Chapter 553: Capturing Tywin Alive

"Tywin!"

"Where is Tywin Lannister?"

The Targaryen forces had stormed Lannisport, yet the elusive Lord Tywin was nowhere to be found. Oberyn Martell ordered a thorough search, vowing to unearth Tywin, even if it meant tearing the ground asunder.

The Iron Fleet had burned the Lannister ships anchored at Lannisport. With the Targaryen army encroaching and dragons soaring above, Tywin's situation was dire.

Ultimately, diligence paid off. Oberyn's suspicion was accurate. A Targaryen soldier discovered Tywin hiding in a cellar beneath an inconspicuous civilian house in Lannisport.

The once-majestic Lord Tywin was now a pitiable sight. His armor was caked in mud, his crimson cloak tattered, and his balding head was marred by a bloody gash, likely from crawling into the cellar.

Gone were his loyal guards; Tywin was alone, hiding in the dark, hoping to evade capture. But fate had other plans.

The discovery of Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, drew a crowd and presented the Targaryen forces with a significant dilemma.

"Beat him!"

"Kill this old dog!"

By the time Oberyn arrived, Tywin's face was swollen and bruised, his glowing red ruby pried from his armor. One of the robust Targaryen soldiers had even knocked out his teeth.

"Legion Commander."

"Prince Oberyn."

As the Prince of Dorne approached with stern intent, the soldiers encircling the battered Tywin hastily saluted and cleared the path.

Oberyn, still clad in his blood-stained armor, had rushed over without even wiping the blood from his face. He quickly assessed the scene: his soldiers were humiliating Tywin, who lay on the ground.

"Stop!" Oberyn's face was stern as he seized the wrist of a soldier about to strike Tywin again.

"Who dares—"

The soldier began, but upon recognizing Oberyn, his indignation evaporated, replaced by icy dread.

"Sir."

Ignoring him, Oberyn released his wrist. The offending soldiers quickly vanished into the crowd.

His gaze remained locked on Tywin, who was sprawled on the ground. The once-proud Lannister crest, a golden lion, now marred and torn on his red cloak.

"Lord Tywin," Oberyn began, his cold smile unnerving.

Tywin breathed a sigh of relief. As a Lannister, he'd never envisioned such a fall from grace. He'd been humiliated, his weapons confiscated, leaving him defenseless and subjected to public scorn.

He rose, wiping the blood from his lips, his eyes meeting Oberyn's. Suppressing his inner turmoil, Tywin spoke.

"Prince Oberyn."

His voice was hoarse, subdued. "I fought and lost. What will you do with me?"

Tywin glanced around at the sea of hostile Targaryen faces, then looked back at Oberyn. "Will you let them continue to humiliate me for sport? Or beat me to death?"

Even now, Tywin maintained the composure of a lord, never stooping to desperation.

Oberyn's eyes remained piercing. "No," he finally said, shaking his head. "I won't do that."

He had no such sadistic pleasure in mind. Oberyn took a few steps closer to Tywin, handing his bloodied spear to a nearby guard, who promptly retreated.

Tywin, still standing his ground, felt his breathing quicken involuntarily.

Both men locked eyes, the surrounding soldiers maintaining a respectful silence.

"No," Oberyn broke the silence. "That would be too easy for you, Lord Tywin."

His face still wore that icy, almost mocking smile. Oberyn had long desired vengeance for his sister's death, and he had just been debating whether to slit Tywin's throat right there.

In the end, he let go of the dagger at his waist.

Tywin exhaled deeply, sensing he'd narrowly escaped death. "You'll stand trial in King's Landing, before tens of thousands. You'll confess your crimes and then you will die. Your words will be lost to the wind, your House forgotten, but your shame will be eternal."

Oberyn's voice was icy as he concluded.