Chapter 140 — The Dragon Returns to King's Landing
King's Landing.
Before the King's Gate.
At the border between shadow and sunlight—
where the gate's arch met the open road—
the Hand of the King stood with immaculate stillness.
He kept a deliberate distance from the retinue behind him,
yet the space between them only magnified his authority
—as though he, not the Iron Throne, were the true sovereign of Westeros.
Tywin Lannister wore a long robe of deep crimson velvet,
its hems embroidered with exquisitely fine gold-threaded vinework—
opulent, but never gaudy.
The season had turned; the winds carried a chill.
Over his robes hung a heavy black wool cloak, rich as midnight,
fastened at the right shoulder by a pure gold lion's-head clasp,
rubies catching the light in the lion's eyes—
as though the beast itself glared menacingly at all who dared approach.
Tywin's iconic golden hair was combed with ruthless precision.
One hand rested upon the jeweled pommel of the sword at his hip—
still sheathed, yet somehow threatening.
His green eyes shone like polished glass under the sun,
glacial, unblinking, fixed unwaveringly upon the road beyond.
Even standing still, he radiated pressure,
so much so that Lord Qarlton Chelsted, Master of Coin,
involuntarily took several steps backward.
He had no desire to stand too close.
And truly—who could blame him?
---
When the King had first left the capital,
Qarlton had assumed the absence of royal interference
would be a blessing for a power-hungry Hand.
Yet these past weeks, Tywin Lannister's mood had soured,
despite his veneer of cold restraint.
He spoke rarely—
but his silence was edged like a drawn blade.
Even small matters became battlegrounds.
The City Watch's wages—normally routine—
had been delayed half a month.
The goldcloaks, deprived of coin, complained to their commander,
Ser Manly Stokeworth.
Ser Manly, ever forthright, confronted Qarlton, who in turn
was forced to bring the matter to Tywin.
The result?
A shouting match in the Tower of the Hand,
and not a single copper paid.
Tywin's only reply had been icy:
"The Watch's accounts are riddled with irregularities.
They will be investigated before a single stag is released."
Ser Manly left furious,
and the goldcloaks began to resent Qarlton as well.
Yesterday, the Master of Coin's mistress ran off with one of his guards—
and when he begged the Watch to pursue them,
the goldcloaks barely glanced at the scene before walking away.
They didn't even ask the fugitives' names.
Spite, given form.
A quiet voice broke Qarlton from his thoughts.
"Still no word of Cersei?"
Tywin did not look at him—
just flicked a cold glance over his shoulder,
and Qarlton felt his throat tighten.
Fear was expected of him;
Tywin would have been surprised by anything else.
For the Hand of the King,
the rest of the Small Council—
even Lord Symond Staunton, the Master of Laws—
were pawns easily swept from the board.
Were it not for Aerys's obstinate resistance over the years,
Tywin would long ago have ruled the council outright.
But then came the news that shattered his composure:
Cersei was gone.
No—not merely gone.
Kidnapped.
Yes.
Cersei Lannister—
daughter of Tywin Lannister, Warden of the West,
Lord of Casterly Rock, Hand of the King—
had been taken under his very nose,
in his city,
from his watch.
The one who answered Tywin's question
shared his golden hair, sharp features, and scarlet attire—
a mirror image, save for the lines of weariness at his eyes.
Ser Kevan Lannister, his brother.
Kevan's voice was low and grim:
"Nothing so far, Tywin.
We've searched all of King's Landing—cellars to rooftops.
Not a trace of Cersei or the traitor.
Ravens have gone out to all corners of the Seven Kingdoms,
but no replies of value have come back."
His brows knit.
"Most puzzling of all—no ransom demand."
"If she was taken, surely coin would be the motive—"
Tywin cut him off, voice flat as steel:
"What of Casterly Rock?"
Kevan straightened.
"I sent word.
The lords of the west have been warned—
should Tybolt Hetherspoon appear on their lands,
they are to seize him at once."
