his moment - in defeat, the bards would still sing the tale of the final charge of Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill.

Grabbing at a fleeing knight, Dongo flung him backwards, the man screaming as he hurtled to his certain death. The oldest of the giants, clocking at over two centuries, he tired quicker than Mag or Wun Wun. His reflexes dulled from fatigue, Dongo didn't notice the mounted threat until it was close. Crying out, he brought his bow in a wide roundhouse… too late…

The lance embedded itself in the giant's heart, steel tip slicing through mail, flesh, and bone alike, a split second before the bow slammed into Randyll Tarly with the force of a cannonball. He was knocked off his horse by twenty feet, ribcage shattered and organs rupturing. Unable to talk, Randyll could only lift his head slightly to see Dongo fall to his knees.

As the last breath left his body, Randyll heard the old giant let out a great bellow that resonated all across the battlefield - a fitting sound to herald the end of the struggle for the Heights of Luthor.

Meanwhile, the westernmost part of the battlefield was engulfed in the sounds of battle. Lord Royce's heavy cavalry began to assault the sellswords after eventually arriving at the correct position in the field, charging again and again under heavy cover from Dothraki horse archers. To the east, Caryn relieved pressure upon Gendry's Stormlanders by ordering his auxiliaries out of their trenches in a furious counterattack as Prince Trystane was licking his wounds.

Edmure Tully's men halted the Lannister assaults further to the east, permitting Gendry to send Mag the Mighty and two battalions commanded by Selwyn Tarth into the fray through a gap between the lines of the Crownlanders and the Dornish. The ensuing mêlée was churned up thousands, years and even decades of hatreds spewing out through blade and shield. Tully then led his bannermen against Alesander Staedmon's men the furious Riverlands charge shattering the courage of the forces once commanded by Renly Baratheon and forcing them from the field. He wanted to pursue, but Caryn countermanded, ordering him west as a new player arrived on scene.

Watching from above, Daenerys smirked evilly as five thousand Dothraki under Khal Khafo - one of the vassal warlords she had promoted - charged along the floodplains from the north. She had ordered he detach his forces and ford the Mander to the south, only for them to ford again further to the north. It had nearly thinned the cavalry screen to where it became worthless, but the gamble had paid off. "Dracarys," she ordered, but not for Edderon. She couldn't help but let out the same wolf howl as her husband's men were want to do as Sansenya, Rhealla, and Lyanarys dove from the heavens where they had waited, small forms impossible to aim at by the artillery below. Dragonfire glands released their fiery payloads, not enough to destroy whole swaths of men, but enough to destroy the scorpions and rocket batteries. Edderon soon let out a roar of his own as he dove to the battlefield.

General panic now seized the Army of the Divine Chimera as the Dothraki relief force slammed into their rear. Much of the cavalry force - especially the sellswords, commitment to fight for Joffrey only as good as the usefulness of the gold that paid them - abandoned the field in all possible directions. Some tried to flee west via the fording the Mander River. This proved deadly, as Imperial artillery pounded the defenseless men, while the fast current drowned many. Heavy armor of the defected knights of House Hunter proved the doom in the torrent, one of the lost scores being the traitor Lord Gilwood Hunter himself.

Free of the harassing cavalry, Lord Royce rallied the Knights of the Vale to slam into the flank of the Lannister left as they had at Riverrun. In an effective double-pronged assault, they and half of Tully's men smashed through the enemy. Exhausted from endless assaults and facing the might of the Dragon Empress, the Crownlands forces disintegrated - most surrendering. Prince Trystane, the man responsible for leading the attack in the center, was completely drunk and attempted to flee, only for his own men to rise up against him in a mutiny. Staedemon attempted to cover his withdrawal with whatever archers he could find, gallantly managing to hold back the other half of the Riverlanders before the hoofbeats of Dothraki approached from the side. Beleaguered, he ordered his command to lower their banners and give up their arms, bending the knee to Empress Daenerys and Gendry Baratheon not long after.

