I woke up to a sword at my throat. Not the way I usually like to start my mornings.
One second I'm dreaming about absolutely nothing, dead to the world after cleaning up exploded computer parts until three in the morning. Next thing I know, I'm face-first on the floor with someone's knee digging into my back and something cold and sharp pressed right against my jugular.
And yeah, I know what you're thinking. Break-in. Some psycho crawled through my window. Welcome to the worst day of my life.
But then I actually looked up.
Silver-gold hair. Not dyed—like, actually silver, the kind of pale blonde that looks almost white in low light. Tied up in these elaborate rings, like something out of a history book. Or a fantasy novel. And her eyes—purple. Not contacts, either. Just… purple. She was staring down at me like I was a bug she was deciding whether to step on.
Behind her, another one. Same hair, but loose, flowing past her shoulders like a damn shampoo commercial. Same purple eyes, but warmer. She had this little half-smile on her face, like she found the whole situation amusing.
I should have been terrified. I mean, I was, obviously—there's a sword at my neck, I'm not made of stone. But some part of my brain, the part that spends way too much time on fan wikis and lore deep-dives, was already putting the pieces together.
Visenya. Rhaenys.
As in, Visenya and Rhaenys Targaryen.
As in, the two sisters who helped Aegon the Conqueror burn his way across Westeros on dragonback like it was a casual Tuesday.
"Oh God," I breathed. "It's a dream."
That was the only explanation that made sense. I'd fallen asleep, my brain was still churning through all that Targaryen trivia from earlier, and now it was serving up the most vivid, detailed hallucination of my life. Which, okay, I wasn't complaining—these women were unreal, like someone Photoshopped actual perfection into human form. I'd never seen anyone this beautiful in real life, not even close. So yeah, dream. Had to be.
"A dream." Visenya's voice was flat, unimpressed. She pressed the blade harder.
I felt it slice skin. Warm blood trickled down my neck.
And oh, that hurt. That really, genuinely, this-is-happening-right-now hurt.
I touched my throat with shaking fingers, pulled them back, and stared at the red staining my skin.
My blood. My real, actual, not-dreaming blood.
Rhaenys let out a soft laugh from behind her sister. "He thinks he's dreaming, Visenya."
I looked up at Visenya. Then at Rhaenys. Then back at the sword that was literally one wrong move away from turning me into a very messy corpse.
"W—WHAT THE HELL?!!"
---
Let me back up a little. Explain how I ended up on my floor with ancient Valyrian steel at my throat.
It started, like most bad decisions do, with a wiki.
I'm a moderator on the Westeros Wiki. Yeah, I know, I know—it's nerdy, it's obsessive, and no, I don't get paid for it. But I actually know my stuff, especially when it comes to House Targaryen. Don't get me wrong, I love the whole story, the politics, the scheming, all the backstabbing and betrayals. But the dragonlords? They're something else. There's this weight to their history, this tragic, glorious, self-destructive arc that spans centuries. I've read every source material twice. Three times, for the Dance of the Dragons stuff. I could probably recite the lineage from Aegon I to Aerys II in my sleep.
So there I was, doing my usual late-night wiki maintenance, when this pop-up appeared out of nowhere.
[Find out what Targaryen you are!]
I blinked at it.
"What the heck?"
I tried to close it. It wouldn't close. I clicked the X, I hit Alt+F4, I did the whole desperate keyboard mash that usually fixes everything. Nothing. The damn box just sat there, all cheerful and obnoxious, waiting for me to take the bait.
I don't do these quizzes. I never do these quizzes. They're always the same—some slapped-together BuzzFeed clone asking which sandwich you'd bring to a medieval feast and then telling you you're a secret Targaryen bastard. Please. I've put in the hours. I've read the histories. I don't need a five-minute personality test to tell me Daemon would probably kill me in a duel and take my girlfriend.
Anyway, I was a moderator. I had standards.
"The hell?" I tried closing it again. Nothing.
"Is this an ad? Some kind of virus?"
The pop-up pulsed gently. Red border. Big friendly button. START QUIZ.
I glared at it.
"Fine," I snapped. "Fine! You want me to do your stupid quiz? I'll do your stupid quiz."
I clicked the button before I could talk myself out of it.
And immediately regretted everything.
0/100
14:59
"WHAT?!"
I nearly fell out of my chair. One hundred questions? In fifteen minutes? What kind of sadistic personality test was this?
My computer—this ancient, wheezing laptop my dad bought, the one that sounded like a dying lawn mower whenever I opened more than two tabs—was already struggling. The fan was whining like it was begging for mercy. I couldn't exactly afford a new one, obviously, because I was a broke high school student surviving on ramen and spite, so I'd been nursing this fossil along for years.
And now some rogue quiz was about to kill it.
I started answering. Fast. My fingers flew across the keyboard, question after question, no time to think, no time to second-guess.
Favorite historical period? Dance of the Dragons.
Preferred weapon? Sword, obviously. But Valyrian steel specifically.
Dragon or direwolf? Is that even a question?
The questions got weirder as I went. More specific. Almost invasive, like the quiz was digging into corners of my brain I didn't even know existed. But I didn't have time to worry about that. I had a timer.
Five minutes. Ten minutes. My wrist was cramping, my eyes were burning, but I kept going.
And finally—
30…
29…
"Done, you bastard!" I slammed the Enter key like I was delivering a killing blow.
The screen went white. Then black. Then that awful spinning loading wheel appeared, and my laptop made a sound I'd never heard before—a high-pitched whine, like it was trying to lift off.
I held my breath.
