The Mountain of Ice and Fire

"Chopsticks?"

"Yes, chopsticks."

"What do they look like?"

"Very simple, two equal-length sticks made of bamboo, rounded at one end and tapered at the other. Apparently, they're quite convenient for eating noodles and picking out vegetables from soup. According to Maester Harry, Ser Gregor plans to craft chopsticks and other utensils from silver."

"Silver chopsticks? And how does one cut roasted meat with chopsticks? Are there any drawings?"

"…uh, no… Maester Harry only mentioned them briefly. There were no illustrations…"

"A private letter from Harry?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Let me see that letter."

"Yes, my lord."

…

Casterly Rock was a city carved inside a massive stone mountain, roughly twenty miles long and fifteen wide, standing seventy meters tall. Calling it a "rock" was hardly accurate, it was more like a fortress-mountain.

To ensure natural light within the city, large 'skylights' had been carved into the rock's outer shell. Giant glass panes were installed at the summit, but even with this, many corners and secluded areas remained dark during the day. Torches were kept burning in those areas year-round, attended by dedicated stewards.

A spiraling main road wound its way upward through the heart of Casterly Rock, connected at its base to the Lion's Maw, a triple-gated grand entrance. This spiral avenue linked to a complex web of streets and alleys, forming the main arteries of the city. At its summit were the Lannister family's central military grounds, the main keep, the maesters' tower, cavalry barracks, stables, and kennels. A narrow path behind the drill yard led even higher, to the watchtower at the mountain's peak.

Ser Gregor Clegane rode out from Clegane Keep with a mounted force of sixty-three. They galloped eastward onto the Searoad, past the towering walls of Lannisport, and turned north. After an hour, the thunder of hooves echoed down the Lion's Maw as they approached Casterly Rock.

Gregor was unmistakable on horseback, his enormous figure atop a steed that stood a full head taller than the average warhorse. Behind him, the banner of the Three Hounds whipped in the wind, held high by the burly miner Blackstone.

The guards at the gate recognized Gregor instantly. He needed no introduction. Scrambling, they flung open all three gates of the Lion's Maw, even those that normally remained shut.

Six abreast, Gregor's riders surged into the city and charged up the spiral road. Patrol guards and gate watchmen snapped to attention and saluted, but Gregor didn't even spare them a glance. He neither slowed his pace nor acknowledged their presence. Officer, captain, knight, knight, it made no difference to him. None were worth his attention.

His men, just as arrogant and disdainful, rode with the same contempt. As the spiral road narrowed with elevation, crowds filled the thoroughfare, merchants, cart-pullers, Pycelles, and townsfolk all bustling about their daily lives.

At the base of the Rock lay a small harbor. Goods from across the Narrow Sea, fine silks, exquisite porcelain, were brought through a natural cavern hollowed over centuries by the sea. Small ships could dock within the city itself, and countless merchants and laborers depended on this trade.

But Gregor's riders barreled through the crowds like a thunderstorm.

Drivers abandoned their wagons. They dropped their loads and ran. Children and elders fled in panic. Shouts and curses echoed down the road as people scattered like fish through torn nets.

At the head of the charge, Raff the Sweetling blew his war whistle, signaling the riders to maintain speed. The shrill notes pierced the air, adding to the chaos.

They trampled street stalls. They lashed slow-moving bystanders with their whips. Cries of pain followed in their wake, but the riders laughed, mocking the fallen. To the common folk, beatings from Gregor's men weren't rare. If you got hit, it was your own fault for not getting out of the way fast enough.

From the training stands in Clegane's Keep, Lord Tywin Lannister watched the banner of the Three Hounds ascend the spiral. A faint gleam of satisfaction flashed in his golden-green eyes.

He had always liked Gregor, liked him as one might value a particularly dangerous blade. Tywin never praised him openly, and his rewards to Gregor were few, certainly less than to other lords. That was by design.

A vicious dog must never be overfed.

Gregor was terrifying, sharp, and loyal.

When trouble brewed, Gregor always confessed everything to Tywin personally, never lying, never evading. This alone earned Tywin's trust, more than any hollow courtesy from highborn nobles who didn't understand why Tywin protected a brute like Gregor. They didn't understand the value of true loyalty.

Now this brute had suddenly become clever, clever enough to invent snow salt, the war whistle, and even these so-called chopsticks. And he'd had Maester Harry send word directly to Tywin. That loyalty hadn't wavered.

Gregor knew exactly who his true master was.

Not that he could've hidden anything even if he'd tried, Maester Harry was Tywin's eyes and ears within Clegane's camp.

Gregor charged into the Parade Ground. Waiting for him were five Lannister knights, all lined up in formal welcome.

Gregor was their commanding general.

Tywin maintained a household cavalry of five hundred. The five knights were all Lannisters by blood, drawn from numerous cadet branches of the family based primarily in Lannisport. Some were distant kin, others more closely related.

This elite cavalry was under Gregor's command. In peacetime, their power rarely showed, but they remained the most loyal and fearsome force in the West.

"Ser Gregor!"

The five knights saluted in unison, raising their hands on horseback.

Gregor didn't respond. He didn't respect them, never had. He thought them cowards hiding behind noble manners, weaklings who pretended to civility. To him, they were nothing but pampered mutts.

Outside the elite cavalry, Tywin also commanded a thousand-man standing army of mixed infantry and cavalry, free folk who trained as professionals. This force, too, fell under Gregor's command during wartime.

Raff the Sweetling and his likes were junior officers from that very force. Their cruelty, their thirst for blood, their admiration for Gregor's ruthless ways, these were the reasons they followed him so fervently.

Gregor raised his visor and shouted like thunder toward the grandstand:

"my lord, please watch as Ser Raff demonstrates the use of the war whistle with our cavalry!"

Tywin nodded in approval.

He already knew from Harry's letter that Gregor had knighted Raff and given him the surname Clegane.

Gregor's voice was no exaggeration, it truly boomed.

In this world, every general trained their voice. Just as bards practiced daily to maintain their pitch, cavalrymen trained on horseback, and archers refined their aim, so too did commanders hone their ability to project, loud and commanding.

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