The Witch's long, once-tangled hair had now been carefully combed, cascading neatly over her shoulders and pooling like a dark curtain onto the ground. Thanks to the maids arranged by Ser Gregor Clegane, she no longer looked filthy, disheveled, aged, or consumed by darkness.
Yet when she opened her mouth, her teeth were still pitch black, so dark they gleamed, like obsidian.
"Witch, may I ask something that doesn't concern me directly, but that I wish to know?" Lord Tywin's voice was as commanding as ever.
This question had been suggested to him in private by Gregor. Gregor had told him that the Witch's powers extended beyond reading the future of someone through their blood, she could also glimpse fragments of the future and the past without it.
This was a secret ability Gregor had learned of through his own understanding of the Witch. It was a talent reminiscent of Brynden Rivers beyond the Wall, who could effortlessly do the same. But Brynden was an exception, a chosen of the gods, carrying Targaryen royal blood. Few sorcerers could rival his level.
In Lannisport, the Witch was well-known for her prophecies, yet Tywin had never once sought her counsel, even when burdened with problems beyond resolution.
Lord Tywin was a man of deep pride and confidence. If he couldn't solve something himself, and prayers to the Seven failed him too, he held no hope in turning to mystics.
The Witch nodded.
Gregor sat beside Lord Tywin, towering over everyone else as always. His sheer presence was oppressive by nature.
But the Witch and Lord Tywin both possessed an aura that did not pale in comparison.
"In Winterfell," Lord Tywin began, "has anything unusual happened?"
This was another question proposed by Gregor in advance, a way to test the Witch's prophetic abilities.
Gregor had a far more advanced grasp of civilization than Lord Tywin. When facing people utterly devoted to the gods or blinded by superstition, even brilliance could be confined by the times. Gregor, on the other hand, could freely navigate between multiple civilizations, drawing on vast pools of knowledge.
"A little wolf was pushed from a broken tower by a lion," the Witch said, her voice slow and raspy. "His legs were shattered, and he fell into a coma. He will never walk again. That is one of the two reasons the lion and the wolf will begin to tear each other apart."
In front of her, there was no crystal ball like the ones Gregor had once imagined from another world during his university days.
The Witch drank Nightshade Water, black as pitch, which was the reason her teeth had turned completely black. Gregor also knew that in the distant East, there were sorcerers who drank blue Nightshade Water, which turned their lips a vivid blue.
Her words made Lord Kevan, Maester Harry, Master-at-Arms Boros, and five of the Lannister Centurions all visibly stiffen.
This meant the North and the West would go to war.
After sixteen years of peace, was the realm truly about to fall into civil war?
None of them wanted to believe such an absurd prophecy.
If not for Lord Tywin's presence, Lord Kevan might have already scolded the Witch on the spot.
These blood sorcerers, spewing ominous nonsense, could not be trusted, they should have their heads cut off.
Gregor calmly observed his father. These prophecies were the ones he had guided the Witch, his grandmother, to deliver. As a family, it hadn't been hard to convince her to say exactly what he wanted.
The Witch could foresee many things and wielded dark abilities, but she was not omnipotent. The more one studied the occult, the more one realized how much remained unknown. And as a living being, she too was fragile, she needed good food, a comfortable life, respect from others, the love of family, and above all, a strong sense of security.
More than anyone, the Witch herself wanted to test the accuracy of the prophecies coming from Gregor, who had received the blessing of the Seven.
Divine will was mysterious and unfathomable. Yet compared to ordinary people, the Witch was easier for Gregor to deal with. When confronted with the inexplicable or with people suddenly exhibiting extraordinary abilities, she didn't question it, it made perfect sense to her.
The will of the gods needed no explanation for mortals.
Gregor had found that the deeper someone delved into mysticism and complex sorcery, the more open they were to accepting unexplainable phenomena.
Lord Tywin was shaken. But his face remained expressionless. He turned and looked toward the Grand Maester, who immediately bowed low.
"Send a raven to Lord Serrett, at once."
Lord Serrett was the West's representative stationed with the royal entourage in the North.
"Yes, my lord!"
Maester Harry departed immediately.
Clegane Keep had ravens, descended from the rookery at Casterly Rock. Though they now bore the Clegane name, they had been raised by Maester Harry.
The castle's current maester, Harry, had been Pycelle's student. Though he'd been assigned by Lord Tywin to keep an eye on Gregor, he now understood clearly that this surveillance was mostly for show. Between Gregor and Lord Tywin, there was likely no need for any third party watching.
"Witch," Lord Tywin asked, "you said there were two reasons for the lions and wolves to clash. What's the second?"
"The owner of this blood," the Witch replied, slowly pulling a long, willow-shaped glass vial from beneath the table.
"And whose blood is that?"
Gregor interjected, "Father, a month ago while I was handling business in King's Landing, Littlefinger, Petyr Baelish, refused to agree to my terms on the gold mine levy. So, I took a sample of his blood, intending for my grandmother to curse him. But instead, she saw another secret through his blood."
"What secret?"
"She never told me."
Lord Tywin narrowed his eyes on the Witch. She had already closed hers, and her hair began to float of its own accord, rising as though invisible hands had lifted it to veil her face.
Everyone's expression shifted in shock.
No wind. No touch. The hair moved by itself!
"Witch," Lord Tywin growled, "what has Littlefinger done to House Lannister?"
But the Witch had already begun to snore softly.
Master-at-Arms Boros flared in fury and drew his sword with a rasp.
How dare a blood witch fall asleep before Lord Tywin? She was begging to die!
Gregor calmly spoke. "Father, my grandmother has already given us the answer. The two causes of the war between the lions and the wolves, one is that the lion pushed the little wolf, crippling him. The other is Petyr Baelish."
Lord Tywin glared at the Witch. "Witch, if your prophecy proves false, I will cut off your head."
"And if it proves true, you'll pay three hundred gold dragons. Next time you want a prophecy, the price starts at three hundred. I need offerings to sacrifice to my god, or I'll suffer divine backlash," the Witch replied.
Her lips never moved, but she spoke.
It was eerie. Mysterious. But it did little to calm the others' rage.
"What nonsense is this?! Three hundred gold dragons for a prophecy?" the centurions all roared.
Boros and Lord Kevan were already shouting their fury.
Lord Tywin simply raised a hand, and silence fell over them all.
"Fine," Tywin said coldly. "Witch, if your prophecy proves true, I'll pay you three hundred gold dragons for each question."
Kevan and the others looked visibly stunned.
But Gregor wasn't surprised.
They said Tywin Lannister was frugal, and he certainly wasn't generous. But every coin he spent was precise, calculated, and always spent where it mattered most. If he believed something was worthwhile, money was never an obstacle.
And with that, six hundred gold dragons were funneled directly into Gregor's hands. More than enough to fund the construction and upkeep of the chapel, plus a handsome profit.
And this was only the beginning. A very promising beginning.
"Ser Gregor."
"Yes, Father."
"Send your men to King's Landing. Bring me Petyr Baelish."
"Yes, Father."
⚔────────
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