Imagine "Reject"

Omg! Your x chubby reader daemon is so, so, so good!!! that I don't even have words to describe. you are very talented and you write super well, please give us a part 3,4,5 or as many as you want, just give us more please 🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽♥️♥️♥️

Hello,

Oh thank you, I don’t really know how to react, I’m shy by nature, so again thank you, it really encourages me

There will be many more parts, I don’t know yet how many

I will do my best to write them, it will take a little time, I have to structure the ideas in my head.

This will be for the followers and the few that have read my fanfictions

Its not a easy decision for me... but...

I will not post fanfiction until i found a beta reader, because sometime writing fanfictions is a lonely activity.

And I feel really alone

Its good to know that you have read and put a like... I will never go against it.

Its just that I feel that... I write bad fanfictions, and even if i write on my side. I'm just "why posting?" As i will be alone not having a conversation or even a word to be better

So yes...

I'm sorry for the ask of fanfictions, but they will not be post before long time

Avec affection,

Earenwen

(If you want to read what i have posted before, here the link of my masterlist)

It's not because I'm out that I will not see if i have messages (even if i doubt, that I will have a message)

Teaser " Not wanted"

Pairing : Daemon Targaryen x Chubby fem reader

Summer : "The silver hair of the prince was blown by the slight breeze, his purplish gaze burned with an anger worthy of his dragon. Y/n although set back could observe the scene unfolding in front of her eyes. Daemon was in front of her father, Dark sister in hand."

Author’s note: Hi, I propose to tease a writing, that I wrote to clear my head of a day or even more, complicated.

---

There is a feeling, or will it be instinct, which tells you quietly that you are not wanted in a place, it can happen everywhere, whether in school, in the street, at work, but also in the family.

This feeling grows over time and it is not pleasant, the worst being the evening when the truth comes out. When your father is drunk with all the alcohol he has drunk since the beginning of the afternoon explains to you that you will never be born, that your life you owe to your mother who wanted more than anything in the world a child. That explains, a lot of things, like never having a "congratulations" when you achieve something, or a "I’m proud of you, I love you my daughter". No. Never, just "Did you see how fat you are?" "Stop reading", "Why don’t you read?" , being cut off at every moment, "Shut up!" followed by "Why don’t you answer me?". Little by little, all your self-esteem eventually crumbles, by a member of your closest family. There is also this question, "What would I do alone?" The moments when you imagine running away.

Being born on Westeros is not a dream life, whether we are peasants or nobles, we have our own personal hell. Yours is your father. Although not wanted, your father decided to do something with you, and marrying a second-rate lord was a good solution. His son, born of a first union, was already married to a lady from your region, strengthening the ties of the two families.

His son, he saw it differently, for him he had nothing to reproach himself. But to all the others, he was a frightful asshole, who amused himself by threatening servants and lords of smaller house than yours. Manipulating everyone around you, going so far as to threaten you, morally and physically, explaining clearly, that the day your father died, he would put you at the door of your castle. But you were just a ball and chain. Your father did not want to marry you, at the very beginning, prefer that no one speaks of you or shows interest, waiting for the coming years, he ends up wanting to see you leave with a lord, he could not see you when he was drunk, insulting you with various sentences, more or less painful, explaining that nobody would want you, the least that nothing. Deep down, he was bubbling, refusing to accept that someone was interested in you.

During the various tournaments in which he participated as spectator, he tried to find you a husband in vain, he reproached you, while it was his fault, because no lords had seen you in the flesh. The lords are trying hard to convince him to get you out of the castle, wanting to see who this misterieuse young woman was.

A date was chosen, those of the games organized by Lord Baratheon, for the adoubement of his eldest son.

The handmaid and the dragons part 2

---Part 1---

Summary: The last Farewell of Alyssa, pain not only one personne. A prince needed to talk.

Pairing: Baelon Targaryen x servant reader, Child Daemon Targaryen x servant reader and Child Viserys Targaryen x servant reader (all platonic)

Trigger warning: death, mourning and funeral, tears

Note from the author: part a little shorter than the first part, but I wanted to focus on an event. Like the first part, the reader is not described physically.

