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"They should not be involved now? Your Grace, so you already knew of them?"
Malora stared closely at Robb. She had thought this was important intelligence. From the sound of it, Robb seemed to know already.
"Cough. I had some rough intelligence about them. But I will absolutely do what I promised you. Continue."
Realizing he had misspoken, Robb coughed lightly and gestured for Malora to go on.
"In the Hightower, I once saw my father meet with an extremely fat keyholder. I overheard scraps of their discussion about the Sealord of Braavos and matters involving gods.
"At the time, I had no interest in what they were discussing, so I did not listen carefully. After all, books related to occult study were what truly interested me."
Malora's face took on a look of recollection. After telling Robb what she knew, she shared some of her guesses.
"Forgive me, Your Grace. That is roughly all I know.
"However, based on what I know, the current Sealord of Braavos, Ferrego Antaryon, suffers from an incurable illness. It is therefore very possible that they were discussing the next Sealord.
"Yet the next Sealord has always been chosen from all the citizens of Braavos by the city's magisters and all keyholders through an ancient, mysterious, and baffling process.
"In theory, a single founding family of the Iron Bank should not be able to control the result of that process. Nor does the matter seem connected to House Lannister. It is very hard to understand."
"Perhaps what you heard about the Sealord of Braavos and gods truly was only casual conversation.
"But there must be an interest binding House Lannister and the keyholders. I believe no one acts without gain.
"If it is not interest, then perhaps the reason is something we would never think of."
After hearing Malora out, Robb spoke his judgment. At the end, he slowly raised his head and looked at the top of the tent with his ice-crystal eyes.
Without enough intelligence, Robb did not want to guess blindly why a keyholder of the Iron Bank had helped House Lannister persuade House Hightower.
He rose from the chair, grabbed a hard fistful of his reddish-brown hair, and handed it to Malora. "Here. Is this enough?"
"Enough. Enough! Thank you, Your Grace.
"I have the research material now, but my instruments are still in the Hightower..."
Robb's sudden action left Malora stunned. She took the hair with her right hand and answered in a daze.
"Do not worry. Counting the time, Lord Leyton Hightower should already have sent an envoy to ransom you.
"One son is the heir, one son is a renowned warrior, and there is you, his maester daughter who can use magic.
"He cannot leave you unattended. I only hope the ransom the envoy brings is rich enough."
"Although I have always called myself that, I have not forged a chain and cannot be counted as a true maester. Women are not allowed to join the order."
A touch of gloom crossed Malora's face. She tightened her grip on Robb's hair and continued with firm resolve.
"But that does not matter. I will become the first female maester in the history of Westeros, perhaps even an archmaester. In the future, I will also build a new Citadel that accepts only women."
"In this world, men are favored even more."
Hearing Malora's bold words, Robb muttered quietly first, then encouraged her aloud.
"If you can keep working toward it, you will succeed."
"Thank you for your encouragement, Your Grace. I also believe I will succeed.
"But my most important task now is to study the structure of the rune energy in your body and use that to imitate the rune structure of ice techniques.
"No problem. I can do it."
Malora nodded, then waved her clenched right hand, the hand holding Robb's hair, through the air.
'No, you cannot. I do not have any magic in my own body.'
Seeing Malora full of hope, Robb mocked the idea inwardly and called outside, "Wyl, send Lady Malora back."
At the Red Keep, in the audience hall of the Tower of the Hand, Tywin wore a very subdued dark red patterned coat, with the Hand's badge pinned to his chest.
"Lord Hand."
"Lord Bessaro."
Tywin greeted the fat man Bessaro, who had climbed the tower with great effort and the help of two servants.
"Hah. Hah. So tiring. You two, go out."
After settling into a specially made broad chair, Bessaro ordered the two servants beside him in a breathless voice.
"All of you, leave."
Tywin gave the same order to the Lannister guards around them. Soon everyone but the two of them had left the audience hall and closed the doors.
"Lord Tywin, the Iron Bank has already expressed its goodwill. Aside from House Redwyne, we helped bring the other houses to your side.
