Chapter 163 — The Lion Gate, the Skin Banner
King's Landing.
Even in winter, the Red Keep reeked of salt and damp sea wind.
In the garden outside the Hand's Tower, the carefully trimmed hedges and ornamental trees had become victims of a young lion's fury.
Steel flashed again and again as the golden-haired boy hacked at innocent branches. Leaves and splinters flew through the air.
The Mountain's twisted face—warped by hatred and madness.
Roose Bolton's pale, steady hands—precise, clinical.
The full human skin spread open on a crimson carpet.
The charred ruins of Riverlands villages.
The images replayed in Jaime's mind, over and over.
Why?!
He kept swinging, as if only violence could vent the boundless rage inside him. His eyes burned with the tearing pain of betrayal.
Why was it the Mountain?
Why… was it Father?
He had burned with righteous fury, sworn to avenge the slaughtered smallfolk, sworn to execute the monsters masquerading as Boltons.
But when the Mountain's face appeared before him—
Jaime realized his righteous anger had become a joke.
---
Filled with rage, the young Lannister had rushed back to King's Landing, determined to confront his father.
Yet every attempt to storm the Hand's Tower ended the same way—
blocked by Lannister guards in crimson armor.
"The Hand of the King is occupied, Ser Jaime."
Heir to Casterly Rock—
reduced to receiving cold, formulaic refusals from his own house guards.
Their tone was identical to the one his father would have used himself.
"Fuck!!!"
The fury finally exploded into a roar.
His sword hacked through another branch.
The garden paid for his helplessness.
A red-armored knight approached stiffly.
"Lord Tywin will see you now, Ser Jaime."
Jaime drove his sword point-first into the dirt, drew a deep breath, and strode toward the towering structure.
The questions he had rehearsed for days repeated in his mind.
Each step up the wooden stair echoed sharply.
With every step, his resolve built.
By the time he reached the top, his anger had peaked.
BANG!
He nearly burst the heavy door open.
Inside—
a tall figure sat behind a desk, firelight from the hearth flickering over him.
He truly was busy.
Golden hair bent over mountains of documents. A quill scratched steadily across parchment.
"Father!"
The young lion's voice trembled with suppressed urgency—and hurt.
"Why—"
"You have disappointed me again, Jaime."
Tywin's voice cut through the air like a blade.
He did not even look up.
The quill continued scratching.
Jaime faltered. His momentum dropped a notch—but he forced himself onward.
"The Mountain—"
"You broke your promise, great 'Ser' Jaime."
Tywin spoke again, calm, precise.
Now he lifted his head.
Green eyes, sharp as drawn steel, pierced straight through his son.
"Do you remember what you promised me?"
"To go to Riverrun and wed Lysa Tully."
"But instead… I see 'Ser Jaime the Oathkeeper' returning halfway."
Jaime's righteous fury shrank again.
His mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
His father always struck first.
"Look at you."
Tywin's voice remained even.
His gaze moved over Jaime's mud-stained boots and disheveled golden hair.
"You are nearly fifteen."
"Do you remember when you were five, crying in your mother's arms for an iron sword?"
"Now you are tall and strong. You can finally swing the blade you once couldn't lift."
"But the only difference is your target has changed from wooden toys… to garden shrubs."
"And yet, you still come crying to your father."
Tywin shook his head faintly.
"Tell me, Jaime—what have you learned in ten years?"
"I didn't come here to relive old stories, Father!"
Jaime snapped, irritation rising.
To Tywin, it was merely a child stung by truth.
"Do you know what that damned Clegane did?!"
"I saw it all in the Riverlands!"
"He wore Bolton banners and burned villages!"
"Charred fields! Bodies torn apart!"
"They raped women in front of fathers, slaughtered infants in cradles!"
"Is this your 'art of rule,' Father?!"
His chest heaved. His green eyes blazed.
For a moment—
Tywin said nothing.
Only the fire crackled.
And Jaime's heavy breathing.
"You did not expose him on the spot, did you?"
Tywin's voice came without warning.
He leaned back in his chair.
His gaze sharpened.
"You could have spoken."
"You could have told them Ser Gregor Clegane served me."
"But you did not."
Jaime flushed.
"I… I couldn't say it in front of Ser Lance Lot! It would shame the family!"
"You said—family."
Tywin folded his hands.
A faint nod.
"Good."
"I am relieved my eldest son is not a complete fool."
"At least he understands… family."
