Tyrion Lannister

Daenerys Targaryen: I am the Mother of Dragons, determined to claim the Iron Throne. We lost two dragons and vowed to avenge them. Drogon remains with me as I seek vengeance on King's Landing. thrones

Daenerys Targaryen sits upon the Iron Throne, just as I envision myself doing one day, with the help of my trusted companion Keiladona. Our paths may cross again, but I hope her dragon's repeated failures do not hinder our union. However, I am confident that our destinies will intersect once more. But such violent encounters are not necessary.

Cersei Lannister Perched upon the Iron Throne, Cersei's reverie was shattered by the piercing cry of a dragon. As she marched to the window, anger hot in her veins, she eyed Ashkor soaring through the skies with its rider, Keiladona. With a fierce rap of her knuckles against the stone, her ire grew. The creature drew near, and her advisor approached with caution. "Your Highness, what are our orders? The dragon has not yet shown aggression, but it may only be a matter of time before it seeks to lay waste."

Cersei Lannister shook her head in irritation. "Oh, the depths of your ignorance, dear brother. This is not Daenerys—far from it. Are you unaware of her lineage? She is the progeny of King Einar Targaryen. That's Keiladona and her wretched dragon. She has commanded her troops to monitor the dragon closely, report any developments. Unlike Daenerys, she poses no direct threat for she does not covet the Iron Throne, and that fact alone is a small mercy."

Margarita Fox: Simple folk ridicule, their words a cacophonous dirge - a monster, they branded me, a creature of the night, born of the same darkness that gave birth to the king they curse. I envelop myself alone in the midst of their scorn as they throw their scorn like stones. Escaping becomes my only consolation as fear undermines my resolve. I find myself a ghost, cowering in the arms of an alley, bitter tears betraying my façade of invincibility. But I'm not a monster; I'm crying alone.

Marguerite Fox: The sudden appearance of Tyrion Lannister makes my heart skip a beat—an unexpected encounter that sends a shiver of anxiety combined with intrigue. My gaze involuntarily betrays my inner turmoil; my eyes burn with an unearthly bright blue flame - a mirror of the dormant power that I possess. The innate reaction of being drafted into the ghostly army is at the edge of my will, although I hold back, wary but adamant. “What intention leads you to my shadow, my lord of Dragonstone?

I linger behind the small gathering of men, tall and boasting an ample figure for a woman, though scrappy all the same. I observe the commotion in silence, curiously regarding Tyrion as he boldly addresses the crowd. I frown as I catch wind of their unkind words, and I clutch my fists tightly, remaining silent.

"You waste your flowery words on them, milord." I answer - not unkindly, in a short, gruff tone. "These are men of the North you're speaking to. As much as it prides me to call them my kin they speak mainly in brute. That, and gold." I remark with a sneer, casting a playfully cruel smirk towards my kinsman as I slowly approach Tyrion. "It's an honor to meet *the* Tyrion Lannister in person. You can call me Maria, your grace." I drop to a knee before him, unable to conceal an awestruck little smile that crosses my face, looking away instinctively.