The Mountain of Ice and Fire

Three days later, the Lannisport was bustling with life. The Sept of the Seven was packed to the brim.

Every noble from the Westerlands had come.

It was a grand event, unprecedented in scale.

Such splendor had not been seen in the West since Queen Cersei's wedding or the grand tourney at Lannisport.

Lord Gawen stood beside Lord Tywin, practically floating with excitement.

In the entire Westerlands, from high to low, aside from Lord Tywin himself, the most prominent name now belonged to House Westerling.

The High Septon stood solemnly, holding the Seven-Pointed Star aloft, chanting prayers in a deep, reverent voice.

Other septons anointed Jeyne Westerling with sacred oils before the statue of the Maiden, her hair, her brow, the backs of her hands.

Each noble family chose a different aspect of the Seven to stand before. Some chose the Father, some the Mother. Young lords knelt before the Warrior, while maidens followed tradition and chose the Maiden. A few nobles stood before the Smith, and the elderly knelt at the Crone. No one chose the Stranger, the god of death.

Ser Gregor Clegane stood before the Crone, even though a line of nobles had already formed there. True to his brutish nature, he strode forward without a hint of shame or hesitation. The priests meant to maintain order did not dare stop him. With a swipe of his enormous hand, he brushed aside several nobles and placed himself at the head of the line.

Behind him was the grinning Raff Clegane, proud as ever, his collar pinned with the gold sigil of three dogs. He bowed and smiled to everyone he passed, shamelessly following right behind Gregor. After being knighted by Gregor, he barely qualified to attend such a sacred ceremony.

Several earls standing behind them felt deeply insulted. While none dared rebuke Gregor himself, they had no reservations about scolding his "dog."

To them, a lowly knight was several rungs beneath an earl on the social ladder.

Just as some were about to lash out at Raff physically, Gregor seized him by the collar and yanked him forward. At that moment, the High Septon's oil descended directly onto Raff's forehead.

The septon apprentices immediately began their chants.

A wave of gasps swept through the crowd.

But it was too late to change anything.

Many nobles angrily left the Crone's statue, refusing to receive blessings at the same place as Gregor and Raff. They dispersed to other statues, some to the Father, others to the Mother.

Though they grumbled in hushed voices to avoid disturbing the ceremony, Raff could hear every word.

Not one dared curse Gregor himself.

He was a madman, a monster, a violent brute, everyone knew it.

Several fearless knights wanted to challenge him but held back, knowing this was a day of celebration. So they swallowed their anger and went to other statues to receive their blessings.

Gregor didn't care for knightly honor.

But they did.

Gregor and Raff stood there without shame, utterly unbothered by their disgraceful actions.

For men without shame, shamelessness itself becomes a badge of honor.

…

Jeyne completed the anointing and received the blessings of two High Septons. A choir sang sacred hymns in her honor. A harpist played solemn, divine music that soared through the sept, the melody intertwining with the voices of the choir.

The anointed nobles stepped onto thick carpets and slowly lined up along winding corridors, making their way to where Lord Tywin sat upon the lion-fur chair. Standing before him was his daughter, Jeyne, now formally initiated.

Nobles of all ages advanced one by one, bearing congratulatory gifts, carved jade figurines, fine silks, artistic weapons, rare rouge, pearls and agates, gold and jade. Rubies and sapphires sparkled side by side, emeralds and moonstones dazzled in contrast.

Standing at Jeyne's right hand was her birth father, Lord Gawen.

Lord Tywin, clad in brocade, stood with the cold dignity of a god. His face betrayed no emotion, sharp and frigid as ice. By contrast, Lord Gawen seemed drunk on joy, his face flushed, breath rapid, his smile stretching from ear to ear, even the veins in his neck bulging from excitement.

Gregor and Raff stood among the noble line. Gregor towered a full head above all others, making those before and behind him feel the pressure of a beast looming close.

Jeyne had been meticulously adorned with extravagant jewels, headpieces, earrings, necklaces, bracelets, rings, chest ornaments, and jeweled belts, all of exquisite craftsmanship and immense value. Clad in silk and brocade, she was a vision of elegance, so radiant she seemed almost divine, impossible to look at directly.

Gregor, in both this life and the last, had never seen such a classical, noble beauty, graceful and majestic beyond comparison.

He was utterly entranced.

Before and behind Jeyne, several servants busied themselves collecting gifts. A dozen elegant wicker baskets lined up in neat rows. The herald, his voice clear and formal, announced each noble's name, title, rank, holding, and gift with meticulous precision, a display that was both ceremonial and a chance for social one-upmanship.

Lord Gawen thanked each guest profusely. Lord Tywin, however, remained mostly silent. The nobles first paid respects to him before presenting their gifts to Jeyne.

For most, Tywin responded only with a nod. For those of higher rank, he might offer a handshake, already an extraordinary gesture of acknowledgment. Only a few received words from him: the heads of House Marbrand of Ashemark, House Lefford of Golden Tooth, House Farman of Fair Isle, House Crakehall of Crakehall, House Lannister of Lannisport, House Swyft of Cornfield, and the heir of House Serrett of Silverhill.

Then came Gregor, representing House Clegane. All eyes turned toward him.

Everyone saw that his gift tray was nearly empty.

Several earls stood nearby, ready to mock him.

In this environment, where the herald loudly announced every gift for all to hear, the offering itself became a public display of wealth and status.

Gregor saluted Lord Tywin, then lifted the red cloth from his tray.

Inside the large tray were only three items: a small silk box tied with red ribbon; a palm-sized package wrapped in embroidered cloth; and a strange silver object the likes of which no one had seen before. It was strung on a fine cord of gold, silver, and silk, delicate and unique, shaped like a number 6… or perhaps a 9.

When the herald announced the gifts, "chopsticks, snow-salt, and a golden whistle", the entire hall fell silent.

None of the nobles had ever heard of such things.

Whispers spread as people glanced at one another, unsure what to make of it. Was it a joke? Was it valuable?

No one dared openly mock Gregor now. If these gifts turned out to be rare and precious, their ridicule would only expose their own ignorance.

Even Jeyne and her father, Lord Gawen, were hearing of "chopsticks, snow-salt, and a golden whistle" for the first time. They didn't know what they were, how to use them, or if they were valuable at all.

The herald continued in a loud, sonorous voice, almost like singing:

"Chopsticks, a noble utensil invented by Ser Gregor Clegane himself, blessed by the Seven, a creation of divine inspiration. In certain aspects of dining, they surpass knives and forks tenfold. They have already received the highest praise from Lord Tywin and Grand Maester Pycelle. Today, the nobles of the Westerlands shall witness Lord Tywin himself demonstrate their use during the banquet."

The hall fell completely silent.

Jeyne stared at the beast before her in disbelief.

Gregor looked back at her, eyes fixed on her beautiful face. When she looked up to meet his gaze, he gave her a roguish wink with his right eye.

Jeyne quickly looked away, her face flushed bright red, stunning beyond compare.

------------

Note: If you guys want to read up to 50+ chapters in advance of the current story, you can support me on Patreon. You can read up to chapter 101 there! patreon.com/vynthor