English is not my native tongue, if mistakes have been able to pass my correction, I will correct them soon

---

The fog was falling on the area, heavy clouds covered the sky and darkened the landscape. A veil of sadness covered the castle.

The sisters of silence had walked from the great septuary. The servants, lords, and ladys were all looking sad and mourning. If it were not the sound of the armor of the guards and the wind blowing in the streets of King’s Landing, the castle was nothing but a dead silence.

Queen Alysanne was to stay with the children for two days. On the third day, you looked at Viserys and Daemon, you tried to keep your tears and deep sadness secret, your heart tight, you helped the children getting ready. Viserys had red eyes and ate, having cried since the time when the masters had refused to let the children see their mother. Baelon was so devasted that seeing Viserys in this state, had him so hurted to see him, that he turned back and refused to see the children not wanting to show them how devastated he was, so see them sad. He wanted to show himself strong for them, despite the emptiness he felt in the place of his heart.

Daemon was still too young to understand clearly all that had happened, he asked after his mother, but the servants, nannies and Targaryen only replied that he could not see her.

The evening when you were walking around and Viserys was crying, you tried to stay calm and nice.

"Where is Mom?"

"In a better world, little prince..." Daemon and Viserys looked at you with their child’s eyes, not understanding why their mother had left without them.

That night, you told them a story you had already heard (from family, friends, others), a metaphor about death and life after it, whether for the people who are grieving, or the person who died and his crossing into the afterlife.

After all, it also helped you in some way to mourn your loss, which was quick because of your position as a servant. Even if deep down you where hurt.

The next morning, you woke up earlier than usual, you had given yourself the task of looking after the children, to get in the easier task for the other servants not to have to look after them. It was the best way for you not to end up breaking down.

The clothes had been taken and organized in order to optimize their change of outfit, a basin of hot water was placed so that they could wash off their night of sleep more or less agitate. Everything was close and yet you did not want to wake them, you wanted to leave them in the realm of dreams. But it was necessary to wake them up, for their final goodbye with their mother.

---

The wind had faded as everyone gathered around the funeral pyre. Baelon was in front of everyone, near the body of Alyssa, his shoulders were shaken by his sobs. The queen took Daemon in her arms to bring him near Alyssa.

"Why is mommy hiding? Why is Dad crying? Why is Vhagar here? Will mommy wake up?"

And so on the questions were. Follows from Viserys, who tried not to cry. You could hear him sniffing, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his tunic. With a broken voice, he said goodbye to his mother, he laid down small flowers picked on the way up the hill. wanting something cute to be near his mother.

Viserys and Daemon stood side by side behind their father. Jaehaeris and Alysanne stood a few steps away from them, as did some of the royal family, like prince Aemon and his wife Jocelyne Baratheon. The guards were posted not far from them, and finally a few more steps away, you stood with some servants, some of them were your friends, everyone were in different level sad, some people at the edges of crying. You could hear people sobbing, although everyone tried to keep up a good figure, appearances were not misleading.

Baelon took some time before moving back from the pyr, Aemon having approached him and placed his hands on his shoulders in order to support him in this terrible event. It is with a hoarse and broken voice that he says to fear word in High Valyrian.

"Dracarys..."

Vhaegar looked at Baelon, her gigantic head slowly moving, the dragon watching Baelon, you thought to see a gleam of understanding in the dragon’s eyes, but quickly pulled out this idea from your head when you heard the small voice of Daemon.

"Mommy ?" His voice was filled with misunderstanding and concern.

When Vhaegar moved her head to line up to set the fire, Daemon grabbed Viserys' tunic and shaked him. When the flames touched the woods, Daemon screamed.

"Big brother! Mommy’s is hurted !! "

But Viserys did not move, tears running down his cheeks. Daemon ran to Baelon.

"Daddy! Mommy’s hurt!!!"

He clings to the leg of a Baelon crying in Aemon’s arms, shaking him and screaming at full lung, tears begin to flow down his cheeks. He looked at his grandparents but they kept a steady face, which did not give confidence to Daemon.