Tywin's features barely shifted as he listened to his brother's report,
yet the subtle nod he finally offered was unmistakably one of approval.
"Keep searching. Keep asking.
If we hear nothing within three days, announce her disappearance publicly—
and issue the highest reward ever paid in gold.
I don't care how many dragons it takes—
I will know who took the daughter of Lannister…
where she is now…
and I will make them pay a price that far exceeds coin."
Kevan bowed, unfazed by the frost lacing every word.
As Tywin's younger brother—and long his right hand—
he was fully accustomed to conversations with no room for warmth, no space for sentiment.
---
Kevan hesitated, then asked:
"And the western levies…?"
Tywin's gaze sharpened.
"You are Master of Laws now, Kevan—
not acting lord of Casterly Rock."
His voice stayed level, but the rebuke stung nonetheless.
"Let the West remain on war footing.
Rickard Stark gathers bannermen daily—Winterfell swells by the hundreds.
And after the debacle in Dorne, the Iron Throne's standing is frozen stiff.
War may come at any moment."
His eyes narrowed—cold calculation and contempt warring behind green irises.
"When the moment is most fatal, we must strike hardest.
Only then will His Grace understand—
without Lannister steel and Lannister coin,
even a king's seat becomes… unsteady."
Kevan swallowed his own objection.
In his mind, the surest show of loyalty was to march the western host north—
draw steel in the fields south of Harrenhal,
display banners at the Neck,
and remind the Starks of who truly held power.
But Tywin saw further than he did;
he always had.
It was Tywin who had raised House Lannister's name to its present height—
far from the pitiful state of their father's later years,
when any petty lordling could wipe his boots on Lannister pride.
So Kevan bowed his head and accepted the order.
---
Their conversation ended.
Tywin's eyes returned to the empty road.
Still no royal procession.
No banners.
No dust.
No sound of hooves or trumpets.
Yet Tywin showed no impatience—
instead he slowly turned, surveying those gathered behind him.
The reaction was immediate.
Heads bowed.
Shoulders hunched.
Every breath grew shallow,
as if merely existing near him might draw unwanted attention.
Only Ser Manly Stokeworth, commander of the goldcloaks,
met Tywin's stare head-on—hand on sword hilt, jaw clenched with resentment.
Tywin knew full well that Cersei's disappearance
was likely due to a traitor in his own household,
not the fault of the City Watch—
but that did not stop him from using the matter as a hammer
to strike the already antagonistic Commander Stokeworth.
Not out of pettiness—
but to remind the man who truly ruled the capital.
So far, the reminder had not taken.
Tywin's gaze passed over him without pause—
and landed instead on a silken-robed figure
standing four paces behind the council line.
A man with a polished bald head
and that familiar expression:
a gentle, unreadable, ever-so-mournful smile.
Varys.
The Master of Whisperers.
A spider whose webs stretched across continents—
yet who refused to share them with the lions of the Rock.
Tywin's eyes darkened, a flicker of murder crossing beneath the surface.
Varys had known nothing of Cersei's kidnapping—
or had said nothing.
Either way, his silence had driven a crack into the Small Council's unity.
And yet—
To waste such a network through pride or anger
would be an unforgivable loss.
So Tywin inclined his head almost politely,
masking the thought that had occupied him only seconds earlier:
Hang him? Or take his head?
Varys dipped into a deep bow, sleeves hiding his hands,
as if honored to be acknowledged.
Tywin turned away with a quiet hum.
"A clever man."
And Tywin Lannister had endless patience for clever men—
at least, the kind who could eventually be bought.
And House Lannister was very rich indeed.
But not everyone shared his restraint.
A furious shout split the tense air:
"Your information is wrong, Varys!
We have waited here since dawn—and still no sign of them!
Are you playing games with me?"
Tywin didn't need to turn.
He knew the voice, the rage, the desperation.
