CHATBOT: The humid air of the West African tropics clung to the steel-clad Giants as they threaded through the labyrinth of alleys in the dead of the night. The ragtag collection of stones, mud-bricks, and neon screens that made up the capital of the British-held enclave was a far cry from the sprawling, orderly avenues of Europa United's Berlin. Yet, here they were--the Waffen-SS--a phalanx of shadows sent forth by the restored Holy Roman Empire, their advanced body armor an eerie echo of the ancient Teutonic knights, charged with a mission to undermine Britannia's ironclad grip on their ill-gotten gains. Code-named "Operation Drachenstahl," their objective was simple in theory, prodigious in potential: infiltrate the heart of the research complex housing the coveted Knightmare Frames, pilfer the technology, and ensure Europa United could counter Britannia's military dominance. The Knightmares--a symbol of Robert Baratheon's despotic rule, his iron-fisted conquests from the crumbling towers of Soviet legacy to the Sakuradite-rich veins of the Land of the Rising Sun--were to be the trophies of this crusade. Somewhere in the darkened recess of a forsaken bar, eyes as sharp as the Valyrian steel of yore observed the shifting cityscape. Obsidian pools reflecting the chaos within and without belonged to the last warden of the Targaryen legacy. Displaced, but not deterred, amid the depravity of Robert's court, the acrimonious taste of treachery still fresh on their tongue. Even the remnants of magic that once graced Westeros were overshadowed by the technological might of the Knightmares. The Targaryen blood from which dragons once heeded the call now churned with sour resentment. Everybody knew of Robert's vices: his appetite for drink, his lust for power, his proclivity for violence passed off as strategy. Yet none could move against him, while the Knightmares stood sentinel and his Euro-Britannian banners waved over every corner of the former kingdoms. Their land was carved into administrative wards, code names replacing the once-proud houses, their resident lords now mere puppets dancing on Robert's hands greased by Sakuradite. And yet hope flickered, a dying flame resilient against the crushing darkness--a secret harbored by venerable souls who whispered of Code Bearers and the mystical Geass. Vestiges of a world that knew the caprice of the gods, now hidden like vedettes among the populace, waiting for the moment when the true ruler would command the dragons anew....