Fine white salt slipped between Tywin's fingers.
The grains were beautiful, unlike the coarse, pale yellow salt that he was accustomed to. The usual salt sometimes carried a bitter aftertaste. This, however, was different. Snowy white and as fine as sand, it clung lightly to his fingers.
He touched his fingertips to his lips. Salty. Pure. Delicious.
Not even a trace of bitterness.
It was a small pouch of salt, delicate and clear like crystal, something he had never seen before.
For common folk, salt was a luxury. The poor rarely had enough to season their food. While salt was highly profitable, in the Westerlands, where gold and silver mines abounded, it couldn't compare to the wealth of precious metals. The famous Goldroad, which stretched from Casterly Rock to the capital at King's Landing, was built for the sole purpose of transporting these riches to the royal mints. Every month's end, ox-drawn carts and horse-drawn wagons packed the road, overflowing with ore on the journey out, and returning weighed down with golden dragons and silver stags.
"Send it to the kitchens." Tywin said. "Tell the cooks to use this snow-salt in today's meals."
"Yes, my lord." Maester Pycelle replied, carefully repackaging the salt.
There was an old saying among the people: Salt is as precious as gold.
And it wasn't just about cost, it was about rarity. Rarity bred value.
Pycelle wrapped the salt with care, placing it back into the velvet-lined box.
"Where did this snow-salt come from?" Tywin asked.
Snow-white as it was, he gave it a name on the spot.
"According to the letter from Maester Harry, it was created by accident, by Ser Gregor Clegane himself."
"Oh?" Tywin said absently.
Maester Pycelle gave a quick bow and left the room, glad to escape the suffocating stench of blood and animal musk that clung to the air. The butchering room always reeked. A nauseating mix of predator and prey, it left him unsettled each time he entered.
"Maester Pycelle." Tywin called, still methodically wiping his hands, now moving on to trim his nails.
Tywin Lannister took pride in his precision. When it came to skinning animals, beasts or livestock, none of his servants could match his skill.
"Send both of Gregor's letters to Tyger Serrett in King's Landing."
"Yes, my lord!"
"And tell him: it's time he kept his sons in line."
"...As you command, my lord."
…
King's Landing – Capital of the Seven Kingdoms
Atop Aegon's High Hill stood the Red Keep, the seat of royal power. Its crimson walls earned their name from the red stone used in their construction. The castle rose behind sheer cliffs on three sides, impossible to scale, leaving only the northern gate as an entrance.
To the left and right of the gate lay two military barracks: one for the city's right flank and the other for its left. Beyond the right barracks, a neat row of stone houses housed the royal courtiers. On the left side, a similar row served as temporary lodging for noble visitors from across the realm.
King Robert Baratheon had made a decision. He would ride north to Winterfell, to visit his longtime friend and foster brother Eddard Stark, Lord of the North. It had been over ten years since they last met. Robert intended to persuade the stubborn and principled Ned Stark to accept the role of Hand of the King, the most powerful position in the realm, second only to the monarch himself.
Robert knew Ned well. Mere ravens wouldn't summon him. Ned Stark was a block of Northern ice, cold, unmoving, and loyal only to duty. Only the king himself could melt his resolve. The two of them had grown up together in the Vale under the care of the late Jon Arryn, who had served as Hand before his untimely death.
Robert loved grand displays. He wanted pomp, pageantry, and noise. So ravens had flown across the kingdom, summoning great lords to send nobles from their houses to accompany him on the royal procession north. The greater the entourage, the more wagons, banners, and trumpets, the happier Robert became.
From the fertile Reach under House Tyrell of Highgarden, to the storm-lashed Stormlands under the Baratheons of Storm's End; from the Crownlands around King's Landing itself to the gold-rich Westerlands ruled by House Lannister; from the mountainous Vale of House Arryn to the river-crossed Riverlands under House Tully of Riverrun, all received the king's command.
Only the distant regions of Dorne, the Iron Islands, and the final destination, the North, were excused by geography.
Among the nobles chosen to represent the Westerlands was Tyger Serrett, personally dispatched by Tywin Lannister to fulfill the king's decree.
This was no small thing: Robert Baratheon was Tywin's son-in-law. The Queen, Cersei Lannister, was Tywin's eldest daughter. For House Serrett, this journey north with the king was an enormous honor.
Tyger Serrett was proud, until today. The king's grand departure was only a day away, yet Tyger was troubled, restless.
He had just received two letters.
They weren't written by Tywin himself, but by Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, addressed to Tywin, then forwarded to Tyger without a word of commentary. Only one sentence was scrawled in the margin by Maester Pycelle:
"Lord Tyger, Lord Tywin says: It's time you controlled your sons."
That one sentence hurt more than the news of Alva Serrett's death.
In Westeros, only the heir of a noble house had the right to inherit land and titles. The rest of the sons, no matter how many, received nothing unless their lord father saw fit to grant them something. It was law and custom. But law and custom could not prevent ambition. Some brothers murdered their older siblings to claim inheritance. Some heirs, fearing betrayal, killed their own brothers preemptively.
Though rare, such events were not unheard of.
Of Tyger's seven sons, only the eldest, Ado Serrett, was vital to the family's future. The others were expected to make their own way in the world. Many second sons became sellswords, or even joined the Night's Watch to avoid the power struggles within noble families. Take, for example, Ser Waymar Royce, youngest son of Lord Yohn Royce of the Vale, who would be remembered as the arrogant young ranger killed by the White Walkers in the opening scene of Game of Thrones.
In this world, sons who were not heirs were expendable.
Tyger had come to King's Landing, only to receive word that his youngest, Alva, had raped one of the Mountain's daughters in a mining village, prompting Gregor to retaliate with brutal violence. That wasn't the worst part. What truly mattered was that the Serrett family's recklessness had offended Tywin Lannister's authority.
Even Gregor, the Mountain himself, a brute of a man, knew to report to Tywin with two letters. Meanwhile, the six remaining Serrett sons had done nothing. No letters, no warnings, no consultation with their father. They had taken matters into their own bloodstained hands.
And in doing so, they had crossed a line.
The Mountain was Tywin's dog. And when someone kills a man's dog without even the courtesy of informing the master, it is not merely disrespect, it is an insult.
A stupid, dangerous insult.
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