When he see you, he runned towards you, you put yourself on his level and took him in your arms.

"Y/nickname! They hurt mommy!! Please!! Help her!!!"

"I’m sorry, Daemon, I can’t do anything..."

"A magic kiss!"

"A magic kiss can’t help your mommy... I’m sorry..." Your last words were between soft sob.

When Daemon saw you crying, he cried even more, punching on your shoulders, sad and angry at you. He did not speak to you for a week. It's hurted him, that people not helped him in the face of the flames of Vhaegar.

---

A few days after the funeral, while you were washing the sheets of the rooms that were assigned to you during the day. You saw prince Baelon walking towards you. You were seated in the lavender’s basin, near other servants. The prince’s presence was not at all customary. He approached with a sure and fast pace. He stopped only once in front of you.

"Leave us." His voice left no choice to the servants present, who with a nod of the head went away. "We must speak."

You looked at the prince, while laying the linen to be taken from you, and let him speak.

"You have always been close to Alyssa..." Her eyes are darkened by the mention of his late wife. "And my children."

"That’s right my prince." This talk with Baelon made you uncomfortable, because you spoke very little to him now even less.

"Alyssa loved you very much, my sons also like you very much..."

Baelon sighed and sat down on the edge of the basin, you could see his purple eyes, circled by purple mark, the features of his face slightly dig in, you worried about him.

"I should not have gone into this war against Dorne... I should have stayed with her..."

"My prince... All hoped that the princess would recover... The maesters took care of her... We were all there... Her loss is a tragedy for all of us and even more so, for you and your sons. At least you were there, she knew you were safe and sound." You didn’t know if your words could help him but you tried anyway.

"What would have happened if I wasn’t here?!"

"Your sons would have been by her side, your mother would have been by her side, we wouldn’t have let her go alone."

Baelon began to weep, tears slowly flowing from his eyes.

"Why her ? What did I do to lose her ?"

"Nothing wrong, my prince..."

"I never cheated on her, never had bastards... And... And..." Baelon’s not going to continue his cries taking the lead.

"I’m sorry my prince..." You don’t look at him anymore, leaving a hesitant hand, to rest on one of his shoulders.

You felt him redeem, at the touch of your hand, but say nothing, leaving completely to his sadness.

"You are not alone, my prince... We are here to support you"

Baelon remained in the basin for several hours, showing his grief completely. It gripped your heart, you could not imagine how much it had to be destroyed within itself. It was in silence that you finished your washing, at the prince’s expense.

"You go to Daemon and Viserys?"

"After changing the sheets of Prince Aegon’s crib."

"How do my children react?"

"They miss you, my prince... It would be good for them to see you." Baelon looked at you with his purple eyes. " They need you my prince, you have lost your wife, but they have lost their mother... Let them not lose their father too. "

"Yes... you’re right... but it’s so hard..."

"Seeing them might do you some good, my prince." Baelon looked at you and you smiled softly.

“Maybe... yes...”

Baelon nodded his head, before moving to your side towards the castle. Your arms carrying baskets of linens. The wind blew gently, letting fly away the few dead leaves that had formed in this early autumn.

"My prince, I hope that one day your heart will find peace..."

“I doubt that will ever happen.”

"We don’t know what the future holds for us, my prince, your sons may give you some peace."

“The void left by Alyssa is so great...”

"But your sons are present, they hold your heart."

Baelon shook his head slightly, think of your words, full of optimism, that optimism which had been torn away from him for several days.

---

Tag list : @avalyaaa

Wow... Maegor, Daemon and Aegon I🔥🔥🔥

HOTD Characters when you posted something that angered them on instagram.

a/n : with their revenge.

Aegon :

Aegon wasn’t just jealous—he was seething.

He hadn’t been paying much attention to his phone, probably nursing a drink or sprawled out on his bed in boredom, when his notifications started going off. Dozens of messages, tags, and mentions, all leading back to one thing.

Your post.

