From Storms to Thrones (Part 1)

Chapter 3: The Dragon Awaits

"Your Grace..." The words felt awkward on my tongue, but I remembered from the book that this was how Rhaenyra should be addressed. My voice was shaky, yet I tried to maintain a steady tone. "I mean no harm to you or your son. I know this sounds impossible, but I knew that if Lucerys were to travel to Storm's End, he would die."

Rhaenyra's eyes flashed with a mixture of surprise and suspicion, her grip tightening slightly on the goblet. The mention of her son Lucerys seemed to have struck a chord.

"How do you know this?" Rhaenyra demanded, leaning forward. Her violet eyes scanned my face with intense scrutiny, as if searching for any sign of deceit or delusion.

"I am not from Westeros," I said carefully, feeling the weight of the moment. Convincing this formidable woman, who could end my life with a mere command, that her entire existence was nothing but a story in my world was daunting. That the knowledge of her life, her family, and the kingdom she fought for and loved, was merely a tale for entertainment in my world.

Suddenly, a sinking realization hit me: she would not believe me. 

If I were in her shoes, I would doubt my own story too. The idea that I came from a different world entirely where her life and struggles were just written pages in a storybook seemed impossible.

Rhaenyra's eyes were steely, her patience wearing thin. "I have found that those who take too long in answering are often thinking of which lies to say next. Speak now, or I swear to you, your body will rot in that dungeon until your bones turn to ash."

The threat in her voice was unmistakable, a chilling reminder of the precariousness of my situation. I could feel the sweat forming on my brow, and the room seemed to close in around me. The silence was suffocating, and I knew I had no more time to think, to find a way out of this.

Rhaenyra's disdainful scoff cut through the tension like a knife. She turned her head toward the door, clearly preparing to call the guards. Her movement was deliberate, almost mechanical, as if my fate was already sealed in her mind.

Panic surged through me, a frantic need to do something—anything—to change the course of events. With a surge of desperation, I blurted out, "I am a seer!"

The words escaped my lips before I could fully comprehend their weight, and Rhaenyra's eyes shot back to me, her expression now a mix of shock and intense scrutiny. Her violet eyes widened, reflecting the same stunned disbelief that I felt.

In that moment, I was gripped by a wave of sheer self-loathing. 

God , I am a fucking idiot. 

The realization hit me like a physical blow. I had thrown out a claim so absurd, so far-fetched, it was as if I had leaped from a cliff into an abyss with nothing but hope to catch me. The room felt like it was spinning as I waited, breathless, for Rhaenyra's reaction.

The tension in the room became almost unbearable. My mind raced frantically, trying to recall any shred of information about the world I was trapped in. Seers—were they even a thing in Westeros? The term seemed more at home in the realm of Harry Potter.

Shit —did I get my fandoms mixed up?

In my frantic state, I realized just how absurd my claim must sound. The walls seemed to close in tighter, and a cold sweat trickled down my back. The truth of the matter was, I had no idea if seers existed in this world, and the fear of the unknown gnawed at me.

Oh hell.

I thought, my heart racing as I faced the grim reality. I was about to die, and I had no idea how to save myself. The weight of my predicament pressed down on me with crushing intensity.

"You—claim to have sight?" The Queen's voice was laced with disbelief, her face a mask of incredulity. She leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowed, as if trying to see through me and discern the truth. The air in the room seemed to crackle with tension, her skepticism palpable.

"Yes, Your Grace," I said, forcing the words out and committing to the lie. My heart pounded in my chest, the weight of the situation pressing down on me. There was no turning back now; I had to see this through, for better or worse.

Rhaenyra leaned forward, her violet eyes piercing into mine, searching for any hint of deceit. The room felt stifling, the air thick with tension. I could see the wheels turning in her mind, weighing the possibility of truth against the absurdity of my claim.

"And what exactly have you seen, seer?" she asked, her voice cold and sharp. "Tell me something that proves your sight, something that only the gods could have revealed to you."

Desperately, I searched my memory for something— anything —that could serve as proof. My knowledge of Westeros was vast, but I needed something specific, something that would make her believe me. Suddenly, I found something, but as I stared at the Queen, the words were hard to form.

"I know of your little girl, Visenya," I whispered, my voice trembling with the weight of what I was about to say.

Rhaenyra's reaction was immediate and visceral. She recoiled, her back slamming against the chair, her eyes wide with shock and pain. The mention of Visenya, her daughter, struck a nerve so deep it seemed to take her breath away. The raw emotion in her eyes was unmistakable, and it mirrored the grief I'd seen in countless parents while treating their children.

The books had briefly mentioned how Rhaenyra grieved for her daughter, a grief that was rarely spoken of and the reason behind Visenya's true death was known only to a select few. It was a private agony, and I had just torn open that wound. The tension in the room was palpable, the air thick with unspoken words and the weight of the secret I had just revealed.

"I know of the scales and malformations.  And how you grieved her—"

"Enough!" Rhaenyra's voice cracked through the room like a whip, her composure shattering as she jumped from her chair. Her face was a mask of fury and anguish, her hands trembling as she pointed at me, a silent command for silence.

The air in the room grew thick with tension, the weight of her grief and rage palpable. I had touched a wound so deep, so personal, that it felt like an intrusion into her very soul. My heart raced, and I could feel the cold sweat forming on my brow.

Rhaenyra's breathing was heavy, her chest rising and falling as she struggled to regain control. Her eyes, now filled with a mix of sorrow and fury, bore into me with an intensity that made me feel small and insignificant. I could see the battle within her, the conflict between believing my words and rejecting them as lies.

For a moment, the room was silent, the only sound the crackling of the fire and the distant murmur of the sea outside. Then, slowly, Rhaenyra lowered her hand, her expression shifting to one of steely resolve.

"Leave me," she ordered, her voice barely above a whisper but laced with authority. "Guards, take her back to the dungeon."

As the guards moved to obey, I felt a sinking dread in the pit of my stomach. Had I pushed too far? Had I sealed my fate with words meant to prove my sincerity?

Before the guards could take me, Rhaenyra spoke again, her voice softer but no less commanding. "You will stay in the dungeon until I decide what to do with you. But know this—if you have lied to me, if you are not what you claim to be, you will regret ever stepping foot in my kingdom."

With that, the guards escorted me out of the room, the door closing behind me with a resounding thud. I was left to wonder if my desperate attempt to convince her had brought me closer to survival—or a swift, unforgiving end.