"Three coffees, please. Milk ones."
I was already bracing myself. The coffee shop was your standard Manhattan chain—warm lighting, exposed brick, the constant hiss of espresso machines and the low hum of conversation. Normal people doing normal things on a normal Monday morning.
Then Visenya and Rhaenys walked in.
The conversation didn't stop, exactly. It just... shifted. Like everyone in the room suddenly became aware that something had changed, even if they couldn't articulate what. Heads turned. Eyes tracked. A guy in a suit literally froze mid-sip, his coffee cup suspended halfway to his mouth.
I found us a table in the corner. Not because it was the best spot, but because it had the least direct sightlines. I slid into the bench facing the room. Visenya and Rhaenys took the other side, sitting stiffly on the curved seat, their knees pressed awkwardly against the table's edge.
They did not look comfortable.
The waitress arrived and immediately locked up.
She was young, maybe early twenties, with a nose ring and purple streaks in her hair and the kind of confident energy that came from dealing with difficult customers all day. But the moment she saw Visenya and Rhaenys, that confidence evaporated. She just... stared.
Here we go.
"What are you staring at?" Visenya's voice could have flash-frozen the coffee machine.
"N-Nothing!" The waitress snapped out of it, her cheeks flushing. "Sorry, I just—can I take your order?"
"Three coffees, milk ones," I repeated. "Just black coffee with milk on the side."
"Right. Yes. Coming right up."
She fled.
I turned to Visenya. "Can you maybe not look at everyone like you're about to jump across the table and rip out their throats?"
She turned that exact look on me.
I sighed. "Okay, listen. Both of you. This is going to keep happening. People are going to stare at you, gawk at you, maybe take pictures without asking. You need to get used to it."
"I will not be gawked at like a common curiosity," Visenya said.
"Too late. You're a curiosity. You have silver hair and purple eyes. Those don't exist here. Not naturally, anyway. And you're—" I stopped myself.
"We're what?" Rhaenys tilted her head, curious.
"You're the most beautiful women in this world." I said it quickly burying my shame. "Obviously people are going to stare. You just have to accept it and move on."
Rhaenys propped her chin on her hand and smiled at me. "Did you hear that, sister? The most beautiful women in this world."
I looked away. Very intently. At the sugar packets.
Visenya made a dismissive sound, but I caught the slight shift in her posture—the way her shoulders relaxed just a fraction. She'd never admit it, but the words landed.
"Anyway," I said, steering us back to practical matters, "what about dyeing your hair? Just temporarily. You could go blonde, it's close enough to silver, and contacts to change your eye color. Brown, maybe, or blue. You'd still stand out because you're—" I waved vaguely at their faces "—but it would be less obvious. Fewer stares. Fewer chances of someone recognizing you're not from here."
Visenya's expression shuttered immediately. "What did you say?"
I was ready for it this time. "I'm not telling you to hide. I'm telling you that blending in gives us options. You can't fight your way through this world—I already explained that. So we need other strategies. Tactical discretion. You know what that is, right?"
Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't immediately threaten my life. Progress.
"I will not cower and hide my heritage because of these peasants."
"Peasants," I finished. "Yeah, I know. But here's the thing about peasants." I leaned forward. "They outnumber you. And some of them have guns. And you don't have a dragon."
Visenya's jaw tightened. Rhaenys's smile faded slightly.
"I won't cower," Visenya repeated. But her voice was quieter.
"I'm not asking you to cower. I'm asking you to be smart." I sat back. "Think about it. That's all I'm saying."
She didn't agree. She didn't say anything. But she also didn't kill me, which I was choosing to interpret as a win.
Unfortunately, her refusal to lower her voice meant that her previous "peasants" comment had carried. Several nearby tables were now stealing glances at us with expressions ranging from offended to bewildered. I sank lower in my seat.
The waitress returned, blessedly, with three mugs of coffee and a small pitcher of milk on the side. She set them down carefully, her eyes flicking between Visenya and Rhaenys with that same nervous fascination.
Visenya stared at her coffee like it might be poisoned. Rhaenys sniffed hers cautiously, then added three sugars and a generous splash of milk.
"Excuse me," the waitress said. She was wringing her hands slightly. "I know this is weird, and I don't want to bother you, but—can I take a picture? I just really love your look. Both of you. You're like, ethereal. Otherworldly."
Visenya's head snapped up. "A picture?"
"It's like a portrait," I explained quickly. "She wants to capture your image. Because she admires your beauty and strength."
I added that last part purposefully. Fuel the ego. It worked before.
Visenya studied the waitress for a long moment. Then she gave a small, satisfied hum and tilted her chin up. "Very well. You may."
The waitress's face lit up. She fumbled for her phone, nearly dropped it, steadied it with shaking hands. The camera clicked once, twice, three times.
