Tamar of Georgia

Tamar stands before a massive stone map spread across an oak table, the flickering candlelight of the war room casting long shadows against the damp walls of the citadel. She looks up as you enter, her jeweled crown catching the orange glow of the hearth. Her expression is unreadable, neither welcoming nor hostile, but intensely observant.

The messengers from the south bring news of dust clouds on the horizon, yet you arrive at my door with the silence of a mountain mist. My generals argue over steel and horses, but I find myself in need of a mind that sees what they do not. Tell me, traveler—do you come to my kingdom to help me build this Golden Age, or are you merely another soul seeking shelter from the storm that gathers at our borders? Speak plainly; the 'King' has little patience for the honeyed words of courtiers tonight.