It took me about ten minutes to get through the basic explanation. Just the skeleton of it—who George R.R. Martin was, what he'd written, how millions of people around the world had read about them and watched actors portray them on screens. I kept it simple. Their faces were already doing something complicated; I didn't need to overload them.
When I finally stopped talking, the silence that followed was the kind you could cut with a Valyrian steel blade.
I sat on the edge of my bed, sweating bullets, trying not to fidget under the weight of two very icy stares.
Yeah. Okay. In hindsight, telling legendary dragon-riding warrior Princesses that they were actually just characters invented by some old guy from New Mexico was probably not my smartest move. That everything they'd done, everything they'd suffered, everything they'd achieved—all of it came from someone else's imagination. That their parents, their brothers, their dragons, their entire civilization was fiction to the people of this world.
I watched Visenya's grip tighten on her sword hilt and my brain went into emergency damage control mode.
"Wait—here, look—"
I grabbed my phone off the nightstand. It was a cheap thing, scratched screen, cracked corner, battery that died if you looked at it wrong. But it worked. Mostly.
I pulled up the Westeros Wiki. The one I spent way too much time on. The one I was literally moderating when my laptop exploded and apparently ripped a hole in the fabric of reality.
I turned the screen toward them.
Visenya stared at it like it was a snake about to strike. Rhaenys leaned in closer, curious.
"See this?" I scrolled to the Targaryen family tree. "This is you. Both of you. Your birth dates, your parents, your dragons. Everything." I tapped Visenya's entry. "Dark Sister. Vhagar. Your marriage to Aegon. Your son Maegor." I switched to Rhaenys's page. "Meraxes. Your son Aenys. The Conquest. All of it."
I kept scrolling, showing them more. Character profiles. Personality analyses. Fan theories. Detailed breakdowns of battles they'd fought, decisions they'd made, words they'd spoken. Thousands of pages of information, meticulously catalogued by people who'd never met them, never visited their world, never even known for certain if they were real.
Another half hour passed. I did most of the talking—explaining, scrolling, answering questions they barely asked aloud. Visenya would point at something, and I'd try to explain what a "television adaptation" was, or why there were multiple versions of their sigil, or what "cosplay" meant and no, please don't stab anyone over this.
Mostly, they were silent. Processing. Visenya held my phone like it was a small brick that might explode at any moment, her thumb hovering over her own wiki page. Her face was unreadable, but I saw her eyes moving, reading, absorbing. She didn't like what she was finding.
Rather I was surprised they could read it and even speak English and understand me.
Rhaenys took the phone next. Her expression was lighter, but there was something underneath it—something more complicated than simple curiosity. She scrolled through her own entry, her son's entry, her dragon's entry. She read about her marriage to Aegon, her role in the Conquest, her death in Dorne.
When she looked up, her smile was softer. Thoughtful.
"That's all," I finally said. My voice was hoarse from talking. "That's... everything I know."
Silence again. But different this time. Less hostile, more... heavy. Like they were carrying the weight of what I'd shown them and trying to figure out where to put it.
Visenya turned my phone over in her hands, studying it like it held answers she didn't want to find. Then she passed it to Rhaenys, who immediately started scrolling again.
"Listen," I said. "I know this is insane. I don't understand it either. But from my perspective, this is reality. This is how I've always known you—through books, through shows, through wiki pages. And believe me, I didn't think you were actually real until about forty-five minutes ago. I still don't understand how this happened. None of this makes any sense."
"I understand now," Visenya said.
I exhaled. Finally. She got it.
"This world must be the work of a very ancient magic."
I blinked. "Wait—what?"
"A powerful sorceress, perhaps. Or some forgotten spell. She has woven these illusions to confuse us. To make us doubt ourselves."
"No, that's not—I just showed you everything. Your entire future is written down there. Your descendants, the Dance of the Dragons, the fall of your house—centuries of history, all documented. And you think it's magic?"
"We are Targaryens," Visenya said, fixing me with a dark threatening gaze. "Not vulgar theatrical pawns in some play."
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Looked at Rhaenys, hoping for backup.
She was smiling at the phone. Not the sharp-edged smile from before, but something genuine. Almost delighted.
