Lord Tywin had long heard of the Witch's reputation.
But the Witch was not one to give prophecies lightly. Many nobles had come seeking her words, only to be turned away.
Tywin had always harbored a deep distaste for blood mages, and the Witch was one.
Her prophecies came from the blood of those who sought them.
With two decades as the Hand of the King and sixteen years of iron rule over the Westerlands, Tywin placed more faith in the science of the maesters and his own cunning than in any mystic arts.
Still, some things were beyond calculation. And for those, consulting the Witch was not entirely unreasonable.
Those marked by the gods and drawn to the arcane, though some were charlatans, each possessed a strange and unique power.
And while Tywin might scoff at mysticism, he wasn't blind to its potential.
He was certain the Witch was no fraud.
She hailed from the East, a true sorceress.
Her late husband had been a wealthy spice trader, a Westerlands merchant who had met her during a business venture in Essos. Enchanted by her beauty, he paid dearly to bring her back to Lannisport and made her his wife.
The years had passed, and no one remembered her real name. Even Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, had once asked his grandmother about it. Whether the Witch refused to say, or truly no longer remembered, no one knew. But she had never spoken her name since her younger days.
Once someone became a true practitioner of magic, their name was offered to the gods. The Witch's name had been sacrificed long ago. Forgetting it, or refusing to recall, was only natural.
After purchasing five ships' worth of iron ore at the original price, Lord Tywin offered kind words to young Gran Goodbrother, who had recently received death threats.
He told the boy to relay a message to his father, Gorold Goodbrother:
So long as the price of ore did not rise again, they could remain good allies. But if it did, the Lord would cut off all supplies of essential goods from the Westerlands to the Iron Islands, and would petition the king to have the coastal lords collectively raise prices on all goods sold to them.
In short, the price of ore was to be frozen, permanently.
Any further increase, and Tywin would no longer play nice.
Gran agreed.
This time, the Ironborn had lost their bluster.
At the docks of Casterly Rock, a mentally unstable commoner from the Westerlands had somehow killed three Ironborn with astonishing speed.
It was a blatant humiliation for the Ironborn, and a clear signal from the Westerlands.
Tywin Lannister was no weakling. His will was as unyielding as the black stone of Casterly Rock.
Since the Mountain and his brothers had made a justifiable case for "killing," Tywin had taken advantage of the situation. After publicly denouncing the Ironborn's lawlessness, he bought the iron and offered hollow words of comfort to the teenage Gran.
Gran Goodbrother was the youngest of triplets.
Not as fierce as his elder brothers, but more rational, though to the Ironborn, rationality was just another word for weakness.
Still, even if they had been slaughtered to the last man, it would've been justified, they were the ones who first harassed a respectable woman of the Westerlands.
Three days after the incident, and after much persuasion from the Mountain, Lord Tywin rode out with his personal guard of five hundred cavalry, traveling in a grand procession to Clegane's Keep.
With him were his Maester, and his younger brother Kevan Lannister, the Master of Salt.
Leading the guard was Ser Boros Blount, the swordmaster of Casterly Rock, mentor to both Sandor "the Hound" Clegane and Gregor "the Mountain" Clegane.
Each of the five centurions under him commanded a hundred knights.
It had been a long time since Lord Tywin last traveled. He treated this journey as an outing, a chance to clear his mind.
His eldest daughter, Cersei Lannister, had married into the royal family. His most promising son, Jaime Lannister, had joined the Kingsguard. Sixteen years had passed in the blink of an eye, and Jaime was still wearing that damned white cloak.
What weighed heaviest on the Lord's mind was the lack of an heir for Casterly Rock.
Jaime was his ideal successor. But the handsome young man had made it clear, he would never return to inherit the Rock. He intended to remain a Kingsguard for life.
Kingsguard could not marry, bear children, inherit lands, or own wealth.
They were cut off from all worldly luxuries, like ascetic monks. All they had was the greatest honor a knight could receive: Glory and Sacrifice, Loyalty and Steel.
Knighthood was the highest honor a warrior could strive for.
And the Kingsguard was the highest honor among knights.
Only the finest knights were deemed worthy.
Jaime had abandoned his inheritance for that cursed honor.
It was a wound buried deep in Tywin's heart, one that never healed, and festered more with each passing year.
There was only one cure: to convince Jaime to give up his white cloak and return home to inherit Casterly Rock.
Though membership in the Kingsguard was for life, and being dismissed by the king was the gravest shame for a knight, Tywin didn't care. He would tolerate even greater humiliation if it meant Jaime would come home.
To him, such shame was meaningless.
For twenty-five years, Tywin had gone without smiling. He carried many burdens that remained unresolved.
His younger brother, Kevan, had joined him on this trip.
Thanks to Gregor Clegane, snow salt production had become industrialized and was now supplying the entire Westerlands.
Salt went out, gold came back in. That was Gregor's doing.
With snow salt in full production, Tywin's next goal was to sell it across the Narrow Sea at a high price, rather than distributing it elsewhere in the realm.
Lannisport's trade routes made that easy.
This alleviated much of Tywin's anxiety over the dwindling gold mines.
Another credit to Gregor Clegane.
Tywin knew this well, but he would never praise the Mountain, not even once.
Gregor was already far too arrogant. Among the nobles of the Westerlands, he was the most uncontrollable. In Tywin's eyes, only strict discipline and harsh words could keep him in check.
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Though the Clegane chapel was far smaller than the one at Casterly Rock, it was no less complete.
Lord Tywin took a seat before the Witch.
She hadn't waited for him before the statues of the Seven. Instead, after Tywin, the maester, Kevan, Boros, and the five centurions paid their respects to the gods, they came to her room and requested an audience.
Sixteen years ago, Cersei had been far more forceful.
She had stormed straight into the Witch's room and threatened to have the family guards hang her if she didn't offer a prophecy.
This time, Lord Tywin was welcomed in by the Witch's assistant.
Her name was Jeyne Westerling.
Recently married, Jeyne had returned to Clegane's Keep and now served as her grandmother's apprentice, though she didn't know it.
She thought she was merely helping with chores until her grandmother found a proper student.
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