After witnessing some of the bloodiest fighting in centuries, the western sector fell quiet.

Within Highgarden castle, the outer courtyard - spanning over two acres - the battle for the jewel of the Reach only grew bogged down within the various barricades and strongpoints Yezzan zo Qaggaz had set up the previous day. They would switch sides frequently, Free Folk or Essosi retaking them, only for Ser Steffon Stackspear's Redcloaks to capture them at spearpoint minutes later. Arrows and bolts flew about with reckless abandon, many of the Free Folk growing tired and demoralized. Something their commander couldn't tolerate.

Kissed by fire, the passion within the ginger transformed into a pure fury during battle. Such could be the only explanation driving the ferocity of Tormund Giantsbane. Drenched in the blood of countless enemies, he only lept further into the fray. Axes smashed through the steel helmets of Redcloaks. An arrow slamming into his chest, Lannister soldiers watched with horror as he merely ripped it off with a snarl, turning to his men. "Come on ya' worthless cunts! Ye' wanna live forever?!"

A guttural roar left the throats of thousands of Free Folk. Disorganized and near-feral, they were no less veterans than the Redcloaks they faced. Survivors of countless battles, of thousands of brushes with death against the Night's Watch, the elements, and the most terrifying forces known to man or gods. Essosi arrows and cannonfire giving them cover, Tormund rallied them into a berserker charge straight for the Lannister footholds within the outer courtyard.

Walls shaking from the constant cannonade outside, Sansa and Margaery huddled with the other noncombatants. The latter clutched her growing belly, whispering reassurances to the baby inside. The former sat stoically, fighting the urge to break down in the uncertainty of her loved ones' mortality.

Each nearly jumped out of their skin as the door swung open. Davos' gripping of his sword slackened at the smile on Yezzan zo Qaggaz's lips. "The castle is secure." Sansa almost collapsed to the floor as her tension dissipated.

Outside the walls, Ser Bronn found himself being shaken back into consciousness. "Get up, fucker," Lady Tyene urged, though he could sense a tinge of concern in her tone. Concern which morphed into a relieved glint in her eye as he groaned and pushed to his feet.

"Nice to see you in the world of the living." Bronn looked up to see Robb Stark on horseback, at the van of a large column of northmen. "Your Lady was beside herself with worry over you." Expecting an insult, he fought back a grin as the brutal Tyene Martell blushed slightly.

Bronn smirked softly. "Aye, I always said Dornish girls were crazy." That got him a punch to the arm. "Shit, I just survived a rocket attack, woman!"

"You'd be dead from that rocket if it wasn't for me," she hissed back, nevertheless glad he was alive. "The Unsullied are advancing on the town from the heights. We're readying a counterattack to complete the envelopment. In or out?"

"I ain't done fightin' for the fucking day." Picking his sword up from the ground, the former sellsword fell into step with the other warriors.

News travelled fast over a battlefield. Heralds of victory found their way to troops as rapidly as a sprinting cheetah, while sirens of defeat doubled such speed. With Harry Strickland in full on retreat, the news had infiltrated the ranks of the Redcloaks just as the Young Wolf slammed into them with five hundred fresh troops. Green as they were, the coming flood of thousands bloodied them perfectly. Not even the most elite of Tywin Lannister's grand force cared to do battle when certain death awaited them if they did. All they cared about was getting out of the accursed town with their lives.

Kevan Lannister watched a group of fleeing men with fury. "GET BACK AND FIGHT!"

Harry Strickland was having none of it. "My men are fleeing to the north. The fucking Unsullied will catch us in a vice! Stackspear's already surrendered! It's over!"

"No, we can still turn this around…"

A fist slammed into Kevan's cheek, toppling him from his horse. "It's fucking over, do you hear me!" Strickland screamed. A cannonball slamming into an empty rocket-wagon only exemplified his point. Seeing the nobleman cower in the dirt, he summoned his herald. "Sound surrender." He looked at the marching Unsullied, eunuchs holding the tightly disciplined formation. "And find me a white flag."