"Unfortunately, you still lost this war."
After resting for a while in the broad chair, Bessaro raised his round, flesh-filled face and squeezed out something that ought to count as a smile.
"Lord Bessaro, I assume you did not come today to demand repayment."
Tywin did not follow Bessaro's topic. Instead, he asked.
"Of course not. Quite the opposite. I came today to offer Lord Tywin a loan. The premise, however, is that you agree to the condition I raised last time."
Bessaro shook his head and answered. While speaking, he tried to lean his fat body forward in order to give his words greater weight.
"Although I do not know why you have raised such a condition, even if I agree, I cannot deliver it to you in the short term.
"After all, it would create instability in Lannister rule."
Tywin was not affected by Bessaro's show of force. He sat straight in his high-backed chair and answered calmly.
Joy crossed Bessaro's face. He could clearly hear that Tywin's words already carried a hint of acceptance.
As a successful merchant, he knew this should originally be the point where both sides dragged out the bargaining.
But for certain reasons, Bessaro spoke at once. "Of course. As long as we reach a contract, you may wait until the Seven Kingdoms are stable before delivering it to us.
"If we deepen cooperation under this condition, the Iron Bank can even help you settle the current chaos in the Seven Kingdoms."
"Help me settle the chaos of the Seven Kingdoms?
"In Westeros's current situation, the Iron Bank cannot be of much help. Golden dragons are not all-powerful."
Tywin did not believe Bessaro's words. He knew the Iron Bank possessed vast wealth and many connections, but they could not decide the war in Westeros.
"Heh. Gold dragons are certainly not all-powerful. Outside Westeros, there are many places where gold dragons are not even accepted.
"But money is all-powerful."
Tywin, feeling Bessaro was playing with words, did not respond. He simply watched him in silence.
Seeing Tywin's expression, Bessaro immediately gave up his little suspense and spoke.
"In Essos, we have every sort of sellsword company. With money, you can hire them to fight for you.
"Take the Golden Company, the largest, most expensive, and most honorable of them. They number more than ten thousand, and every man is a warrior worth ten ordinary men. Hiring them is like adding an army of a hundred thousand.
"There are also the fearless Unsullied of Astapor. Ah, let us not discuss those for now.
"Lord Tywin, believe me. If you gain the Iron Bank's full support, House Lannister will surely rule the Seven Kingdoms."
"We can discuss that later. For now, let us first discuss the loan."
"Very well."
With Bessaro taking the initiative to yield, the two soon reached agreement. Bessaro then took a sheet of gilded paper from his coat, covered in images of different currencies, and began writing the contract.
Tywin carefully observed the gilded paper as Bessaro wrote. Aside from the gold dragon, he recognized only the Reach's golden hand coin and Braavos's square iron coin.
"Done, Lord Tywin. If there is no problem, please sign."
Bessaro handed him the gilded paper, written specially in the Common Tongue.
After checking the paper and its contents carefully, Tywin signed his name with his own quill.
"The contract is made, Lord Tywin. Your money will soon be safely transported to King's Landing."
After confirming it with a nod, Bessaro solemnly put away the gilded paper. Then, his expression relaxed, he continued.
"You truly will not consider deepening our cooperation? Even in Westeros, the Golden Company's name must be heard occasionally."
"Lord Bessaro, I may consider your proposal later.
"However, when you entered just now, you said we had lost the war. Forgive me, but I cannot agree.
"We did fail to take Highgarden, but the final war has only just begun."
In the Riverlands, at the village outside the Brotherhood Without Banners' camp, Gregor Clegane stood bound to a cross in the center of the village like an enormous scarecrow.
The sword wounds on his hands and feet had already been stopped and scabbed over by Qyburn's treatment.
His chest and belly still rose and fell with breath. He was stubbornly alive, though his present condition was worse than dying in battle.
His naked body was covered in every sort of filth, whether human or animal. His face held both filth and the foul liquid of rotten eggs.
