The Mountain of Ice and Fire

"Pod, could you please fetch a basin of water?" Maester Qyburn was amiable, smiling, and inspiring closeness. He seemed a comfortable and venerable physician, like the grandfather who loved you most.

"Yes, Maester," Podrick replied, looking shyly at the ground, avoiding the eyes of the Mountain and Qyburn.

The boy was introverted, shy, timid, and a little cowardly.

"Maester, what about your apprentice? Podrick's arm is still injured," Tyrion said.

"I'm fine, Lord Tyrion," Podrick said quickly, hurrying away.

The Mountain's entrance seemed to darken the entire room, making it feel small and cramped.

"Give me wine, Mountain," Tyrion said.

"You'll get it later."

Podrick returned quickly, carrying a half-full basin of water with one hand.

The Mountain gripped Tyrion's shoulder with one hand, gently lifting him up to lean against the pillows he placed behind his lower back.

Maester Qyburn gave an admiring look. "Ser Gregor, you are a competent assistant. It's a pity I cannot take you on as an apprentice."

"I would be glad to be your apprentice, Maester Qyburn," the Mountain chuckled. "Once the war is truly over, and the conflicts of the Seven Kingdoms are past, I will come to you to learn your wondrous healing arts."

Tyrion wanted to laugh and make a witty remark, but he couldn't laugh, nor could he even smile. The bandages applied by Maester Ballabar wrapped his face layer upon layer, causing great discomfort, as if a stiff, grotesque mask had grown onto his face.

"Lord Tyrion, you must remain perfectly still, no matter what I do or how I do it," Qyburn's words were soft and gentle, his gaze gentle, his fingers long and pale.

"Maester, if your knife were to cut my throat, would I still have to remain perfectly still?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Then come on, I'm ready."

When Maester Ballabar changed Tyrion's dressings, Tyrion would worry that with the next beat of his heart, the maester's bandages would wrap around his neck, suffocating him.

Tyrion dared not trust the maester Cersei had sent.

The slender, serrated, thin knife gleamed coldly, reminding Tyrion of its sharpness. Qyburn held the knife, placing the tip on his chin, his hand as steady as a mountain, and began to saw open the mask-like shell on Tyrion's face.

A simple downward thrust of the knife would pierce Tyrion's throat, a light slice, and Tyrion would die, fulfilling one of Queen Cersei's life goals.

The blade cut through the layers of linen smeared with ointment on his chin, and Tyrion could feel the knife's sharpness and coldness.

The mask-like shell on his face was completely removed, and Qyburn's hand remained as steady as a knight's, not touching his skin at all.

The hard bandages, stained with blood and ointment, were tossed onto the ground, making a sound like stones.

"Other maesters would use bandages to protect your wound from secondary infection, but this would cause a problem: the wound would be covered too tightly, easily festering and rotting, and difficult to disinfect and clean daily, which is actually detrimental to your wound's recovery. Many people die from infection because of this."

What was this guy implying?

Had his sister's maester added something more interesting to the ointment?

If that were true, Tyrion wouldn't be surprised.

"I will clean and disinfect your wound for you, once a day is sufficient, without bandages, because wounds, like people, need to breathe fresh air. But the maesters of the Citadel do not agree with my view, and Maester Ballabar also disagreed, until Ser Gregor gave him a look, and then Maester Ballabar understood the logic and agreed to let me come in to serve you."

"My dear sister had Ballabar meticulously taking care of everything for me?"

"Yes, she is the Queen Regent, and we are all her vassals," the Mountain said.

Tyrion understood the weight of the Mountain's words. Anyone else wanting to enter the dungeon beneath Maegor's Holdfast to see him would have been impossible. Only the Mountain could do it. His military achievements were outstanding; he had protected King's Landing, defeated the rebel army, and killed King Stannis. Even the Queen Regent had to yield to the Mountain's soaring reputation.

The Mountain had saved the lives of the royal family, the nobles of King's Landing, hundreds of thousands of residents, and tens of thousands of refugees. For the sake of victory, Stannis's army included many mercenaries, free riders, and bandits, who weren't coming to the city to do charity.

"Mountain, I owe you a favor," Tyrion said.

Actually, it was a life, Tyrion knew clearly, but there was no need to spell it out; everyone understood.

That was what the Mountain wanted.

He got what he wanted. When, in some year and month, he had to face Tyrion in battle, he knew Tyrion would remember everything the Mountain had done for him today, and that was enough.

A man without foresight will soon be beset by worries.

The Mountain had gained Tyrion's friendship. He needed that.

