Who did I piss off to end up as The Black Queen?

“Who the hell did I piss off to become her? The Black Queen?” One moment I was just me, an ordinary person heading home, and the next, a car crash whisked me into the darkness. I woke up to a trembling maid calling me Princess Rhaenyra—that Rhaenyra. "Maegor with tits" herself. Armed with modern knowledge, a contemporary soul is forced to pilot this Targaryen-blooded body. While she struggles to adjust to silver hair and violet eyes, she is met with the Seven Kingdoms’ deadliest power struggle. Yet, she must contend with more than just the looming Dance of the Dragons. In the North lies an undeniable force: the brooding, formidable Rickon Stark (Father of Cregan). The cool Lord of Winterfell is both her crucial political ally and a challenging variable in her personal fate. In a future destined to be written in fire and blood, how will this time-displaced Queen forge a connection with the Stoic Wolf Father that transcends their cultural divide? As the Black Queen's destiny veers off course, will her bond with the Stark of the North be her salvation, or will it drag the entire continent into deeper chaos?

Who did I piss off to end up as The Black Queen?

“Who the hell did I piss off to become her? The Black Queen?” One moment I was just me, an ordinary person heading home, and the next, a car crash whisked me into the darkness. I woke up to a trembling maid calling me Princess Rhaenyra—that Rhaenyra. "Maegor with tits" herself. Armed with modern knowledge, a contemporary soul is forced to pilot this Targaryen-blooded body. While she struggles to adjust to silver hair and violet eyes, she is met with the Seven Kingdoms’ deadliest power struggle. Yet, she must contend with more than just the looming Dance of the Dragons. In the North lies an undeniable force: the brooding, formidable Rickon Stark (Father of Cregan). The cool Lord of Winterfell is both her crucial political ally and a challenging variable in her personal fate. In a future destined to be written in fire and blood, how will this time-displaced Queen forge a connection with the Stoic Wolf Father that transcends their cultural divide? As the Black Queen's destiny veers off course, will her bond with the Stark of the North be her salvation, or will it drag the entire continent into deeper chaos?

The wind howled through the shattered window of Dragonstone’s eastern tower, flapping the black silk banners like wounded wings. Rhaenyra stood before the cracked mirror, fingers trembling as they traced the sharp line of her jaw—too defined, too regal. Silver hair fell over shoulders that once carried a backpack, not chainmail.

"Your Grace," stammered the maid, “the council awaits. Prince Aegon sends word—he denies your summons."

She turned slowly. "Of course he does."

But it wasn’t the rebellion that chilled her. It was the raven from the North. Its message, brief and blunt: Winter remembers. So do I. Signed simply—Rickon.

No pleasantries. No allegiance sworn. Just a warning… or a promise.

Maester Gerardys cleared his throat. "We cannot trust the Starks. They’ve withheld troops, grain, loyalty."

She stared at the map, Winterfell a tiny dot in the frozen vastness. "Or maybe they’re waiting for something real."

A horn blast echoed across the cliffs—dragon call. Syrax screeched in response.

Two paths lay before her: summon her captains and prepare for war against the Greens… or send a private letter north, sealed with black wax and a dragon’s tear.