I had just finished filming Season 1 of “Game of Thrones.

It was the start of 2011. I had recently wrapped up the primary period of "Round of Thrones," another HBO arrangement dependent on George R. R. Martin's "A Song of Ice and Fire" books. With no expert experience behind me, I'd been given the job of Daenerys Targaryen, otherwise called Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Lady of Dragonstone, Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons. As a youthful princess, Daenerys is sold in marriage to a musclebound Dothraki warlord named Khal Drogo. It's a long story—eight seasons in length—yet get the job done to say that she develops in stature and in quality. She turns into a figure of intensity and confidence. A little while later, young ladies would dress in platinum wigs and streaming robes to be Daenerys Targaryen for Halloween.

The show's makers, David Benioff and D. B. Weiss, have said that my character is a mix of Napoleon, Joan of Arc, and Lawrence of Arabia. But then, in the weeks after we wrapped up the main season, in spite of all the approaching energy of an attention battle and the arrangement première, I barely felt like an overcoming soul. I was startled. Alarmed of the consideration, unnerved of a business I scarcely comprehended, emilia clarke body frightened of endeavoring to follow through on the confidence that the makers of "Honored positions" had put in me. I felt, all around, uncovered. In the absolute first scene, I seemed bare, and, from that first press junket forward, I generally got a similar inquiry: some variety of "You play such a resilient lady, but you remove your garments. Why?" In my mind, I'd react, "What number of men do I have to murder to substantiate myself?"

To ease the pressure, I worked out with a coach. I was a TV performing artist now, all things considered, and that is the thing that TV on-screen characters do. We work out. On the morning of February 11, 2011, I was getting wearing the storage space of a rec center in Crouch End, North London, when I began to feel an awful cerebral pain going ahead. I was fatigued to the point that I could scarcely put on my shoes. When I began my exercise, I needed to compel myself through the initial couple of activities.

At that point my coach had me get into the board position, and I quickly felt just as a flexible band were crushing my cerebrum. I attempted to overlook the torment and push through it, however I just proved unable. I advised my coach I needed to take a break. Some way or another, nearly slithering, I made it to the storage space. I achieved the latrine, sank to my knees, and continued to be viciously, voluminously sick. In the interim, the torment—shooting, cutting, contracting torment—was deteriorating. At some dimension, I recognized what was occurring: my mind was harmed.

For a couple of minutes, I endeavored to will away the agony and the sickness. I said to myself, "I won't be incapacitated." I moved my fingers and toes to ensure that was valid. To keep my memory alive, I attempted to review, in addition to other things, a few lines from "Round of Thrones."

I heard a lady's voice originating from the following slow down, inquiring as to whether I was O.K. No, I wasn't. She came to support me and moved me onto my side, in the recuperation position. At that point everything moved toward becoming, on the double, uproarious and foggy. I recollect the sound of an alarm, an emergency vehicle; I heard new voices, somebody saying that my heartbeat was feeble. Emilia clarke was hurling bile. Somebody found my telephone and called my folks, who live in Oxfordshire, and they were advised to meet me at the crisis room of Whittington Hospital.

A mist of obviousness settled over me. From an emergency vehicle, I was wheeled on a gurney into a hall loaded up with the smell of disinfectant and the commotions of individuals in trouble. Since nobody comprehended what wasn't right with me, the specialists and medical attendants couldn't give me any medications to facilitate the torment.

At last, I was sent for a MRI, a cerebrum filter. The analysis was snappy and unpropitious: a subarachnoid discharge (SAH), a dangerous sort of stroke, brought about by seeping into the space encompassing the cerebrum. I'd had an aneurysm, a blood vessel burst. As I later learned, about 33% of SAH patients pass on quickly or before long. For the patients who do endure, pressing treatment is required to close the aneurysm, as there is an exceptionally high danger of a second, frequently lethal drain. If I somehow happened to live and maintain a strategic distance from horrendous deficiencies, I would must have dire medical procedure. What's more, and still, at the end of the day, there were no certifications.

I was taken by rescue vehicle to the National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery, a delightful redbrick Victorian heap in focal London. It was evening. My mum dozed in my emergency clinic ward, drooped in a seat, as I continued falling all through rest, in a condition of tranquilized wooziness, shooting torment, and steady bad dreams.