"My lord, I will begin cleaning your wound now," Qyburn said softly. His hands were steady, his movements light, and every step was precise, completely different from Maester Ballabar, whose every touch on Tyrion's wound almost made him faint.

"Will it hurt much?" Tyrion already had complete confidence in Qyburn.

Maester Ballabar had never cleaned Tyrion's wound; he directly applied ointment to Tyrion's face and then wrapped it with linen bandages.

"...Uh...possibly...a little...stinging..."

"Come on, Maester."

Qyburn moistened a soft cloth with an herbal-smelling alcohol and gently wiped Tyrion's face.

Where the soft cloth passed, it felt like a red-hot iron pressed against his skin, causing Tyrion's whole body to tense up. The Mountain reached out and gently held him down, and instantly a great mountain pressed down, rendering Tyrion unable to move at all.

When the soft cloth reached his nose, it felt as if a burning poker were stabbing and twisting it. Tyrion closed his eyes, biting down on the towel he had initially refused to bite, his hands gripping the sheets tightly. The quality of the sheets was probably poor, as his fingernails tore several places.

After Qyburn finished wiping, he looked at Tyrion with surprise. "My lord, you didn't scream. Tsk, tsk, this is the first time I've encountered this. You're truly remarkable."

Tyrion was in too much pain to speak or breathe. The Mountain's hand had already been released, but his whole body was still tense, like a bow about to snap.

Qyburn continued to ramble, "My lord, there are necrotic areas in the wound. I will use boiling wine and a type of worm to treat your injury. You'd better close your eyes; these worms are a little...frightening."

"What kind of worms?" Tyrion finally caught his breath and spoke. He was covered in sweat, his voice weak, as if he had just climbed up the stairs from hell.

"For the decaying parts of your wound, I will use black maggots to eat it away. It's less painful than scraping it off with a knife. This is my unique method. Rest assured, I have used this method to save many warriors from amputation. But unfortunately, the Citadel is unwilling to use it. Many warriors and patients have had their hands and legs sawn off by maesters to prevent infection, which is truly a sin."

"Maester, if I were king, I would definitely have the Citadel promote your method," Tyrion said weakly.

Now, every word Tyrion spoke cost him a great deal of effort. The cleaning of the wound just now was no different from sprinkling chili peppers and branding flesh on the wound.

He was also surprised that he hadn't screamed.

"Thank you for your trust, my lord," Qyburn said elegantly.

"Maester, with your superb medical skills, can my face still recover its former beauty?"

"Uh, I'm afraid not, my lord."

"Will there be scars?"

"I will try to make the scars as small as possible."

"Can I look in the mirror now?"

"Of course, my lord, if you don't want to be scared to death by yourself," Qyburn smiled.

"Scaring myself to death has always been something I've wanted to do. Ser Gregor, can you hold the mirror for me? I've used up all my strength just now."

"As you wish, Halfman," the Mountain said.

A sword wound, curved and long, stretched from the upper left corner of his eye to the end of his right jaw. Three-quarters of his nose was gone, reminding Tyrion of the Mountain's noseless henchman, Rorge. A piece of his lip was also missing, the torn flesh sewn together with catgut, the rough stitches lying across the red skin like the hundreds of legs of a hideous centipede.

"Beautiful!" Tyrion said, his voice a little hoarse. "My dear sister has given me another exquisite gift. To be honest, I'm very satisfied with my current face. It's much more beautiful than before."

*

Night. Tower of the Hand.

Study.

Lord Tywin stared at the Mountain.

"The Small Council will hold a formal investiture tomorrow. You have performed great service, and I will fulfill my promise at the Green Fork and grant you Castamere."

Castamere was a fat piece of meat. The gold mine had been secretly opened by the Mountain, and a mint had been secretly built. The late King Robert had nominally granted Castamere and Tarbeck Hall to the Mountain, but the Duke was only willing to give the territory of Castamere.

"Thank you, Father."

Tywin was expressionless, with no emotion in his eyes. "Stannis's surrendered army is quite large. Do you need to select some mercenaries and free riders from it to replenish your losses?"

The Mountain was tempted, but his two thousand new spearmen had suffered few losses because the Mountain had given them food when they had nothing to eat and had also taken care of the families of the warriors, so their loyalty was high. Currently, his forces were already the largest and most powerful among the nobles of the entire Westerlands...even more powerful than the Duke's own Casterly Rock forces...If he continued to increase his manpower...

"No, thank you, Father."

"What else? What do you want?"

"I hope Father can bestow Ice upon me."