"Look, sister," she said, tilting the screen toward Visenya. "I will have a son with Aegon. Aenys, it says. And you as well—though your son looks quite frightening."
"Don't believe such absurdities." Visenya's voice was clipped, but she didn't look away from the screen. "This is the work of some dangerous witch who seeks our ruin. We must find our way back to Dragonstone immediately."
"But it's so accurate." Rhaenys scrolled further, eyes sparkling. "It even describes our dragons perfectly. Vhagar's temperament, Meraxes's coloring. And look—" She turned the phone back toward Visenya, practically vibrating with excitement. "It says we conquer Westeros. All seven kingdoms. This is... this is quite amazing, sister."
Something shifted in Visenya's expression. Just barely—a crack in that cold, imperious mask. I knew her well enough (fictionally, whatever) to recognize what was happening behind her eyes. Pride, yes. But also doubt. Because she couldn't deny the evidence in front of her. The details were too specific, too accurate, too intimately tied to things only she and her sister should know.
But admitting that meant admitting she was a character in someone else's story. And Visenya Targaryen would rather die than accept that.
I got it, honestly. If someone told me my entire life was fiction, I'd probably try to stab them too.
But it made me think. If they were standing here, flesh and blood, real enough to draw blood from my throat and leave bruises on my wrists... then maybe the books and the shows weren't the whole story. Maybe Westeros was real—somewhere, somehow—and George Martin was just... channeling it. Dreaming it. Pulling echoes of a real place into his imagination and calling it fiction.
Maybe everyone on Earth was wrong, and this really was ancient magic.
Or maybe I was just grasping at straws because the alternative was too big to wrap my head around.
"Okay." I stood up. "Listen. Twenty-four hours ago, I didn't think you were real. Now you're standing in my bedroom. So I'm willing to accept that Westeros exists, Dragonstone exists, all of it exists somewhere. Maybe not the way I thought, but somewhere."
They both looked at me. Waiting.
"But I don't know how to send you back there. And honestly? I don't think you're going to find a way here. This world doesn't have magic. Not real magic. No dragons, no spells, no witches who can weave illusions powerful enough to pull two people across dimensions." I paused. "It's a peaceful world. Mostly. People work, they pay rent, they worry about their phones dying and their ceilings collapsing. No wars of conquest. No dragonfire."
"I have no intention of remaining here," Visenya said.
"Nor do I." Rhaenys set down the phone, her smile fading into something more serious. "Aegon waits for me. Meraxes waits for me. I will not abandon them."
"I get that. I do." I ran a hand through my hair, tugging at the ends. "But for now, you don't have a choice. You're here, I'm here, and we need to figure out what comes next. What are you going to do in the meantime?"
"Find a way back to Dragonstone." Visenya didn't hesitate. She was already turning toward the door, sword in hand, like she was about to march straight out of my fourth-floor walk-up and commandeer the nearest ship. Never mind that the nearest "ship" was probably a Circle Line tourist boat. Never mind that she had no idea where she was, what this world was, or how to get home. She was Visenya Targaryen. She'd figure it out.
"Wait—hold on—you can't just leave like this!"
I scrambled off the bed and positioned myself between her and the door, hands up in what I hoped was a placating gesture. Not that I could actually stop her if she decided to go through me. She had a sword. I had sweatpants and no sleep. This was not a fair fight.
"Do you dare to order me?"
"I'm trying to save your life! I told you, this world isn't like Westeros. It's peaceful—"
I stopped. Glanced at my window. The street below, where a siren was wailing somewhere in the distance, where a homeless man was screaming at a taxi, where the bodega on the corner had bars on its windows and a sign that said WE RESERVE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE.
Okay. Maybe "peaceful" was overselling it.
"—it's different, okay? It's not a world where you can walk around with a sword and threaten people and not face consequences. If you go out there like this—if you hurt someone, if you kill someone—you will not survive. The police will find you, and they will kill you if needed. Easily."
I mean this was America!
Visenya's glare intensified. If looks could kill, I'd be a smear on the carpet.
"What do you mean by that?" Rhaenys asked. Her voice was calmer, genuinely curious. She'd picked up my phone again—when had she done that?—and was turning it over in her hands like she was trying to figure out how it worked.
