Chapter 2
Chapter 2: The Conqueror Arrives
Sansa
Sansa sat stiffly on the silk-draped bed, her wrists still bound, her mind a storm of questions.
The walls of her chamber gleamed in the dim light, carved with golden dragons and fire—symbols of the queen who had taken her captive. Through the open balcony, the Nile stretched in the distance, its dark waters shimmering under the moon. She could smell the city beyond the palace walls—smoke, spices, the scent of war lingering in the air.
This was real.
She was here.
And Daenerys Nefer-Tari, Pharaoh of Kemet, stood before her, demanding answers.
“Tell me why you wear her face,” Daenerys said again, stepping closer.
Her voice was calm, but there was an edge to it—a sharp, dangerous curiosity. The way a lioness watches a wounded gazelle.
Sansa forced herself to meet her gaze. She couldn’t afford to look weak.
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I don’t know who this queen is, and I don’t know why I look like her.”
A flicker of something unreadable crossed Daenerys’ face.
“Lies,” she murmured.
“It’s the truth,” Sansa insisted. “I don’t belong here. I don’t even know how I got here.”
Daenerys tilted her head slightly. Her silver braids cascaded over her shoulder, glinting in the torchlight.
“You expect me to believe that you simply… appeared? Here, in my palace? On the night I was set to conquer Waset?”
“I don’t expect you to believe anything,” Sansa snapped. “I don’t even believe it myself!”
Silence.
The tension between them was thick, heavy, dangerous.
Sansa’s heart pounded. She needed to make Daenerys believe her. Needed to survive long enough to understand what had happened to her.
So she tried a different approach.
“If I were this queen,” she said carefully, “why would I be here? Shouldn’t I be in Waset, leading my army?”
Daenerys studied her for a long moment. She was thinking. Calculating.
“You should be,” she admitted.
“Then how could I be here?”
A flicker of doubt.
Just for a moment.
Then it was gone. Daenerys stepped closer, so close Sansa could feel the warmth of her body in the cool night air.
“You could be a spy,” Daenerys murmured.
Sansa scoffed. “A spy? A spy who doesn’t even know her own name?”
Daenerys’ gaze drifted over her, assessing, analyzing.
“You do not carry yourself like a queen,” she mused. “Your posture is wrong. Your speech is wrong.”
Sansa clenched her fists. “I told you. I’m not her.”
Daenerys tilted her head, her lips curving into something almost like a smile.
“Then who are you?”
Sansa hesitated. How could she even begin to explain?
“I…” She swallowed hard. “My name is Sansa Stark. I’m… I was an archaeologist.”
The word felt foreign, meaningless in this time.
“A scholar?” Daenerys mused. “No. You have the body of a noblewoman. The skin of one who has never worked in the fields. Your hands are too soft for a servant.”
Sansa felt a shiver run down her spine. She was trapped in a world where nothing about her made sense.
“I don’t know how I got here,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “But I’m not your enemy.”
Another long pause.
Then, slowly, Daenerys reached for the dagger at her waist.
Sansa stiffened, her breath catching in her throat.
But Daenerys didn’t strike. Instead, she knelt before her and cut the ropes binding her wrists with one swift movement.
Sansa’s hands fell free. She rubbed at her sore skin, stunned.
“You say you are not my enemy,” Daenerys said. “But I do not trust you.”
Sansa met her gaze, trying to understand this woman, this queen, this conqueror.
“Then what will you do with me?”
Daenerys’ lips curved slightly.
“For now?” She rose gracefully to her feet. “You will remain in this palace, under my watch.”
Sansa tensed. “So I’m still a prisoner.”
Daenerys tilted her head, as if considering.
“A prisoner? Or a queen who does not yet know she is one?”
And with that, she turned and left the room, the door locking behind her.
Leaving Sansa alone with a racing heart and a thousand unanswered questions.
Daenerys
She did not believe her.
Not entirely.
But something about the woman was… wrong.
As Daenerys walked through the marble halls of her palace, her mind was a storm of uncertainty.
She had seen Queen Sa-Ra on the battlefield. She had fought against her for months. The Queen of Waset was ruthless, brilliant, cunning—the last real challenge in Daenerys’ way .