Tywin's tone remained as steady as ever, carrying that sense of absolute control that always made Jaime uncomfortable.
He had grown up beneath his father's shadow. Everyone told him the same thing: Your father is Lord of Casterly Rock — the finest lord in the West, perhaps in all the Seven Kingdoms.
Jaime knew it. He even admired Tywin's wisdom and strength.
But he had never once felt his father's warmth.
---
"Look at Eddard Stark," Tywin said.
"He has been named the new Lord of Winterfell by the king. He shoulders the burden of pacifying the North, correcting the chaos caused by his mad father."
"The Baratheon of the Stormlands has also formally taken his seat as Lord of Storm's End. I hear he is already consolidating the strength of his domain."
There it was again — that familiar tone. Lofty. Didactic. Leaving no room for rebuttal.
Jaime said nothing.
Silence had long been his only way of resisting his father's lectures.
"Now look at yourself, Jaime. You are about their age, yet you still behave like a child who refuses to grow. Not a trace of a lion's bearing."
Tywin struck without mercy, once more invoking the ever-present "other people's sons."
This time, Jaime pushed back.
He raised his head. His stubborn, resentful eyes locked onto his father. His fists clenched.
Time seemed to freeze.
Only firelight flickered across their nearly identical faces.
After a long pause, Tywin spoke again, voice lower than before.
"Your sister. Cersei."
"Have you not noticed… she has already gone missing?"
Cersei.
The name hit Jaime like a hammer.
His mind went blank.
Missing?
Jaime froze.
Yes… where was Cersei?
Since returning to King's Landing — from witnessing the Sword of the Morning's defeat, to Ned Stark's release and elevation, to the Riverlands and back —
He had not seen her even once.
After that night, he had assumed she was simply angry, like their childhood cold wars.
But—
"You obsess over that laughable sense of justice," Tywin continued, each word cold as iron. "You speak endlessly of 'family.'"
"You pity strangers. That, I can understand. A display of kindness wins fools' gratitude."
"But you devoted all your focus to Riverlands peasants you do not even know."
"Yet your own sister — your blood — you ignored entirely."
The words crushed the air from Jaime's lungs.
"Where is she?!"
"Cersei — tell me where she is!"
His green eyes flared with a trace of hysteria.
___
Soon after, Tywin watched his son's departing back.
Confidence flickered in his eyes — and disappointment.
Too naïve.
Such a naïve heir could never lead House Lannister to greater heights.
He would have to push harder.
Tywin opened a drawer beside his desk.
Inside lay an ornate golden lion brooch.
And beside it—
a brand-new pink flayed man sigil.
---
The Next Day
Lion Gate — King's Landing
The Hand stood quietly beneath the gate, gaze calm, as if awaiting something.
Behind him, Master of Coin Lord Qarlton Chelsted looked restless.
"The king… has gone to Dragonstone," Qarlton suddenly said, voice dark, anger restrained.
He startled himself saying it, then forced composure, eyes fixed on Tywin's profile, searching for a crack.
Yesterday morning, the king had departed without warning, taking only three Kingsguard and a handful of attendants.
By the time Qarlton reached the harbor, only distant sails remained.
Everyone knew the king's condition could not withstand sea travel.
Such a secret, hasty departure made no sense.
Qarlton desperately wanted to know who had whispered in the king's ear.
His prime suspect stood right in front of him — the Hand who had often shouted, "We shall have a better king."
Yet Tywin did not even turn.
"The fleet was provided by House Velaryon."
A simple sentence. Emotionless. Perfectly placed blame elsewhere.
The king needed ships. The Master of Ships supplied ships. What has that to do with Lannister?
Eyes immediately shifted toward Lord Velaryon.
"Why are you all looking at me?!" the lord snapped. "It was the king's order! Should I defy him?!"
Even Qarlton only shook his head.
Idiot…
Gods, he missed Symond. Crooked, yes — but not stupid.
Working with worms like Velaryon made Qarlton doubt the realm's future.
---
"THEY'RE HERE!!!"
A shout rang out.
At the far end of the Kingsroad, dust rolled skyward.
At its head — a white cloak snapped violently in the wind as dozens of riders thundered forward.
Then a great banner emerged.
No sigil. No symbol of honor.
Sunlight struck its surface, reflecting a sickly gray-brown hue.
Even at a distance, people swore they could smell dried, rotting blood.
At the sight of the banner—
Tywin Lannister's usually still eyes contracted sharply.
"…Gregor Clegane."