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Chapter 108 - The Ironborn

Lord Tywin stared at the Mountain.

Maester Harry, for the first time, sensed a strange, unspoken understanding between the Lord and the Mountain, something he had never noticed before.

"Did you hear some kind of prophecy from the witch?" the Lord asked the Mountain.

"I did."

"What kind of prophecy?" The Lord fixed him with a gaze that seemed to pierce straight through to his soul.

"Father, it's better if you ask the witch yourself. Her prophecies require your blood. As for mine… it wasn't exactly good news."

"What prophecy?" the Lord pressed again.

"Two years from now, in the Hall of Maegor's Holdfast in King's Landing, I will be struck down by the Red Viper of Dorne, Oberyn Martell. His spear will be laced with venom."

Both the Lord and the Maester shifted subtly in their seats.

Sixteen years ago, Oberyn's sister, Elia Martell, was raped and murdered by the Mountain in the royal nursery under Tywin's orders. The Mountain had then dashed the princess's infant son against the wall.

"Nonsense," the Lord said coldly.

"Well, I'm only half convinced myself," the Mountain replied.

"It's utterly unreliable," Tywin said firmly.

Knock, knock, knock!

A guard knocked on the door.

The Lord gave a nod, and Maester Harry went to open it.

A page entered, a boy bearing all the hallmarks of House Lannister. His name was Willem Lannister, Kevan Lannister's second son, just thirteen years old. The boy edged away from the Mountain slightly and moved closer to the Maester.

"My lord, a representative from the Iron Islands, requests to know if you want the iron ore offloaded. If we don't take it, they say they'll sail away."

"How much are they raising the price this time?" the Mountain asked, his voice like a thunderclap.

Willem flinched and stammered, "They, they've increased it by five gold dragons in total. There are five ships of ore."

"The Ironborn used to charge seven gold dragons per ship, and now they want twenty-eight. And now they're demanding an extra five dragons on top of that? Outrageous! Father, the Ironborn must be eradicated!" the Mountain bellowed.

Tywin's face grew cold and rigid.

"They insist on the price increase?" he asked.

"Yes, my lord," the boy replied nervously. "They claim this is the lowest price they can offer. They originally wanted to raise it by two dragons per ship, but now it's only one."

"Very well, you may go. I understand," the Lord said icily.

"Yes, my lord." Willem bowed politely and exited, carefully closing the door behind him. The boy had good manners, Tywin noted that.

The Mountain snarled, "Father, I want to speak with those Ironborn bastards." His presence filled the room with menace.

"What do you intend to do?"

"I want to make it clear, we will not accept another price hike."

Tywin leaned back slightly in his chair and looked at him without expression. "Ser Gregor, go tend to your other duties. I will handle this matter."

The Mountain grunted. "Father, the Ironborn are mongrels. They must be wiped out. The Iron Islands should be annexed as a province of the Westerlands. I volunteer to lead the assault."

Tywin stared him down. "Go. Do not touch the Ironborn. I will deal with them. When I need you, you'll be summoned."

The Mountain said nothing more. He gave his father a long look, then turned and stormed out, leaving the door wide open. Maester Harry hurried over to shut it.

"Maester," the Lord said.

"Yes, my lord."

"If we go to war with the Iron Islands, what would be a just cause?"

Maester Harry, knowledgeable in such matters, answered quickly.

"My lord, whether during the Targaryen dynasty or under King Robert, the Ironborn have always turned to rebellion once they regain any semblance of power. Loyalty is foreign to them. Rebellion is their tradition."

"Hmm… Rebellion makes for a good excuse," Tywin said thoughtfully. "If we wipe them out, we'll never have to worry about iron ore again. But there's still a problem. Without gold mines, many of our miners will return home, and we don't have enough land to put them to work."

"Indeed," the Maester said with concern. "The Westerlands are mountainous and have little arable land. We rely heavily on imported grain and cannot sustain ourselves like the Riverlands or the Reach. If thousands of miners lose their jobs and return home to no land or work, we'll face a serious social crisis."

Tywin laced his fingers under his chin. "Maester, bring me a map of the Seven Kingdoms."

"At once, my lord!"

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On the western side of Casterly Rock, there was a harbor.

This harbor had been carved over centuries by the relentless pounding of the sea, forming a great cavern that reached deep into the heart of the city.

Docks lined the inner edges of the hollow, more than a dozen in all.

Though it couldn't compare to Lannisport's sprawling port or the colossal docks of King's Landing, this harbor's unique location, embedded within the city itself, made it invaluable.

Five ships from the Iron Islands, loaded with iron ore, were currently moored at one of the piers.

The Mountain arrived at the harbor and took in the sight of the ships. Compared to before, the vessels were visibly smaller.

If Lord Tywin agreed to their price hike, then no doubt the Ironborn would raise the price of ore sold in Lannisport, to Fair Isle, to Crakehall, all across the Westerlands.

It would become yet another major expense. But the bigger problem was that the Ironborn's greed had no limit.

The Mountain had brought his brothers with him, he couldn't act personally. Lord Tywin had instructed him not to.

Fine. He wouldn't intervene in the price negotiations. But if any of those Ironborn dared lay hands on a Westerlands woman, having their legs broken would be the least of their concerns.

The Ironborn loved to raid, that was their tradition. They called it "the Old Way," a culture of pillage and conquest. Under this pirate code, a man's worth depended on his raiding prowess and how much plunder he could seize.

Ironborn did not wear jewelry unless they had "paid the iron price." This meant not buying, but taking by force, killing or defeating someone in battle to claim their possessions.

The more trinkets and ornaments an Ironborn wore, the more feared he was.

The Iron Islands had vast iron reserves. Great Wyk, one of the islands, was essentially a giant iron mine. In addition to mines, they had farming estates on the islands.

The laborers working the mines and fields were all thralls, captives taken during raids. The trueborn Ironborn disdained manual labor.

They carried themselves with arrogance and an inflated sense of superiority.

Female captives served not only as laborers but also as bed warmers.

An Ironborn man could take countless "salt wives," but only one "rock wife", a native-born woman of the Iron Islands. In their eyes, anyone not of Ironborn blood was weak and worthless.

So their brazenness toward the "green lands" and its women had always been part of their "glorious tradition."

The Mountain ascended to the top floor of the harbor's most renowned inn and sat by the window. From his perch, he could see two provocatively dressed women swaying their hips as they walked along the pier. His brothers lounged idly by the nearby stalls.

Soon, a whistle sounded from the ships, and a few Ironborn jumped ashore. They began to jeer at the women, hurling lewd comments and making physical advances, asking for their price.

They had mistaken the women for whores.

Well… they weren't wrong. The women were prostitutes dressed to look respectable.

The world was descending into chaos. The Ironborn had to be dealt with.

So let the first spark be struck here.

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