I was on my knees in my own bedroom, wrists tied behind my back with my own T-shirt. Which, honestly, was probably the best rope these two could find in my depressing little studio. I didn't exactly keep bondage gear lying around. My most exciting possession was a half-dead succulent I kept forgetting to water.
Anyway.
I lifted my gaze to the two women standing over me—correction, looming over me, like I was a peasant who'd accidentally wandered into the dragon pit. And yeah, okay, I'll admit it: there are probably people out there with certain... interests who'd pay good money to find themselves tied up in front of two otherworldly beauties like this. But that's not me. Or at least, that's not what I was thinking about right now. Mostly I was just trying not to hyperventilate.
Were they really Visenya and Rhaenys Targaryen?
The thought had hit me the second they'd said their names, obviously. I'm a Targaryen nerd. It's basically my whole personality at this point. But now that the initial shock was fading and my brain was starting to function again, I was trying to be rational about this.
It could be a prank. Right? Some elaborate, high-budget, completely inexplicable prank. I mean, yes, I'm a nerd about this stuff, but I'm not crazy. I don't actually believe fictional characters can pop out of exploding laptops and hold swords to my throat. That's insane.
So there had to be another explanation.
Okay, but let's look at the evidence.
First: these women were unreal. I'm not being dramatic here—I've never seen anyone this beautiful in real life. Not at school, not on the subway, not even on magazine covers or movie screens. They'd make Scarlet Johansson and Angelina Jolie look like random girls at the mall. Like, put them side by side and it's not even close. That's not hyperbole. That's just facts.
Second: their hair. That silver-gold color. I've seen platinum blonde before, I've seen white-blonde, I've seen expensive salon jobs that cost more than my monthly rent. This wasn't that. This was something else entirely. It caught the light like metal, like actual spun silver, with warm gold undertones that shifted when they moved. Could be an incredible dye job, sure. But I'd never seen dye look like that.
Third: their eyes. Purple. Not light blue that looks purple in certain lighting. Not violet-tinted contacts. Actual, genuine, amethyst purple. Contacts exist, obviously. But again—the quality, the realism, the way the color shifted depending on the angle... I don't know. Maybe there are really good custom contacts out there that I don't know about.
Fourth: their clothes. Not modern fabrics, not costumes from a Halloween store. These looked... authentic. Like someone had spent months hand-stitching every detail, sourcing materials that probably didn't even exist anymore. The leather was worn in all the right places, the metal clasps looked genuinely aged, the embroidery was impossibly intricate. That kind of craftsmanship costs serious money.
So here's the thing. Even if this was a prank—and I couldn't for the life of me figure out who would spend this kind of time, money, and effort to prank some random broke high school kid—that still left the question of why. I don't have friends who could pull this off. My idea of a wild Friday night is staying up too late reading wiki articles and eating instant noodles. I'm not exactly on anyone's prank radar.
And then there was the sword.
Visenya's sword. The one currently pointed at my face. I'd gotten a close look at it when she was holding it to my throat, and it wasn't a prop. Props don't have that weight, that balance. Props don't glint quite like that. Props don't draw blood with the lightest touch.
My neck was still stinging.
So. Either this was the most elaborate, inexplicable prank in human history, or...
No. I wasn't ready to finish that thought.
"Are you really Visenya and Rhaenys Targaryen?" I heard myself ask. My voice came out smaller than I wanted. My heart was doing something complicated in my chest—part terror, part something else I didn't want to name.
Visenya's eyes narrowed. "You know us?"
I swallowed. "Are you Aegon's sisters?"
And then I saw it. Both of them. Their eyes went wide—not fake surprise. Real, genuine, caught-off-guard disbelief. Visenya's grip on her sword tightened. Rhaenys's easy smile flickered.
Then Visenya moved.
I was on my back before I could blink, her knee digging into my stomach and that sword—that very real, very sharp sword—pressed flat against my throat. Her face was inches from mine, all suspicion.
"Wait a minute!" I gasped. My brain was screaming at me, you idiot, you absolute idiot, why did you say that—
"Where is Aegon?" Visenya's voice was ice.
"I—I don't know!"
"You better answer quickly." Rhaenys's voice floated in from behind. Still sweet, still melodic, but with an edge now. "Or I will take personally your tongue."