The loading wheel stopped. A new question appeared.
Who is your favorite Targaryen prince?
I hesitated. There were so many. Aemon the Dragonknight. Baelon the Brave. Daeron the Young Dragon. Jace, Luke, Joff—the Strong boys who deserved so much better.
But my fingers moved before my brain could catch up.
Daemon Targaryen.
I know, I know. The Rogue Prince. Wife-murderer, brother-exiler, nephew-creeper. Not exactly a role model. But come on. The guy rode Caraxes, fought wars, carved a path of chaos across the Stepstones, and went out like an absolute legend facing Vhagar and Aemond. You can't tell me that's not compelling.
Next question.
Who is your favorite Targaryen princess?
Okay, now this was impossible. This was actually cruel. How was I supposed to pick one? Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was. Visenya, the original warrior queen. Rhaena, the Black Bride. Rhaenyra, the realm's delight turned half-mad grieving mother. Baela and Rhaena, the twin survivors. Daena the Defiant. Elaena, the clever one who married twice and still came out on top.
"Can I answer more than one?" I mumbled.
The quiz didn't say I couldn't.
I typed Rhaenys. Then added Visenya. It worked.
"Oh."
I added Rhaena. Then Rhaenyra. Then Baela, Rhaena, Daena, Elaena. A few more I'd always had a soft spot for. I stared at the list, suddenly self-conscious.
"Damn," I muttered. "I really did it like a creep."
Whatever. I clicked submit.
The screen went red. Deep, bloody crimson, flooding the whole display. A massive loading bar appeared, pulsing like a heartbeat.
And then I smelled smoke.
I turned around, thinking maybe my ancient space heater had finally given up. Nothing there. I turned back to the screen—
Smoke. Pouring out of the keyboard.
"The fuck?!"
I scrambled backward, nearly taking out my desk chair. The smoke got thicker, darker, and my laptop—my poor, dying, fifteen-year-old computer—started making sounds like it was being tortured. The screen flickered. The loading bar hit 100%.
And then it exploded.
Not metaphorically. Actually, literally, physically exploded. The screen shattered outward in a spray of glass and sparks, the casing cracked down the middle, and this weird, hot gust of wind blasted past my face like something had been released.
I threw myself behind the door, heart hammering, waiting for the fire alarm to go off.
Silence.
I peered around the doorframe.
My laptop was dead. Not just dead—murdered. The screen was a spiderweb of cracks, smoke curling lazily from the keyboard. It looked like it had been hit by lightning.
"What the hell, man…"
I sat down slowly, staring at the wreckage. My dad bought me that laptop. First computer I ever owned. It was old, it was slow, it crashed constantly, but it was mine. And now it was a paperweight.
I was so screwed. How was I supposed to afford a new one? I barely scraped by as it was—rent for this shoebox studio, part-time job at the convenience store, ramen budget carefully allocated. A new laptop wasn't happening.
Maybe it was a sign. Maybe I just needed to accept that my laptop's time had come. Fifteen years was a good run, all things considered.
I cleaned up the mess in a daze. Glass shards, melted plastic, the faint smell of burnt electronics. Tossed it all in a garbage bag, set it by the door. My room felt emptier without it.
I flopped onto my bed and stared at the ceiling. The same crack I'd been staring at for three years was still there, spreading a little wider every winter.
This ceiling's definitely going to collapse on my face someday.
I closed my eyes.
Just sleep. Tomorrow's school. Back to being invisible, back to blending into the walls, back to being Leon the quiet kid who reads too much and talks too little.
I let the darkness take me.
---
"Wake up."
I groaned, rolling over.
"Hm… five more minutes…"
"I said wake up."
Something grabbed my arm and yanked. Hard. I hit the floor face-first, blanket tangling around my legs, the cold biting through my shirt.
"What the—"
I spun around, fists up, ready to fight whoever had broken into my apartment.
And froze.
She was breathtaking. That's the only word for it. Not just pretty, not just beautiful—breathtaking, like someone had knocked the air out of my lungs and replaced it with static. Silver-gold hair bound up in elaborate rings, catching the faint morning light like spun metal. Eyes the color of amethysts, cold and sharp, fixed on me. She held a sword at my throat—actual sword, not a prop, not a cosplay replica—and the tip was already drawing blood.
"You are frightening him, Visenya."
Another voice. I tore my gaze away and looked behind the first woman.
And my heart actually stuttered.
If Visenya was breathtaking, Rhaenys was something else entirely. Softer, warmer, with that same silver-gold hair loose and flowing like a waterfall. Her eyes were the same impossible purple, but they sparkled with amusement rather than judgment. She had this little smile playing at the corners of her lips, like she was watching something genuinely entertaining.
"Shut up and stay behind me, Rhaenys."
Wait.
Visenya. Rhaenys.
As in, the Conqueror's sisters. The original dragonriders. Dark Sister and Meraxes. The warrior queen and the one who laughed at everything.
I blinked at them. They blinked back.
And I did the dumbest thing I possibly could have done.
"Oh, thank God." I sagged in relief, the tension draining out of my shoulders. "It's just a dream."
Visenya's eyes narrowed. She pressed the blade harder against my throat, and I felt the sting of fresh blood.
"A dream," she repeated flatly.
Rhaenys giggled behind her. "He thinks he's dreaming, sister."
I reached up slowly, carefully, and touched my neck. My fingers came away red.
Warm. Wet. Real.
I looked at Visenya's cold, patient face. I looked at Rhaenys's amused smile. I looked at the very real sword that was very definitely pressed against my very real throat.
"W—WHAT THE HELL?!!"