The Garden of Bones is loud with suffering—clanking chains, coughing prisoners, soldiers laughing as they pass rusted cages nailed together with corpses still hanging inside.

Then the sound changes.

Hooves.

The laughter stops.

Lannister banners come into view as Tywin Lannister rides in, seated straight-backed on his horse, expression unreadable. Soldiers snap to attention at once. No orders are shouted—none are needed. His presence alone imposes silence.

Tywin dismounts and surveys the scene with cool detachment. The cages. The filth. The men and boys dragged from the road to the Wall. His gaze moves slowly, deliberately, taking everything in as if inspecting a ledger.

One soldier steps forward to explain. Tywin cuts him off with a raised hand.

He walks closer to the cages, studying the prisoners like resources wasted or claimed. His voice, when he finally speaks, is calm, precise, and carries effortlessly across the yard.

“What is the meaning of this?”

It is not a question asked lightly—and everyone there knows a wrong answer can be fatal