Visenya didn't smile. She didn't pose. She just... existed, in that way she did, regal and untouchable and absolutely certain of her own worth. The pictures were probably incredible.
"May I also?" The waitress turned to Rhaenys, hopeful.
"Yes, you may." Rhaenys smiled warmly, tilting her head slightly. Soft. Approachable. Completely different from her sister's fierce dignity, and somehow just as captivating.
The waitress blushed. Actually blushed, pink spreading across her cheeks as she took photo after photo. I didn't blame her.
I sat there, stirring my coffee, watching two Targaryen princesses pose for a stranger's phone camera in a Midtown Starbucks, and tried to wrap my head around the fact that this was my life now.
It hit me then, watching Rhaenys laugh at something the waitress said, watching Visenya's barely-suppressed pride at being admired. These weren't the hardened warrior queens I'd read about. Not yet. This Visenya hadn't watched her son become a monster. This Rhaenys hadn't fallen from the sky in Dorne with her dragon.
They were young. Rhaenys was maybe my age, maybe younger—sixteen, seventeen at most. Visenya a few years older, early twenties. They hadn't conquered anything yet. They hadn't lost anything yet. They were still just princesses of Dragonstone, dreaming of glory and dragons and a brother who probably didn't look yet at them the way they wanted him to.
The waitress finally left, beaming, clutching her phone like it held treasure. Rhaenys turned back to her coffee, which she'd sweetened into what I suspected was basically dessert. Visenya was still eyeing hers with suspicion.
"You have to actually drink it," I said.
"I am aware of what drinking is."
"Then drink it."
She picked up the mug like it might bite her. Took a small, cautious sip.
Her expression flickered. Surprise, maybe. Or confusion. She took another sip.
"It's bitter," she said.
"Yeah. That's coffee."
"It's not unpleasant."
"High praise."
Rhaenys was already halfway through hers, apparently a convert. "It's wonderful! She took another happy sip. "Do you have this every day?"
"Most people do, yeah. It's kind of a problem."
"A problem?"
"It's addictive. People need it to function. There's a whole culture around it."
Rhaenys found this delightful. Visenya filed the information away, still drinking her coffee with cautious, measured sips.
I watched them and thought about the waitress, about the way she'd looked at them. Like they were magic. Like they were something she'd never seen before and might never see again.
She wasn't wrong.
"You know," I said, "that's going to keep happening. Everywhere we go. People are going to stare, ask questions, want pictures. You're going to have to figure out how to handle it."
"We handled it," Visenya said.
"You threatened a waitress."
"She was staring."
"You were wearing a winter hat over silver hair and you still looked like a goddess descended from Valhalla. Of course she was staring."
Silence.
Visenya set down her coffee. "What is Valhalla?"
"Never mind."
"No, tell me. What is this place you compare me to?"
I rubbed the back of my neck. "It's—okay, so in Norse mythology, which is like, old stories from another culture, Valhalla is a hall where warriors go after they die. Like a warrior's paradise. And the goddesses there are supposed to be beautiful and fierce and—" I stopped. "Look, it's a compliment, okay?"
Visenya stared at me for a long moment. Then she picked up her coffee again and took another sip.
"Valhalla," she said, like she was tasting the word.
"Yeah."
"I will remember this."
I didn't know if that was a threat or a promise. Probably both.
I leaned back in my seat and just... watched them for a while.
Rhaenys was animated, gesturing with her hands as she talked about something—I caught fragments, words like "dragon" and "Aegon" and "imagine if we had buildings like these." Her excitement was genuine, almost childlike, and it was weirdly endearing seeing someone so beautiful get so hyped about skyscrapers and coffee cups.
Visenya, for her part, was trying to maintain her usual icy composure. But Rhaenys's energy was infectious, and every now and then I'd catch the corner of Visenya's mouth twitching upward. A real smile, not that sharp-edged smirk she used when she was about to threaten someone. Just... a sister talking to her sister, forgetting for a moment that she was in a strange world wearing borrowed clothes surrounded by peasants.
It was nice.
I found myself smiling too, just sitting there with my coffee, watching them be... human. Or whatever the Westerosi equivalent of human was. People. They were people.
Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.
Then the bill came.
I looked at the little slip of paper. Looked at the total. Looked at it again, hoping the numbers would rearrange themselves into something less painful.
They did not.
Twenty-three dollars. For three coffees. Twenty-three dollars.
I remembered when coffee was a dollar. When you could get a decent cup and some change back for a five. Now you needed a small loan just to caffeinate.
"Inflation's insane," I muttered.
"What?" Rhaenys looked up from her empty cup.
"Nothing. Just... this is expensive. For coffee."
Visenya glanced at the bill, then at me, with that particular expression she had—the one that made me feel like a bug she was considering stepping on. "Do you have trouble paying?"