Lord Tywin did not hesitate. Bestowing this sword upon the Mountain would also be a thorn in the side of the Mountain and the Stark family. The loyal and righteous men of the entire North would hate the Mountain. The Mountain's military achievements were brilliant, and it was always good to have more external enemies.

"Ice is yours."

"Thank you, Father."

"Mountain, tomorrow I will propose that Lord Mace Tyrell enter the Small Council and serve as Master of Laws of the kingdom. What are your thoughts?"

With the war won, the great nobles began to divide the spoils. Although the Mountain's military achievements were the greatest, he was just a dog under Lannister's command. It was impossible to get any fat meat; he could only get a few bones. The Mountain also knew that the Duke didn't need his opinion; he was just informing him of this matter, nothing more.

"Father's decisions, as always, I fully support."

"Hmm. Commander of the City Watch, Jacelyn Bywater, has died, and the position is vacant. Who do you think is suitable?"

"Addam Marbrand."

Although Addam Marbrand had a personal feud with the Mountain, he was the Duke's most trusted young general. The Duke's mother was from the Marbrand family, and the two families had close blood ties.

The Duke was expressionless, but he was very satisfied with the Mountain's answer. The person he wanted to arrange for the position was Addam Marbrand.

"There is also a vacancy in the Kingsguard. Do you have any suitable candidates to recommend?"

The Mountain decided not to participate in the division of spoils among the great nobles.

"No, Father."

It was enough for him to suggest Addam as Commander of the City Watch. If he guessed the Duke's thoughts every time, it would not be a good thing.

The Mountain knew when to leave. "Father, may I go?"

The Duke nodded. The Mountain bowed and was about to leave when the Duke asked casually, "Mountain, how is Tyrion?"

"He is seriously injured. Three-quarters of his nose will be gone, and he will have a permanent scar on his face."

"What did he say?"

"He said beautiful."

"Beautiful? What's beautiful?"

"His face. He thinks it's more beautiful than his original face."

Lord Tywin was silent. This youngest son's words were always surprising and often shocking.

"Do you know why Mandon Moore wanted to kill him?"

"No, Father."

"You didn't ask him?"

"No."

"He didn't mention anything to you?"

"No."

"Hmm, go then."

"Yes, Father."

The Mountain reached the door, and the Duke spoke again, "Ser Loras Tyrell has come to me. He says you won't allow him to take Brienne of Tarth away and execute her?"

"Father, Brienne was one of the many prisoners captured by Joly Clegane leading a hundred mounted archers in the Kingswood. She is not a prisoner of the Tyrell family."

"Brienne killed Renly, and Loras is determined to avenge Renly," the Duke said slowly. "Loras and Renly grew up together from childhood and had a deep affection for each other. I don't want to have any unpleasantness with the Tyrell family because of a small Brienne."

The Mountain slowly turned around and looked at the Duke. "Father, Brienne is innocent. The one who killed Renly was a shadow, a shadow that looked exactly like Stannis."

"How would you know?"

"I have interrogated Brienne."

"You believed her words?"

"I believe her."

"Why would she disguise herself as an ordinary soldier and mingle in Stannis's logistics army? What did she want to do?"

"To find an opportunity to assassinate Stannis and avenge Renly. She was one of Renly's Rainbow Guard, loyal and devoted, and determined to kill Stannis."

"That still doesn't prove she wasn't the murderer of Renly."

“Father, I have this.” The Mountain pulled a long silver needle from his bosom.

Duke Tywin was very familiar with this needle. When a witch wanted to see a person's future and utter prophecies, she would use a similar needle to prick the person's finger or arm, taking a little blood to lick. He himself had been pricked many times. The witch had said that the Mountain had also learned a little blood magic from her, understanding some dark secrets, but only superficially.

“The truth itself is not important, Mountain. The relationship between the Lannister and Tyrell families needs to be carefully maintained; our alliance has only just begun. The North has not yet submitted, there are still remnants in the Riverlands, Dorne has always been at odds with our Westerlands, the Vale is effectively independent, and the Reach is one of the Seven Kingdoms' granaries. Lannister needs the Tyrell family as allies. Giving Brienne to Loras can strengthen the alliance between our two great families.”

“The Knight of Flowers doesn’t necessarily have to kill Brienne; he certainly wants to avenge Renly, and I killed Stannis, already avenging him.” The Mountain looked into Duke Tywin’s eyes. “Father, give me a chance to persuade Ser Loras.”

Duke Tywin slightly adjusted his posture. “I will not allow you to touch Ser Loras. Absolutely no verbal threats either.”

“No violence, Father. I'll reason with him.”

“Nothing to do with force or threats?”

“Yes, Father.”

“What if I insist that you hand her over?”

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