He’d been staying in your apartment for a few weeks now. Ever since the night you stumbled into him on the sidewalk.

You’d been heading home from work, phone in one hand, keys in the other, when he stopped you with a sharp demand: “Where am I?”

His voice was clipped, his eye wild with confusion, and his whole presence so intense you nearly dropped everything right there.

Honestly, it was all a blur after that. You just remember staring at him—tall, silver-haired, dressed like some disgruntled fantasy prince from a Renaissance fair—and against every logical instinct, inviting him upstairs.

It didn’t take long to realize he wasn’t from here—or from this time.

You tried to wrap your head around it when he explained, how he simply woke up here, in a time and place nothing like Westeros.

The first few days, he was singularly focused, pacing your apartment, muttering about “King’s Landing” and demanding maps, ravens, or “a maester worth a damn.”

By day four, his determination to return to King’s Landing had begun to slip beneath the weight of curiosity.

The first time you came home after leaving him alone for the day, you found him in front of the microwave, eye narrowed, watching leftovers spin behind the glass like it was some kind of magic.

When it beeped, he flinched, before scowling at it like it had personally insulted him.

His favorite, by far, was the hairdryer and straightener. He barely reacted when you explained them, just a faint hum, the smallest twitch of a smirk.

But now?

He used them constantly, like some scared item.

Today you came home to find him sprawled on the couch, the TV remote clutched in his hand like a weapon he hadn’t quite mastered.

He scowled down at the buttons, muttering something sharp in High Valyrian before glancing up at you.

“I believe I’ve slain it,” he muttered, frowning down at the remote. “I pressed this…button, and the screen went black.”