Excuse me? You're literally wearing my clothes! You have zero dollars to your name. You're homeless in a dimension that isn't yours. And you're asking me if I have trouble paying?
I smiled. "Not at all."
I am definitely a simp.
I pulled out bills and counted out the exact amount plus a tip that was probably too generous but I wasn't about to look cheap in front of them. The waitress had been nice, anyway. She deserved it.
Visenya watched the transaction with the same intense focus she'd given her coffee earlier. Like she was memorizing every detail, cataloguing it for future reference. Money. Payment. Exchange. The way paper bills changed hands and suddenly obligations were fulfilled.
"Your world runs on these," she said. It wasn't a question.
"Pretty much. You work, you get paper. You give paper, you get things. Food, clothes, shelter. No paper, no things."
"And if you have no paper?"
"Then you're in trouble." I tucked my wallet away. "There are systems to help, sometimes. But mostly you figure it out or you don't survive."
Visenya's expression flickered. Something complicated moved behind those purple eyes.
"In Westeros, the strong take what they need," she said slowly. "The weak serve or die."
"Yeah. Here it's more like... the rich take what they need, and everyone else serves or dies. Just with more steps and less dragons."
She considered this. Filed it away.
We sat in silence for a moment. The coffee shop hummed around us, normal life continuing its normal rhythm. Outside, the city roared.
"So," I said, "what now?"
"We need information," Visenya said immediately. "About this world. Its strengths, its weaknesses, its rulers."
"Rulers. Right." I rubbed my face. "Okay. So, about that. This world doesn't really have one ruler. It's got like... two hundred countries, give or take, and each one has its own government. Sometimes kings, sometimes presidents, sometimes random dudes with tanks who decide they're in charge now. It's complicated."
"Two hundred kingdoms?" Rhaenys's eyes went wide. "How does anyone keep track?"
"They don't. That's kind of the point. Everyone's always fighting about something, but most of the fighting happens with words instead of swords. Usually."
"Words." Visenya sounded unconvinced.
"Yeah. There are these things called 'international relations' and 'diplomacy' and 'trade agreements.' It's like the Game of Thrones, but slower and with more paperwork."
They exchanged a look. I couldn't read it.
"The country we're in now is called the United States," I continued. "It's one of the most powerful. Has the most guns, the most money, the most... everything, really. But it's also kind of a mess. The leader is elected, not born. Changes every few years. Right now it's this old guy who everyone argues about constantly."
"An elected king," Rhaenys said slowly.
"President. Not a king. No crown, no throne, technically just a really important civil servant. But basically yeah, elected king."
Visenya's nose wrinkled. "Elected. By the people."
"By some of the people. It's... look, it's complicated. I'll explain later. The point is, there's no single person in charge of everything. No Iron Throne. Just a bunch of countries all trying to figure it out."
"This is madness," Visenya said.
"Yeah. Pretty much."
Rhaenys leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands. "What about magic? You said there was none, but that—" she gestured at the window, at the city beyond "—that seems like magic to us."
"It's technology. Science. People figured out how things work and built stuff. No spells, no dragons, no gods—well, some people believe in gods, but they don't actually do anything. It's all just... people. Making things."
"So anyone could learn to make these things?" Visenya asked. "These buildings, these carriages, these—" she pointed at my phone "—these glowing windows?"
"In theory, yeah. It takes a lot of study. Years of school, training, practice. But anyone can learn. That's the idea, anyway."
Visenya was quiet for a long moment. Then: "In Westeros, knowledge is power. Kept by the few, used to control the many. The maesters hoard their wisdom. The lords hoard their bloodlines. The smallfolk live and die never knowing what the powerful know."
"Yeah." I nodded. "That's kind of how it works here too, just with different names. The people with money hoard the education, the opportunities. The people without... struggle."
"So your world is not so different from ours."
I thought about it. The wars, the inequality, the endless grinding struggle of the poor against the rich, the weak against the strong. Different weapons, different languages, but the same basic story.
"No," I said. "I guess it's not…"
Rhaenys reached across the table and touched my hand. Just briefly, just a brush of fingertips. "You are kind to help us," she said. "Even though we threatened you. Even though we have nothing to offer."
I stared at her hand. Then at her face. Then back at her hand.
"I—it's—you don't have to—"
"Sister, you're embarrassing him." Visenya's voice was dry, but there was something almost amused underneath.
Rhaenys withdrew her hand, smiling, a very sly smile. "I know. That's why I did it."
The worse was that I could say anything againsgt it.
She was literally too beautiful and charming that I was at loss of words.
I never thought I could be this pathetic honestly.
But then any fans of a song of ice and fire meeting those living legends of the series wouldn't do anything better than myself!