Achill Lannis rode in on horseback.
Seated atop his steed, he naturally had a better vantage point than most.
Raff the Sweetling was the kind of man who could get along with just about anyone in Casterly Rock. Flattery was his gift, an inborn talent. There wasn't a noble alive who didn't enjoy having their ego stroked. Even when they knew Raff's words were hollow praise, they still loved hearing them.
He was well acquainted with Achill Lannis.
Before following Ser Gregor Clegane to the village of Clegane, both Raff and Ser Gregor were well-known figures in Casterly Rock, one famous for his honeyed tongue, the other infamous for his brutality.
Achill Lannis, a centurion and a cadet member of House Lannister, had ample opportunity to mingle with both Raff and Ser Gregor.
Before Gregor decided to return to his own lands, he and Raff had both been officers in the Lord's personal guard. Gregor was the general, and Sweetmouth served as a squad captain and sergeant.
The city garrison and the Lord's mounted guard were closely connected; the centurions all knew one another. Most of them were kinsmen or distant cousins from various branches of House Lannister.
Achill knew full well that Raff's sword was as sharp as his tongue.
Sweetmouth might speak with honey, but his heart was pitch black.
The moment their eyes met, Achill understood Raff's intent.
He grasped the situation immediately.
This was Raff the Sweetling's little setup, a clever snare laid to teach the Ironborn a lesson.
Riding into the crowd, Achill saw three Ironborn sprawled at Polliver's feet. One was already dead. The other two were still breathing, but it was clear they wouldn't last long.
"Who dared harass a Westerlandser woman in broad daylight?" Achill bellowed.
His sharp gaze swept over the Ironborn. They seethed with anger, but none stepped forward.
The Westerlands garrison had arrived. The soldiers, clad in fine armor and wielding longswords, wasted no time. They encircled the Ironborn, shields locked tightly in a defensive wall, sword tips protruding above the rim of the shields, pointed squarely at the enemies.
The second wave of Ironborn who had just come ashore stopped in their tracks, not daring to advance.
The arrival of the Casterly Rock garrison emboldened the Westerlands. More townsfolk, armed with makeshift weapons, joined the outer ring of the encirclement.
No one paid attention to the three Ironborn bleeding out on the ground. All eyes were locked on the rest, burning with barely contained fury.
From the upper level of the tavern, the Mountain shouted, "Innkeeper!"
The innkeeper had been waiting outside the door. At the shout, he hurried in, bowing low with a smile.
"My lord, what would you like?"
"Wine!"
"Yes, my lord!"
Soon, a variety of wines were brought to the Mountain's table: coarse grain liquor from the Westerlands, apple wine from the Riverlands, grape wine from the Reach and Arbor.
The innkeeper didn't dare ask which the Mountain preferred, he simply brought them all.
"Leave."
"Yes, my lord." The innkeeper quickly retreated to the door, awaiting further orders.
The Mountain began to drink, watching the events unfold at the dock.
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Those five iron ore ships belonged to Lord Gorold Goodbrother.
The Mountain had met the man before. He was the commander of the Warhammer Cape legion, brave and battle-tested, and had close personal ties with Victarion Greyjoy, commander of the Iron Fleet.
Gorold had three sons and twelve daughters. His sons were triplets, indistinguishable from one another.
The Mountain didn't know which of the triplets now stood before Achill to negotiate, nor did he care. The situation was clear: the Ironborn were completely outmatched, both in numbers and in momentum. They'd also lost the moral high ground, it had been the Ironborn who first harassed decent Westerlands women and were then slain by commoners.
To be killed by peasants, there was no greater disgrace for an Ironborn. Return home with that story, and it would only bring shame.
Polliver, ever the loyal devotee, showed as much flair in performance as he did in his morbid love of human anatomy.
The Westerlands crowd was seething, not necessarily out of justice for the two women, but because they had finally found an outlet for their long-simmering hatred of the Ironborn.
The Ironborn were loathed above all others.
For centuries, they had raided and pillaged the Westerlands, leaving behind a legacy of blood and tears. Long ago, they'd ruled the coasts of the south, the shores of the Westerlands and the Riverlands, even pressing deep into the mainland. That history had been passed down through generations.
Hatred of the Ironborn ran deep in every Westerlandser's bones.
Though the bald man who had stabbed the Ironborn didn't look entirely sane, the crowd saw him as a hero. Taking down three robust Ironborn single handedly, that made him a legend.
Given the crowd's mood, even if Achill had wanted to arrest Polliver, it would've been impossible. Not that he ever dared try.
The Mountain took a long swig of wine.
If Gorold Goodbrother had any sense at all, he would realize the Westerlands had grown deeply resentful of his constant price hikes and endless greed. Patience had run thin, one more step, and it would spark a war.
Whatever Lord Tywindecided, the Mountain had already planted the first seed.
War was coming. The Iron Islands' iron ore was too precious to ignore, too tempting to resist. The united hatred of the Westerlanders gave him confidence that they would follow him in battle. Hatred was a powerful motivator.
Down below, Achill made his move. During negotiations with the Ironborn youth, he suddenly raised his hand and struck the boy across the face with a loud smack. As the Ironborn roared and raised their axes, the garrison pushed forward with their shields. The crowd shouted in unison, drowning out the Ironborn's rage once more.
"Gran Goodbrother," Achill shouted sternly, "You're coming with me. I'll hand you over to Lord Tywin himself. Until you offer a proper apology and compensation for harassing our women, your five ships will not leave this port."
"Beautifully done," the Mountain murmured with a smile.
He poured another drink and took in the aroma, it was apple wine brewed by House Tully of the Riverlands. The scent, color, and taste were all superb.
The fertile lands of the Riverlands were even more enticing than the iron. In comparison, the Westerlands, once their gold mines ran dry, would be nothing more than a poor, mountainous backwater.
Still, the more urgent threat wasn't depleted gold, it was the White Walkers from the North.
Fortunately, the gods had placed House Stark to guard the North. As long as the North didn't fall completely, the Westerlands remained safe. Judging by how hard it would be for the White Walkers to overrun all of the North, that wasn't likely to happen anytime soon.
The Mountain shook his head, brushing aside thoughts of the distant future.
One bite at a time. One step at a time. For now, the immediate task was to properly serve his new bride, Jaime. As a husband, it was both his duty and glorious obligation to sow his fiery seed into her fertile fields, frequently and with vigor.
By now, Bran Stark had already been pushed from the tower by Jaime Lannister, setting the stage for the conflict between two great houses.
King Robert was still hunting boar in the Wolfswood of the North. He'd return to King's Landing in a month. Around the same time, the Imp would head to the Wall with Jon Snow and Benjen Stark, to fulfill his dream of standing atop the Wall and taking a piss off the edge.
Thinking of the Imp, the Mountain felt a tinge of anticipation.
Yes, it was time to start moving his pieces.
After all, since he'd come this far, he wasn't going to walk away empty-handed, was he?
If there was no immediate danger of death, then wealth, women, status, power, and glory, the fleeting indulgences of the mortal world, who wouldn't want them?
Especially someone as uncultured and worldly as him.
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