"Father, I wish to return home… May I?"
The words were spoken gently, with the elegance of a noble lady carefully raised through years of strict etiquette. As a proper noblewoman, Jeyne would never use the definitive "I want to go home." Instead, she said "I wish to go home." softening the intent, but the truth behind her words was clear. She wanted to go home.
For over a decade, Lord Gawen had poured his heart into grooming Jeyne into the perfect noble daughter. She was meant to be the key to restoring the family's lost glory. But now, at the very moment he expected her to begin repaying those efforts, her words made his smile freeze mid-expression. His face slowly darkened.
Jeyne was his hope. The hope of House Westerling.
"Why?" he asked, his voice tight.
Jeyne was not only beautiful and well-mannered; she was naturally intelligent. She could see what her father either refused to see or chose to ignore, only, she saw it more clearly.
She had thought deeply about it. For Lord Tywin to suddenly adopt her as his foster daughter, it couldn't possibly be a simple act of goodwill.
"If Lord Tywin truly meant to adopt me sincerely, why didn't he invite my mother to the ceremony?" Jeyne asked softly, eyes lowered, not daring to meet her father's gaze.
Lord Gawen's breath caught. A sharp pain lanced through his chest.
His wife, Sybell Spicer, came from controversial roots. Her grandfather was a merchant, and her grandmother, infamously known as the "Toad Witch of Lannisport" had once foretold grim futures to noble girls. In the show, young Cersei had visited the Toad Witch with two other girls, one fled in terror, another trembled, but Cersei alone stood firm, even threatening the witch into giving her prophecy. That very same witch was Jeyne's maternal grandmother.
In his youth, Lord Gawen had fallen on hard times. Despite House Westerling's declining fortunes, he'd stubbornly clung to aristocratic pretensions, lavish spending, too many servants, excessive appearances. He'd married Sybell not for love or bloodline, but for her father's generous dowry. It had been a laughingstock among the Westerlands nobility.
Tywin's younger brother, Kevan, had rejected a proposed marriage with the Westerlings, not solely because they were impoverished, but also because Sybell's blood was not noble.
Gawen had come to regret the marriage, but divorce was out of the question. He couldn't afford to return the dowry, and separation would permanently tarnish the family's remaining dignity.
By tradition, even when a commoner's daughter is adopted by nobility, both parents are entitled to be present at the adoption ceremony, kneeling before the Seven, anointed with sacred oils, praying under the statues of the gods, and receiving blessings from friends and kin.
But in his letter, Tywin had explicitly stated he did not want Lady Sybell present in the Great Sept of Casterly Rock.
Gawen chose to ignore this insult. Smiling as though nothing was wrong, he had his daughter dressed in her finest and brought her along with the ceremony. He spared no effort, four horses pulled their carriage, accompanied by eight guards and two coachmen. Most of their extended family had long stopped keeping in touch.
Jeyne didn't care for the blessings of distant relatives, but she had hoped her mother would be shown some measure of respect. Tywin's refusal had deeply wounded her sense of dignity. Shortly after leaving home, she finally found the courage to voice her unease.
She told her father that Lord Tywin's actions showed disrespect, not just to her mother, but to House Westerling itself, and thus, she wished to return.
Lord Gawen's face turned ashen. Pain tightened in his chest.
He spent a long while silently wrestling with his thoughts before speaking gently: "Very well. We'll go home."
Jeyne lit up with joy. Her sadness vanished like clouds swept away by wind. For a moment, she wanted to throw her arms around her father's neck and kiss him on the cheek, just like when she was little. But she sat still, composed. She knew her father wouldn't approve of such unrestrained affection. She was a noble lady, after all. She had to remain graceful, elegant.
Lord Gawen lifted the carriage curtain and called to the driver. "Aryu, pick up the pace."
"Yes, my lord!"
Crack!
Crack! Crack!
The coachman snapped his whip sharply through the air, not touching the horses, just letting them hear the sound. The four steeds immediately broke into a gallop, pulling the carriage forward like the wind.
There was no need to strike good horses. A snap in the air was enough for well-trained steeds to understand. This was part of House Westerling's code, never abuse the beasts that served them.
"...Father..." Jeyne's voice trembled with emotion.
"Jeyne, the sooner we reach Casterly Rock, the sooner we can finish this farce of an adoption. Then we'll head straight home."
…
The next evening, as the sun dipped low in the west, a large knight on a towering destrier blocked the royal road north of Casterly Rock. He was surrounded by more than twenty riders. Among them was one man with a perpetual smirk, and a petite female knight, but the rest looked brutish, wicked, or worse, radiating open menace and lechery.
Lord Gawen's carriage was forced to a halt. The eight guards flanking the carriage turned pale. Standing in their way was none other than Ser Gregor Clegane "The Mountain", infamous throughout the Westerlands.
"Milord." one of the guards whispered through the curtain, "It's the Mountain. He's blocking the road."
Inside, Lord Gawen and Jeyne both stiffened.
Gregor Clegane, Tywin's mad dog. Brutal. Crude. Debased. And his followers were even worse, criminals and thugs of the vilest sort. Gregor was rumored to have violated noblewomen, among countless other atrocities.
Lord Gawen pulled back the curtain and stepped out onto the carriage. Drawing a deep breath, he raised his voice. "Ser Gregor, I am Gawen Westerling. I greet you."
Gregor's voice boomed like thunder. "Oh? Lord Gawen, your daughter, Lady Jeyne, is she inside the carriage?"
Gawen's face darkened. The guards on either side of the carriage instantly stepped forward, forming a protective line.
"Ser Gregor." he said sternly, "we were invited by Lord Tywin to Casterly Rock. He intends to adopt my daughter Jeyne as his own."
"Hmph." Gregor snorted.
Without warning, the knights behind Gregor charged forward, lances lowered. The distance was too short, too sudden. Gawen's guards didn't even have time to draw their swords before spears were pressed against their chests, throats, faces, and stomachs.
In an instant, all eight were subdued. None dared move.
Gregor and his band were notorious for lawless cruelty, but even for him, to treat a nobleman with such open contempt was extraordinary.
Lord Gawen was stunned. Speechless. Disbelieving.
"Lord Gawen." Gregor roared, "tell your guards and coachmen to get the hell out of my sight!"
His voice was so loud it made Gawen's eardrums throb.
Gawen's face turned pale. He raised his hand. The guards reluctantly backed away, faces drawn. They retreated behind the carriage. The two coachmen jumped down and stood trembling by the roadside.
Gregor's men, fierce as wolves, quickly surrounded the carriage.
The ever-smiling knight at Gregor's side was Ser Rafford Clegane, nicknamed "Raff the Sweetling." He laughed cheerfully, slung down a large bundle from his horse, and strode up to the carriage. He opened the bundle and pulled out a gleaming bronze basin and two bulging leather pouches.
Beside him was a young female knight, Gregor's foster daughter, Julie Clegane. She nimbly dismounted, walked over, crouched beside Rafford, and opened one of the pouches, pouring fresh spring water into the basin.
Lord Gawen stared blankly at them, Rafford, ever smiling; Julie, swift and composed. He had no idea what these lawless brutes were planning to do next…
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