A villager in ragged clothes passed before him with a hoe, coughed hard, and spat a yellow glob of phlegm onto Gregor's face.
Two Brotherhood men standing guard some distance away because of the stench saw the villager's action and did not care.
Gregor seemed used to being treated this way. He did not move and said nothing.
The sun slowly slanted west, and night began to fall.
Gregor, who had not moved all day, looked at the gathering dusk and let out a weak groan through his toothless, old-woman mouth. "Finally... time."
Beric, Thoros, and the others led the Brotherhood into the village, heading straight for the Mountain. The villagers all came out of their homes and gathered in the center.
"Brothers and sisters! Gregor Clegane, cruel and bloodthirsty, his hands stained with countless lives, has already received our judgment over these past days."
Beric strode before the Mountain and stood with his back to him, speaking loudly. He looked around at the layers of Brotherhood members gathered before him and continued.
"But we have judged only his flesh. His soul can be judged only by the great Lord of Light. Now we will offer him as a sacrifice to the Lord of Light.
"Brothers and sisters who lost family and friends because of him and his soldiers, take a piece of firewood from the side and add your strength to this sacrifice."
As soon as Beric finished, hundreds of Brotherhood members ran toward the prepared pile of firewood. In a short time, a pyre had been built around the Mountain.
"Now, all of you, follow me in prayer to my lord. Let him hear our voices and judge this evil soul.
"My lord, the Lord of Light..."
After the pyre was built, Thoros stepped forward to stand beside Beric and began guiding the Brotherhood in prayer.
"My lord, the Lord of Light..."
Thousands of Brotherhood members prayed softly together, and a thick religious atmosphere instantly spread through the village.
When the prayer ended, Beric drew his sword and swept his hand across it. Fire blazed violently along the blade.
"Gregor Clegane, do you have any final words?"
"I will kill you!"
Hearing Beric, the Mountain used the last strength in his body to roar.
"Heh. Perhaps I had family once. I no longer remember them."
Looking at Gregor's final impotent roar, Beric answered in a tone carrying a strange sorrow. Then he laid the flaming sword against the wood.
The oil-soaked logs caught fire quickly, crackling as they burned. Gregor looked at the heat before him, and relief crossed his filthy face.
At first, as the ever-stronger flames baked him with heat, Gregor clenched his bare gums tightly and made no sound.
But when the roaring flames of the pyre truly began burning into his flesh, he could no longer hold back. Hoarse, heart-rending screams burst from him.
The smell of burning filth mixed with the scent of cooked meat gradually spread through the village center. No one present turned away or covered their noses. They only watched with satisfaction as the Mountain's voice weakened and he slowly became a huge human torch.
At the outer edge of the village, five figures, two grown and three small, walked along a path into the night. When they reached a bend where the village pyre could be seen, one adult and two of the children stopped.
"Sandor, while these zealots are all at Gregor's execution, we should leave quickly."
Brienne, walking ahead while holding the little girl's hand, looked back and found Sandor stopped. She urged him quietly.
Sandor looked toward the human torch in the village center, his eyes calm. He nodded, tightened his hands around the two boys' small hands, and walked forward with steady steps.
"Brienne, have you thought where you will go afterward?"
The five of them walked along the moonlit path. Feeling the children trembling in his hands, Sandor spoke to Brienne.
"Not really. I will go with you to Winterfell first. Then... I should find a chance to go to Dragonstone."
Brienne seemed to understand what Sandor intended. She answered and began chatting with him.
"I know Dragonstone! Grandmother told me there used to be huge dragons there!"
The little girl joined their conversation in her child's voice.
"I heard that too!"
"Hey, I was the one who first asked Grandmother to tell that story!"
The two boys spoke as well, and they began talking among themselves.
Sandor and the others walked north with the sound of their chatter.
In the center of the village, the Mountain was burned alive, and his corpse still burned within the pyre.
Thoros, who had been staring without blinking into the flames from the moment the pyre began, suddenly seemed to wake from a trance. He turned to Beric and said softly, "Beric, I saw... us dying in ice."
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