When a Dragon and a Lion Crossed Paths

The Great Pyramid of Meereen, its stone blocks baking under the Essos sun, hummed with the tension of a court unaccustomed to chaos. The throne room’s marble floor was cracked where Missandei’s chalk had outlined the latest harpy-shaped corpse. Daenerys Targaryen stood near her ironwood bench, her white-blonde hair catching the light like a blade’s edge. Across from her, a hooded Tyrion Lannister was shoved forward by two Unsullied, his chains dragging like the aftermath of a hangover.

Daenerys: (tilting her head) You’re not what I expected. I heard you’d gone to Volantis.
Tyrion: (adjusting his travel-worn doublet) Plans change when your face becomes a wanted poster. The last I checked, slavers were still hunting me for the murder of my father.
Daenerys: (narrowing her eyes) And yet you ended up in a sellsail ship bound for Meereen. Coincidence?
Tyrion: (grinning crookedly) Let’s call it a calculated risk. Your reputation precedes you. The dragon who frees slaves but can’t keep them free. The mother who lets her children starve on promises.

Daenerys: (stepping closer, her voice sharpening) I’ve seen more cruelty in nine years than you’ve seen in thirty. Call it what you like, but I didn’t ask for your opinion.
Tyrion: (holding up his hands) No need to scorch me yet. A dragon who listens to counsel is already wiser than half the kings I’ve known. Even if they were literal kings.

Daenerys: (crossing her arms) My Hand is dead. Ser Barristan fell in the fighting pits. Do you think you could fill his place?
Tyrion: (snorting) I’d need a better tailor for a start. Barristan the Bold sounds like the kind of man who’d sneeze and accidentally dislocate a horseman. Me? I’ve got wit instead of steel. And I’m rather attached to my limbs.

Daenerys: (walking a slow circle around him) Wit didn’t stop the masters from retaking Astapor. Wit didn’t convince the Yunkai to leave. What makes you think you can fix what’s broken here?
Tyrion: (leaning against a pillar) Ah, but that’s the thing—wits don’t rust in the rain or tire from swinging. They grow sharper with use. Take Astapor: You left them with a council of freedmen, didn’t you?
Daenerys: (pausing) Yes. They chose their own rulers.
Tyrion: And you expected them to behave like knights out of a song? Sweetling, people raised in chains don’t become noblemen overnight. You gave them freedom, but not the tools to wield it.

Daenerys: (frowning) So I should have ruled them myself?
Tyrion: (smirking) You might try ruling with them. Let them carve the laws. You plant the seeds, but let them water the garden. And a touch of wine helps—I’d suggest a red from the Reach, though given your heritage, perhaps a Dornish vintage?

Daenerys: (returning to her bench) You speak like a man who’s spent too many years in courts. Politics is blood, not wine.
Tyrion: (grinning) Blood stains your dress quicker than wine, I’ll admit. But ask any maester—poison works best when it’s sweetened. (pausing) Or should I say… fire works best when it’s aimed?

Daenerys: (studying him) You knew Joffrey. My brother Rhaegar’s killer.
Tyrion: (his smile fading) I knew a boy who wore his cruelty like a crown. And I know a woman who wears her fire like armor. (leaning forward) But you’re not him. And I’m not the man who plotted with Varys in the Tower dungeons.

Daenerys: (softening slightly) The Unsullied say you killed your father while drunk.
Tyrion: (bitter laugh) I’ve done many stupid things drunk. That wasn’t one of them. (quietly) I did kill my wife, though. In a way. Words are arrows too, if you aim them sharp enough.

Daenerys: (after a long silence) Why help me?
Tyrion: (looking up) Because a Targaryen on the Iron Throne might just be worse than Cersei. Or better. I’d like to see which. (grinning) Besides, a lion and a dragon? It’s the stuff of nursery tales.

Daenerys: (summoning a guard) Bring him wine. Both our heads need to be clear for what comes next.
Tyrion: (mock bow) To partnership, then? May we not stab each other in the back before supper.

Daenerys: (her eyes glinting) You remind me of someone I once trusted.
Tyrion: (raising his goblet) I’ll take that as a warning. And a compliment.

On HoloDream, you can step into the shadows of their uneasy alliance or ask Tyrion why he truly betrayed the Lannisters. Both legends were forged in exile—what would they confess to someone who understands?