From Storms to Thrones (Part 1)

Consciousness returned to me in fragments, each piece accompanied by a throbbing pain in my head. This was the third time I'd been hit hard enough to lose consciousness in a very short stretch of time, and I knew all too well the dangers of head injuries. My medical training screamed warnings at me about concussions and the chance of internal bleeding, as the ache in my skull was relentless.

As my eyes fluttered open, the blurry surroundings slowly came into focus. I was no longer in the dank, cold dungeon. Instead, I found myself in a large, well-appointed room. The walls were lined with rich tapestries, and a massive fireplace dominated one side, a warm fire crackling within it. The light from the flames flickered across the stone walls, casting long shadows. To one side, there was a large desk cluttered with parchment, quills, and inkpots. A sitting area with plush chairs and a small table sat opposite the desk, and against the far wall was a grand bed with heavy curtains drawn back.

I was sitting in a sturdy wooden chair near the center of the room. As I moved to wipe the blurriness from my eyes, I realized with a jolt that my hands were tied to the armrests. A rough rope bit into my wrists, holding them firmly in place. I glanced down and saw that my ankles were similarly restrained, the ropes looping around the legs of the chair.

Panic surged through me as I tugged at the bindings, testing their strength. They were tight, and the chair was solid, offering no give. I took a deep breath, trying to calm the rising tide of fear. I needed to think clearly, to understand where I was and who had brought me here.

The room was eerily quiet, save for the crackling of the fire and the occasional snap of wood as it burned. The opulence of the surroundings was a stark contrast to the cold, damp dungeon I had been in before. It suggested that whoever had taken me here had power and wealth—traits that could be either a blessing or a curse in this world.

"My son tells me you warned him he would die if he traveled to Storms End?"

The voice was unmistakable, laced with authority and a touch of incredulity. It sent a shiver down my spine. I tried to turn my head to confirm who I knew was speaking, but the ropes binding me to the chair prevented any significant movement. My neck strained against the restraints, but I couldn't quite twist around far enough to get a glimpse of the speaker.

The voice continued, closer now, with a tone that brooked no nonsense. "Explain yourself, and do so carefully. Your life depends on it."

Just then, Rhaenyra Targaryen, the rightful Queen of Westeros, came into view, her presence commanding and regal. She walked past me with an air of calm authority, heading straight to a small table adorned with cups and a goblet. As she poured herself a drink, the liquid splashed gently, the only sound breaking the heavy silence of the room.

With deliberate movements, she selected a chair similar to the one I was bound to and dragged it across the stone floor. The screech of wood against stone echoed sharply off the walls, heightening the tension in the room. She positioned the chair directly in front of me, her actions measured and purposeful, and sat down gracefully.

Rhaenyra crossed her legs and took a sip from the goblet, her violet eyes never leaving mine. Her gaze was piercing, a mix of curiosity and steely resolve, making it clear that she was in control of this encounter. The weight of her scrutiny was almost unbearable, and I felt the urgency of the moment press down on me.

"Speak," said the Queen, her voice carrying the weight of command.

I swallowed hard, feeling the dryness in my throat. The reality of the situation hit me again—this was Rhaenyra Targaryen, a pivotal figure in Westerosi history, and she was demanding answers. My mind raced, searching for the right words to explain myself, to convey the truth without sounding mad.