The Mountain of Ice and Fire

To the sharp and piercing sound of the war whistle, Ser Rafford led sixty-three cavalrymen in a display of battle formations: the wedge formation designed to tear through enemy ranks, the fully defensive circle, the marching square for frontal assaults, a semi-encirclement arc, a sweeping line formation, and the standard column formation used for marching.

Tywin Lannister observed from the stands, noting the precision with which the cavalry executed their maneuvers. It lifted his spirits. Though these riders belonged to Gregor Clegane's personal household forces, in truth, they were Tywin's strength. If ever sent to war, they would not disgrace the Westerlands.

For a cavalry unit so recently formed, to have already mastered not only the formations but the transitions between them was no small feat. Tywin was aware that two of the riders were new recruits, brothers of Ser Allen Serrett, the man who had attempted to poison Gregor.

In the Westerlands, even common folk learned to ride from a young age. This was a world where all could be soldiers, blacksmiths, millers, farmers, called to arms at a moment's notice. But knowing how to ride and executing complex cavalry tactics were two very different things. Such discipline demanded focused and rigorous training.

Gregor Clegane was undoubtedly gifted in the art of war.

And yet, even by that standard, the performance today was impressive. But perhaps not so surprising, under Gregor's terrifying authority, not a single man dared slack off during training. Tywin knew this well. His own five hundred personal household guards had been trained by Gregor, and not one among them, Lannister blood or not, dared challenge his dominance.

Those who disobeyed Gregor either ended up beaten to death or rotting in Tywin's dungeons.

In this world, few could afford professional standing armies. Only the great lords had the means to maintain them. Even among the wealthiest, few could support more than two thousand full-time soldiers. Most houses settled for several hundred.

Tywin Lannister, richer than many kingdoms, kept fifteen hundred soldiers stationed at Casterly Rock. His daughter, Queen Cersei, maintained five hundred red-cloaked Westerlands guards in King's Landing, all funded by Tywin himself to support her spendthrift husband, King Robert.

But Tywin hadn't summoned Gregor here to watch him parade his soldiers. His true interest was something new, something Westeros had never seen before: the war whistle.

Its shrill tone cut clearly through the sounds of hooves and shouted commands, its high-pitched signal impossible to miss. In the chaos of battle, where voices are drowned out by war cries and steel, such a sound could be invaluable.

Tywin knew the problem well. At seventeen, he had made his name in the War of the Ninepenny Kings, charging beside Brynden "Blackfish" Tully. Both had slain enemy commanders and turned the tide of battle.

He remembered how hard it was to convey orders amid the chaos of combat, men screaming, horses whinnying, weapons clashing. A general's voice would eventually falter, no matter how strong. And a commander had to fight too, not just shout.

But this whistle... it could preserve the voice and authority of a general. Loud, clear, recognizable, it could change the very nature of battlefield command.

"Let me see the war whistle." Tywin commanded.

His face remained stern. No praise, no warmth, not even a flicker of approval for Gregor or his cavalry's flawless demonstration.

Tywin Lannister never smiled. Cold, ruthless, unyielding, that was his way.

Rafford Clegane dismounted and climbed the viewing platform, reverently placing several pre-prepared whistles into Tywin's hand.

"Teach me." said the Lord of Casterly Rock.

"Yes, my lord."

All of Casterly Rock's main parade grounds fell silent, hundreds of soldiers, maesters, and servants holding their breath. No one dared make a sound. The only noise came from the restless snorts and occasional whinnies of the warhorses.

If Gregor was a demon, Tywin was a demon king, one that none dared cross.

Since the birth of his youngest son Tyrion in Aegon's Year 273, Tywin had not smiled once in twenty-five years.

Half an hour later, the lesson ended.

Tywin made a decision: war whistles would now be standard issue in the Westerlands military.

"Ser Gregor, your invention is... adequate." he said, just "adequate." despite how groundbreaking it was. "What would you have as your reward?"

That simple question carried weight.

Tywin Lannister never asked what his men wanted. He rewarded as he saw fit. The very act of asking Gregor showed the value he placed on the invention.

Everyone noticed, his household maester Pycelle, the five knights, the hundreds of cavalrymen, and even Gregor himself. Tywin, famously frugal with praise and coin alike, was opening the door.

Gregor guessed that the offer wasn't just about the whistle, it was also tied to snow salt, his other invention. Slightly less profitable than a gold mine, snow salt was a revolution in preserving food and solving the gritty, impure salt supply of the realm.

"Grant me a marriage, my lord." Gregor said.

Tywin was taken aback.

The request surprised everyone.

Gregor had lost two wives under mysterious circumstances, both died after "accidental" falls that broke their necks. Since then, he had shown no interest in remarriage. No noble house dared offer him a daughter.

"Whose daughter?" Tywin asked.

"From Crag. Jeyne Westerling."

Tywin's pale green eyes narrowed.

"The Westerlings are among the oldest and noblest of Westerlands bloodlines. Their lord, Gawen Westerling, is proud to a fault. He would never consent to giving you Jeyne."

"My lord." Gregor said solemnly, "when I prayed before the Seven, they revealed their will to me. The gods want me to take Jeyne Westerling as my wife."

"The Seven?" Tywin echoed.

"Yes, my lord. The wisdom behind my inventions comes from the Seven's divine guidance. To honor them, I've already built a sept in the Clegane lands."

Who was Jeyne Westerling?

Gregor knew all too well. She was the beautiful young lady who, in the show he remembered from another life, had led Robb Stark to his doom at the Red Wedding. In truth, her appeal in the books lay not just in her healing hands, but in her beauty, kindness, noble lineage, refined manners, and cultivated talents.

Jeyne Westerling was born in 283 AC. She was fifteen years old now, sixteen by Westerosi reckoning.

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