A snow-white towel was dipped into a bronze basin half-filled with water.
"Lord Gawen, please step down from the carriage." said Julie.
Gawen's face turned bright red. He saw the sigil of three dogs on the girl's armor, then noticed the same on Raff the Sweetling's armor. Why were these two wearing the sigil of House Clegane? Wasn't Clegane's cavalry supposed to be part of Lord Tywin's household guard?
When did the Mountain have his own cavalry? Could he even afford them?
But now was not the time to be questioning such trivial matters. Lord Gawen had no choice but to step down from the carriage. He was secretly relieved to see that Ser Gregor was still on horseback at a distance and hadn't approached.
He feared that the Mountain might be tempted into some ungentlemanly behavior after seeing Jeyne's beauty.
"My lady, what is it you intend to do?" Gawen asked politely, keeping his voice soft.
"My lord, we have been ordered by Lord Tywin to ride ten miles out of the city to receive you and Lady Jeyne." Julie replied smoothly. "And by command of Ser Gregor, we are to help Lady Jeyne wash away the dust from the road."
Julie's words were sharp and clear. As she spoke, she pulled aside the curtain, carried the basin into the carriage, and jumped in after it. The curtain fell shut behind her, gently swaying. Soon after, the sound of water and the murmur of Jeyne and Julie's voices could be heard from within.
Beside the carriage, Raff the Sweetling smiled as he rummaged through a large bundle, producing a silver mirror, rouge, powder, and eyeliner, all high-end cosmetics, the kind favored by noblewomen. From their exquisite craftsmanship and decorations, Gawen could tell these were luxury imports from across the Narrow Sea. They were worth a small fortune.
Surprisingly, Gawen's mood improved. This clearly showed that Lord Tywin placed great importance on Jeyne, and, by extension, on House Westerling.
Lord Tywin was being extraordinarily thoughtful. Concerned that Jeyne might not look her best after two days on the road, and unable to properly freshen up, he had sent soldiers ten miles out of the city to greet them. And not just any soldiers, female knights, to help her dress, wash, and prepare for her entrance. She would enter the city beautiful and composed, a picture of grace and nobility. The common folk would see her elegance and dignity, reflecting glory back upon Lord Tywin himself.
"Ser Gregor, I must apologize, I misjudged you earlier." Gawen said, his tone more relaxed as he offered an apology to Gregor Clegane.
Ser Gregor was around the same age as Lord Gawen. He sat expressionless and completely ignored Gawen's words.
Gregor's rudeness was legendary across the Seven Kingdoms. Though Gawen prided himself on his manners and felt somewhat embarrassed, he didn't stoop to quarrel with a man as infamous as the Mountain.
But Gregor's indifference wasn't just arrogance, it came from a deep-rooted disdain. He held nothing but contempt for Gawen, whom he saw as a hypocritical, preening, self-serving, pompous fool. A man who would sell off ancestral lands for glory and appearances. To Gregor, Gawen was scum. And his daughter, Jeyne? She wasn't a daughter, she was a commodity. The most valuable item he and Sybelle possessed. He was doing everything in his power to sell her off at the highest price, without ever once considering her feelings, future, or happiness.
In Gawen's eyes, the Mountain was an uncouth brute, a piece of human garbage. But in the eyes of the new Mountain, Gawen was the true scum: a weak-willed, talentless aristocrat squandering his family's legacy.
…
Meanwhile, in the Great Hall of Casterly Rock...
The hall was enormous, with four massive banquet tables, each capable of seating two hundred guests.
Only one of those tables was reserved for knights and noble guests.
Lord Tywin Lannister sat rigidly at a dining table adorned with silver and gold carvings. A golden lion brooch pinned a pristine white napkin to his chest. When Tywin dined, no servants or guards were allowed to eat in the hall, he preferred silence.
Only nobles of significant status were permitted to dine with him.
Across from Tywin sat his younger brother, Ser Kevan Lannister. At Tywin's side was his Grand Maester, Pycelle.
The grand hall, built to host hundreds, held only three diners.
Ser Kevan Lannister had begun to grow stout. He was bald on top, shaved smooth, but still had a thick ring of golden hair circling the back of his head like a crown. His chin was square, his beard meticulously trimmed and short, trembling slightly when he spoke. His beard, too, was golden.
Kevan was born in 245 AC, three years younger than Tywin, making him fifty-three. He was broad-shouldered, thick-waisted, and his skin was remarkably well cared for.
Of the four Lannister brothers, only Tywin and Kevan remained. The other two had died of illness.
Kevan was Tywin's most trusted deputy, his loyalty legendary throughout the realm. Many called him "Tywin's shadow." He had recognized Tywin's exceptional nature when they were still teenagers, and since then had served him unconditionally. At seventeen, Tywin had crushed a rebellion in the Westerlands and restored the Lannister name. At twenty, he had become the Hand of the King to the Mad King Aerys II, serving for twenty straight years, until he resigned by choice.
Among Westerland nobles, a saying circulated: Kevan has never once disagreed with Tywin. Though not entirely true, Tywin often consulted Kevan, Kevan would always execute Tywin's final decisions, even if they went against his own opinion.
….
"Try this soup." Tywin said, gesturing to Kevan.
Kevan cast a curious look at his brother and the maester, then picked up his spoon and took a sip.
"Still Aldrich's handiwork." Kevan smiled. "Just as delicious as always."
Tywin showed no sign of amusement. He clapped his hands.
A second bowl of the same bacon soup was brought forward in a golden basin.
"Try this one." Tywin said again.
Kevan obediently tasted the second bowl. After a slow spoonful, his expression began to shift. He glanced at Tywin and the maester, then went back to sample the first bowl again.
"Both by Aldrich?" he asked, puzzled.
"Yes."
"Same ingredients?"
"Yes."
"Then why does one taste cleaner and more flavorful, and the other more bitter and coarse the more I drink it?"
Without a word, Tywin looked toward a servant, who stepped forward carrying two ornate porcelain boxes. At Tywin's signal, Kevan opened the jade-carved lids. Inside one was the familiar pale yellow mineral salt. In the other, fine, snow-white granules.
"This." Tywin said, "is snow-salt."
"Snow-salt?"
"Sea salt from across the Narrow Sea? The kind they make by boiling seawater in massive iron pots after chopping down entire forests?" Kevan asked. "How much does it cost per ounce?"
"Nothing." Tywin said flatly. "It's made by refining mineral salt directly."
"Oh?" Kevan perked up.
"Discovered by Maester Pycelle?"
Tywin shook his head slightly. "No. It was the Mountain."
Kevan's face froze.
His eyes widened. His mouth opened slightly, as if an invisible hand had gripped his throat.
Impossible.
How could that be?
The Mountain? That brute?
He was supposed to be nothing but a mindless piece of trash.
------------
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