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen had Varys pinned by the collar against the gatehouse stone,
blade half-drawn at his hip, his composure in splinters.
Varys only smiled.
"These tidings were not brought by my little birds, Your Highness—
they came by raven directly from the King.
How could they be mistaken?"
The answer did not soothe Rhaegar—
instead he slammed Varys harder against the wall,
his voice cracking with fury:
"Lyanna has been imprisoned for nearly two months—
and I've not been allowed to see her once.
Black cells are no place for a woman—let alone her.
If I cannot beg mercy of my father today—
I swear by the Seven, eunuch—
I will see you lose what remains of your manhood!"
Varys's smile faltered only slightly—
he had endured worse humiliations in life.
But the knight at Rhaegar's side was less composed.
Steel hissed free—
and Ser Jon Connington pressed cold iron to Varys's throat.
"The prince asked you a question.
Answer it—no riddles.
No evasions.
No lies."
The killing intent in Connington's eyes was unmistakable.
Varys went pale.
He could withstand words—
but words were nothing beside irrational zeal.
---
A deep, resonant clang tore through the moment.
Before Connington could react,
a mountain of steel crashed into him—
a towering knight in black plate,
wielding an impossibly massive sword like a child's toy.
Connington hit the wall with such force the stone cracked—
and collapsed, vomiting blood.
"My knight!"
Rhaegar rounded on the giant—
blade flashing in the sunlight—
and drove forward.
The black-armored behemoth—Ser Gregor Clegane—
only lifted his sword to parry, not daring to strike back
without Tywin's word.
Yet even defending,
Rhaegar's blade found the seams of armor—
drawing sparks, then blood.
Until—
Steel rang against steel.
Rhaegar twisted, disbelieving—
his sword clashing not against bare blade…
…but against a jeweled scabbard.
Ruby inlays cracked beneath the impact.
Behind it stood Tywin Lannister,
green eyes unblinking.
He sheathed the scabbard again with precise motion.
And spoke only one word—
soft, but carved from iron:
"Kneel."
For a heartbeat, Rhaegar's chest tightened—
but then the mountain dropped to one knee with a crash.
Tywin inclined his head.
"My apologies, Your Highness.
My man lacks… restraint."
Rhaegar did not look back—did not spare Connington a glance.
He sheathed his sword, jaw tight with the weight of helpless fury.
"I do not care for explanations today, Lord Tywin."
And strode forward.
---
Varys exhaled shakily and bowed.
"My thanks, my lord."
Tywin's reply was calm, calculated:
"We are both members of the Small Council, Lord Varys."
Which meant:
I saved your life today. I may yet require something in return.
Varys opened his mouth to speak—
—but Rhaegar's voice cut the air like a trumpet:
"They're here!
They're coming!"
Dust billowed at the horizon—
a golden cloud rising like a dragon uncoiling.
And through it—
gleamed white.
Pure, bright, blinding white.
The Kingsguard.
Five riders—
four in immaculate white cloaks—
and at their head,
a towering figure with two swords strapped across his back,
white cloak rippling like a banner of dawn.
Ser Lance Lot.
Steel shoes thundered.
Armor flashed.
Dragon banners flickered through the haze.
Someone whispered beside Tywin:
"He returned."
Even the Master of Coin stepped forward, eyes bright—
but Tywin said nothing.
Yes.
He returned.
And the King with him.
---
The golden-dragon carriage halted at the border of gate-shadow and sun.
Ser Lance dismounted with practiced ease—unbowed, unbroken.
Gloved fingers lifted the curtain—
and violet eyes met the day:
King Aerys Targaryen.
Smiling.
Triumphant.
Waiting.
For a long breath, no one moved.
Then Tywin Lannister bowed—
with flawless precision,
as he had been taught since childhood.
And at the threshold of the capital,
beneath banners, stone, and sunlight—
his voice rang out, cool and ceremonial:
"Welcome home, Your Grace."
"Well fought—and well returned."