With the single call of the trumpet, the sounds of battle and death upon the walls of Highgarden ceased. Surrounded, rather than fight to the death the Golden Company and the Westerlands Redcloaks laid down their arms. It would be Lord Robb Stark of Winterfell and Lady Tyene Martell of Sunspear that would receive Ser Kevan Lannister and Captain Harry Strickland in surrender. For all intents and purposes, the Battle of Highgarden had ended.

Tywin Lannister could not believe what he was seeing. The finest fighting force in the history of Westeros - one that he had spent years building up. One that he had defeated countless foes with. The army that made Dorne howl. It was disintegrating before his very eyes. Thousands killed, tens of thousands putting down their weapons and surrendering. Whole houses bending the knee to the Targaryens. "It… it cannot be."

But it was, and the massive shape that slammed into the ground to his left only hammered it home. "Lord Tywin Lannister!" It was a dragon, the great green dragon… and that could only mean one thing.

The figure emerged in view, clad in a leather cuirass - the same as Ned Stark's, only black as night. "Jon Snow." Gone was the timid, tired soul on display at the Dragonpit. "Need a dragon to face me?" Instead Tywin saw a conqueror, a mighty warrior so much like his father, Rhaegar. Only now with a fiery anger lacking in either. A controlled madness leveled for him and him alone.

Jon drew Longclaw, not batting an eye as Rhaegal roared and took airborne. "I have no need for a dragon. This is between you and me." He snarled as he brought Longclaw down, striking Tywin's hastily drawn blade. "You had my father killed… my siblings murdered." Another snarl, another clash of steel. "They will be avenged."

The two highborns dueled, blades clashing as they fought with wild abandon. Tywin fought like his life depended upon it, facing the eyes of the dragonwolf. But his age had caught up to him. Against a far greater swordsman than he had ever been in his prime, the strain and fatigue Jon dealt took their toll…

Only for his guards setting upon the lad. Jon had only but a split second to react as a spear nearly skewered him. But he had fought white walkers - Redcloaks were nothing much to him, one's head already rolling upon the ground as he engaged with the blade of another. But in his confidence, he failed to see a third sneak behind him.

"Time to die, wolf boy," one Lannister guard whooped. His charging battlecry morphed into a gasping gurgle as a sword ran its way through his back. Looking to his left - Longclaw pulled out of a Redcloak's gut - Jon found himself staring at a helmetless Redcloak, blonde hair matted to her forehead. 'Lady Brienne.'

In the corner of his eye, Jon found Tywin swinging at his side. But he was as agile as he was strong. Nimbly leaping away from the swing, he crouched and swung Longclaw fluidly through the air. Before Tywin knew it, a sharp thud hit his right leg - Jon had severed it clean off, a cleaner wound than the Lion of Casterly Rock deserved. Before the first stabbing pain shot up his spine, Tywin collapsed to the ground.

Standing tall over the prone form of her longtime foe, Brienne of Tarth raised her sword with hardened lips. "You killed him… with blood magic."

Pain searing up his mutilated leg, Tywin barely notice - barely. "I did." The Lord of Casterly Rock did not beg or show weakness.

Breathing deeply, Brienne raised her sword. "In the name of Renly of House Baratheon, first of his name. Rightful King of the Andals, Rhoynar, and First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, I sentence thee, Tywin Lannister, to death." With nary another word, Oathkeeper plunged downward…

Only to be parried by Longclaw. "No, Lady Brienne. He will stand trial."

Brienne stared at her Emperor, jaw set in annoyance and anger… but she obeyed, sheathing the sword. "At your command, sire. But let me do the final deed when the time comes." Jon nodded.

Gritting his teeth, biting down the scream of pain that formed in his throat, the mighty Lord Tywin Lannister faced down the blade of Jon Snow of Winterfell - just the reverse of when his House had faced Lord Eddard Stark at the start of the chaos that engulfed the world. "Tywin Lannister. In the name of the people of the Realm, you are now my prisoner."