"There are dangerous people out there, yeah, but that's not the main problem. The police—they're like soldiers, but with weapons that make swords look like toys." I reached for my phone. Rhaenys handed it over without protest, which surprised me. "Here. Let me show you."
I pulled up YouTube. Searched for "gun footage." Found a compilation video—some military channel showing different firearms in action. I turned the volume up and held the screen toward them.
The first shot made Rhaenys flinch. The second made her take a step back. By the third—a high-caliber rifle round punching through what looked like several inches of ballistic gel—even Visenya's expression flickered.
"What kind of magic is this?" She muttered. Not angry now. Just... thrown.
"And that's just the beginning." I put the phone down. My hands were shaking slightly, adrenaline still sloshing through my system. "There are weapons in this world that can destroy entire cities. Kill thousands of people from miles away. You've never seen anything like it. If you go out there acting like you're still on Dragonstone, you won't last a day."
I looked at Visenya. Then at Rhaenys. Then back at Visenya.
"Please. Just... don't. Not like this."
I didn't know why I was pushing so hard. Part of me—the self-preservation part—was screaming that this was my chance. They were dangerous, unpredictable, clearly willing to kill me if I became inconvenient. I should be helping them out the door, not begging them to stay.
But I couldn't do it.
I'd spent years reading about these women. Their victories, their losses, everything they'd sacrificed for their family and their legacy.
They weren't real then—just words on a page. But now they were standing in my bedroom, breathing the same air, bleeding the same blood, and I couldn't just... let them walk out into a world that would chew them up and spit them out without a second thought.
I wouldn't be able to sleep otherwise.
"Why are you doing this?" Rhaenys asked.
Even Visenya paused, her hand still on her sword hilt, waiting.
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Rubbed the back of my neck.
"I'm an admirer," I finally said. "Of your family. Of both of you. I've spent years reading about Targaryen history, learning your stories, your dragons, your victories and defeats. You're not just names in a book to me. You never were." I shrugged, helpless. "I don't want you to die. It's that simple. You don't have to trust me, but at least trust that. I don't want you to die."
Silence.
"And if you want to go back to Dragonstone someday," I continued, "if you want to see Aegon again and fly your dragons and start your conquest—then you need to listen to me. You need to be smart about this. If there really is some ancient magic at work here, some witch or spell that brought you here, then you need to survive long enough to figure out how to reverse it. You can't do that if you're dead. Or in prison."
Something shifted in Visenya's expression. Not quite softening, but... recalibrating. Like she was re-evaluating the situation.
Rhaenys was watching me with an expression I couldn't read. Not hostile. Just... curious.
"You speak of our family as if you know us," she said quietly.
"I know your stories," I said. "That's not the same thing. I know that Visenya is fierce and loyal and would burn the world for her blood. I know that Rhaenys laughs easily but fights like a storm when provoked. I know that you both loved your brother more than anything, even when you didn't always agree with him. I know that you conquered a continent on dragonback and built the greatest dynasty Westeros had ever seen." I paused. "But that's not the same as knowing you. I'm learning that now."
Rhaenys showed a genuine smile at my words.
Oh God, people would kill to be smiled by someone like her.
Visenya said nothing. But her hand moved away from her sword.
"Fine," she said. "We will stay. For now."
The words came out like she was pulling teeth, but she said them. That was enough.
I exhaled, long and slow. "Okay. Okay, good. That's—thank you."
"Do not thank me. This is not charity." Her eyes met mine, hard and direct. "You have information about this world. You will share it. You will help us understand this place and find a way home. In exchange, we will not kill you."
"That's... very generous," I managed.
"It is."
Rhaenys laughed softly. "Sister, you could try to be less terrifying. He's already helping us."
"He should be terrified. It keeps him honest."
I decided not to point out that I'd been terrified since I opened my eyes and found a sword at my throat. Some battles weren't worth fighting.
"Okay," I said instead. "So. We need to figure out what comes next. You need clothes that won't make people stare. You need to understand how this world works—money, transportation, communication. And we need to figure out why you're here and how to get you back."
"That is a great deal to accomplish," Rhaenys observed.
"Yeah. It is." I looked around my tiny studio—the messy bed, the precarious stack of books, the dead succulent, the lingering smell of burnt electronics from my exploded laptop. "We're going to need more space. And more resources."
And probably a miracle…