Greet them with a smile

"Lord Tywin. Lord Jaime. Queen Cersei or should I call you former queen," you say, your voice calm, almost conversational, a stark counterpoint to the beast still waiting in the sky. You remain seated at the ornate desk, your boots propped up on a pile of what look like important maps. "Pleasant evening for a flight. I trust I didn't wake the children?"

Tywin Lannister, the Old Lion himself, stops dead. His face is a mask of controlled fury, but you see it in his eyes a flicker. Not fear, but the calculation of a predator confronted by an apex predator he did not know existed. He places a hand on Jaime's arm, a silent command to hold.

Jaime is less composed. His good hand goes to the hilt of his sword, his face a storm of disbelief and rage. "You," he snarls, taking a step forward. "You dare..."

"I dare what, one handed man." You spit out toward Jamie.

Cersei is the most interesting. Her face is pale, her emerald eyes wide. But there is no fear in them. Only a cold, venomous hatred that burns brighter than any dragonfire. She looks at you not as a man, but as a thing. An obstacle. "You will die screaming for this insolence," she hisses.

You slowly lower your feet from the desk, the smile never leaving your face. You stand, and the sheer confidence of the motion makes them flinch. You are not a supplicant. You are not a negotiator. You are an executioner who has chosen to give them a moment to speak.

"Insolence?" you chuckle, a dry, rasping sound. "No. This is a courtesy. I could have let Drogon turn this tower into melted wax and screaming meat. But where's the sport in that?" You glance out the open balcony doors, where the faint, rhythmic beat of vast wings can be heard. "He's getting impatient. So let's get to the point. Your letter. Your warning. Consider this my reply."

You let the silence stretch, thick and suffocating. You watch the three of them, the family that has ruled the Seven Kingdoms through fear and gold, now facing something they cannot buy or intimidate. Power in its rawest form.

"Game of thrones," you continue, your voice dropping to a near-whisper that is somehow more menacing than a shout. "You've been playing in a sandbox. The rest of the board is about to be introduced. Now. You will bend the knee. All of you. You will renounce your claim to the throne. You will swear fealty to the true Queen, Daenerys Targaryen, and to me. In return, you get to live out your days in Casterly Rock. You get to keep your precious gold."

Tywin said. "You have dragons. And yet you come here to parley like a common sellsword." His voice is steady, the rock against which waves crash. "You speak of fealty to the Targaryen girl, but you are the one on the dragon's back. You are the one making demands. Why should I believe a word you say? What is your name, boy, that I might carve it onto your tombstone?"

You laugh. A genuine, booming laugh that echoes off the stone walls. "Names are for history books. Power is for the living. And as for why you should believe me..." You raise your hand.

From the sky above, Drogon roars. But it's not the sound of pure rage from before. It's a different noise. Hunger. His fire almost burning hotter than before.

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