This woman, however?
She was soft. Uncertain. A noblewoman, perhaps. But not a ruler. Not the warrior Daenerys had prepared to defeat.
And yet, she had her face.
The resemblance was unsettling, like a mirror that did not quite reflect the truth.
Daenerys entered her war chambers, where her closest advisors stood waiting—Grey Worm, Missandei, and General Hor-Aken.
“My Pharaoh,” Grey Worm greeted, bowing his head. “The Queen of Waset has not been seen since last night’s battle. Our spies report that the palace was in chaos before dawn. Many of her soldiers have fled.”
Daenerys narrowed her eyes. “Fled? Or scattered to regroup?”
Hor-Aken, a broad-shouldered warrior with dark kohl lining his eyes, stepped forward. “The city still resists, but without their queen, morale is breaking. Many believe she is dead.”
“She is not dead,” Daenerys said sharply. “She is here.”
Grey Worm and Hor-Aken exchanged looks.
“But how?” Missandei asked, stepping closer. She was the only one who ever dared to question Daenerys so openly. “The queen was still in Waset during the siege. We received no reports of her leaving.”
“Because she did not leave,” Daenerys said. “And yet she is here.”
She looked out the window, her mind turning over the impossible.
The woman in her chambers was not a queen. And yet, her face was the one Daenerys had prepared to strike down in battle.
A trick? A plot by Sa-Ra to deceive her?
No.
She had seen real fear in her eyes. She had seen genuine confusion in the way she spoke.
Whatever this was, it was not deception.
And that made it all the more dangerous.
“Send word to our spies in Waset,” Daenerys commanded. “I want confirmation of the real Queen Sa-Ra’s whereabouts. If she still lives, I want her brought to me in chains.”
She turned to Missandei.
“And the imposter?” her advisor asked.
Daenerys exhaled slowly. She should kill her. It would be the easiest solution. If she were a trick, a weapon sent by the enemy, her death would end the game before it began.
And yet…
A part of her hesitated.
A part of her wanted to know more.
“She stays,” Daenerys said. “For now.”
She could feel Missandei’s questioning gaze but ignored it.
If this false queen was a threat, she would root it out.
And if she was something else—something impossible, something lost to time—Daenerys would find a way to use it to her advantage.
Sansa
Sansa sat in the quiet of her chambers, staring at the locked door, her heart still racing.
She had faced many things in her life—loss, betrayal, war. But nothing had ever prepared her for this.
A day ago, she had been an archaeologist, leading an excavation in the Egyptian desert.
Now, she was trapped in a palace that should have been nothing more than ruins.
The realization sent a cold shiver through her.
She was in Ancient Egypt.
Not a vision. Not a dream. This was real.
She looked down at her hands, her fingers trembling. How? How had she come here? Was she dead? Had she gone mad?
She pressed her palms against her temples, forcing herself to breathe, to think.
“The lost queen shall return when the dragon rises once more,” she murmured.
The inscription she had read before the world had vanished.
A lost queen.
A dragon.
Her gaze flickered to the golden dragon engravings on the walls, to the woman who had taken her prisoner—the Pharaoh, the conqueror, the dragon incarnate.
Daenerys.
Sansa swallowed hard.
The pieces were starting to fit, but the picture they painted terrified her.
Because if she was here—if she had truly traveled back in time—then she was not supposed to be here at all.
She had taken the place of another woman. A queen. A ruler in the middle of a war.
And if the real Queen Sa-Ra returned?
What would happen to her then?
Her stomach twisted, her body tensing as she heard the door unlock.
Sansa shot to her feet just as Missandei entered the room, flanked by two guards.
“You are to be bathed and dressed,” Missandei said, her tone unreadable. “The Pharaoh wishes to dine with you tonight.”
Sansa’s pulse stopped.
“Why?” she demanded.
Missandei did not answer.
Instead, the guards stepped forward, holding out fine linen garments in shades of gold and white, embroidered with lapis lazuli and carnelian. The attire of a queen, not a prisoner.
Sansa exhaled slowly, knowing she had no choice.
She needed to play along, at least until she understood what had happened to her.
But one thing was clear:
She had caught the interest of a dragon.
And she did not know if she would survive the fire.