Wait. Not you too Rhaenys!
I twisted my head to look at her, and she was smiling at me. Not the warm, amused smile from before. Something else.
"I don't know! I said I don't know!"
"How do you know about Aegon, then?" Visenya pressed the blade harder. "And what is this place?" Her gaze flicked past me, to the window. To the view of Manhattan stretched out against the early morning sky. Skyscrapers. Billboards. Taxis. Nothing she'd ever seen before.
"This is Earth," I said quickly. "Another world. This isn't Westeros."
Visenya's expression didn't change, but I saw her processing. Filing the information away, testing it for lies.
"Another world," she repeated.
"Yes. I swear. That's just—that's New York. Manhattan. It's a city. On Earth."
"Perhaps he is right, sister." Rhaenys had drifted to the window, her reflection ghosting across the glass. She was looking out at the streets below—the endless stream of cars, the crowds on the sidewalks, the neon glow of bodega signs. Nothing like Dragonstone. Nothing like any place she'd ever known. "This is... not our world."
Visenya didn't move. Her eyes stayed locked on mine.
"How did this happen?" She asked. "What witch has such power? This must be ancient magic."
"I don't know! I'm the one who should be complaining here!" The words burst out of me, fueled by sheer panicked frustration. "You two just appeared out of nowhere in my bedroom while I was sleeping, and now you're threatening me with a sword when I literally didn't do anything!"
I was breathing hard, glaring up at her. It probably wasn't the smartest move, attitude-wise, given the whole sword-at-throat situation. But I was past smart decisions at this point.
Visenya stared at me for a long moment. Then: "If you are truly innocent, you would not know of us. Of Aegon. Of Westeros."
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
She was right.
"Maybe I should kill you after all," she said quietly.
"Wait—"
"Sister." Rhaenys's voice cut through the tension. "He may be more useful alive. While we are here."
Visenya didn't look happy about it, but she didn't argue. The pressure on my throat eased, fractionally.
I gulped. Audibly. The sound echoed in my own ears.
Okay. Alright. Let's be real here.
This wasn't a prank. This wasn't a dream. These weren't actresses or cosplayers or some elaborate practical joke. There was no rational explanation left to cling to.
Visenya and Rhaenys Targaryen—actual, historical, from-a-different-world Targaryen—were standing in my bedroom.
And I had approximately thirty seconds to explain myself before they decided I was too much of a risk to keep breathing.
"I'll tell you everything," I said. "Just—let me breathe. And maybe stop threatening me every five seconds. Please."
Visenya scanned my face. Whatever she saw there must have satisfied her, because she stood up, sheathed her sword, and stepped back.
I scrambled to my feet, my tied hands making the process awkward and undignified. I was hyperaware of everything—the roughness of the carpet under my bare feet, the morning light slanting through my cheap blinds, the weight of two pairs of violet eyes tracking my every movement.
And then I became aware of something else.
Right. So. This was awkward.
I was wearing sweatpants. Thin, gray, very unforgiving sweatpants. And it was morning. And I had just been yanked out of bed, thrown to the floor, and pinned down by a woman who looked like she'd stepped out of a painting.
My body, apparently, did not understand the concept of inappropriate timing.
I turned slightly, angling my hips away from them, and tried to think about literally anything else.
Look. I'm not a weirdo. I don't usually get turned on by being threatened with swords. This was a purely physiological response, okay? A combination of morning wood and adrenaline and two impossibly beautiful women standing three feet away from me. It was involuntary. It didn't mean anything.
I just really, really hoped they didn't look down.
"Your face is red," Rhaenys observed.
"It's not," I said immediately. My voice cracked.
She tilted her head, staring me with that same faint, curious smile. "It is. Like a tomato."
"It's—I'm just hot. It's warm in here. The radiator's broken."
"The what?"
"Never mind. Can you untie me? Please? My wrists are starting to go numb."
Rhaenys glanced at Visenya, who gave a curt nod. A moment later, the makeshift bindings fell away, and I rubbed my wrists gratefully.
Okay. Focus. I needed to focus.
I took a breath, straightened my shoulders, and looked at the two legendary figures standing in my cramped, messy, decidedly un-legendary bedroom.
"I'm going to explain everything," I said. "But you're not going to like it."