The second he saw it, his entire body tensed. His fingers gripped the phone so tightly he nearly cracked the screen.

You were practically naked. The lighting was teasing, the pose deliberate—bare skin, just barely covered, revealing far too much. His mouth went dry, his jaw locked, and his pulse spiked with something dark and possessive.

And then, the comments.

“I think I just died and went to heaven.”

“No way you’re single posting this.”

“You’re actually cruel for this.”

“Let me take you out, I’ll treat you better than he ever could.”

Aegon snapped.

His tongue pressed hard against his cheek, his breathing slow and measured—forced control. Every part of him burned. The thought of other men looking at you like this, imagining things they had no right to—it made his vision blur with rage.

Did you want this? Were you trying to make him lose it? Because if so, congratulations. It worked.

His hands were shaking as he opened your messages.

Aegon: What the fuck is wrong with you?

Aegon: Take it down. NOW.

Seconds passed. No response.

His jaw ticked, his heart pounding. He could already see you smirking at your phone, enjoying this.

Aegon: Do you think this is funny? You think I’ll just sit back while you let every desperate asshole on the internet drool over you?

Another moment of silence.

And then—

Aegon: Fine. You don’t want to listen? Then I’m coming to you.

He didn’t care where you were, who you were with. This wasn’t going to be solved over text. If you thought you could push him, make him jealous, tease him like this—

You were about to find out exactly what jealous Aegon Targaryen really looked like.

Aegon Revenge :

THE INTERNET WAS NOT READY.

People had barely survived your last stunt.

And then—

He ended them.

A video.

Dim lighting. A massive, ornate mirror reflecting everything.

You—completely bare, wrapped in Aegon’s arms, your back pressed flush against his chest. His grip on your thighs, fingers digging in as he held you up, your body rocking against him.

And then—

Him.

Silver hair messy, sweat dripping down his bare chest. His lips bruised, parted, his eyes half-lidded—but focused. Locked on the mirror. On you. On himself.

He didn’t even turn off the sound.

Your whimpers. His low groans. The sound of skin against skin.

And then—his voice. Rough. Arrogant. Possessive.

“Let them watch. Let them know exactly who you belong to.”

And the caption?

“You’ll never be me. You’ll never have her.”

THE INTERNET? DESTROYED.

The guys:

“What the actual fuck?”

“No way. NO WAY. I refuse.”

“Delete this right now, Aegon, I’m not joking.”

“BLOCKED. REPORTED. SOBBING.”

“She was supposed to be ours. OURS, YOU BASTARD.”

“First, she posts that picture, now THIS? Haven’t we suffered enough?”

“Aegon. BRO. WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.”

“This wasn’t just a flex. This was a declaration of war.”

“Bro didn’t even try to be subtle. Just straight-up ruined us.”

“I WAS LIVING A PEACEFUL LIFE, AEGON.”

“I can’t even be mad. He won. He fucking won.”

The Girls:

“This is the most disrespectful thing I have ever seen, and I need more.”

“The mirror. The hand placement. The fucking arrogance. I’m unwell.”

“HOW DO I SIGN UP FOR THIS LIFE.”

“He knows he’s that guy, and he’s making sure we do too.”

“Aegon is actually dangerous because why is this so hot??”

“This should be illegal. In every country. And yet I can’t look away.”

Meanwhile, Aegon?

He was smirking, watching the absolute chaos in the comments, lazily scrolling, completely unbothered.

And just to finish them off, he dropped a comment under his own post:

“Cope. She’s screaming my name, not yours.”

With that—

The internet was officially incinerated.

Aemond :

Aemond rarely paid attention to social media. It was a distraction, a meaningless void filled with people desperate for attention. But when his phone buzzed relentlessly—notifications flooding in, people tagging him, sending him something over and over—he knew something was wrong.

Then he saw it.

Your post.

His entire body went rigid. His grip on the phone tightened, fingers twitching against the screen as his eye locked onto the image.

You were practically naked.

The dim lighting barely concealed you, your pose deliberate, teasing, calculated. It left just enough to the imagination while making it painfully obvious what you wanted people to see.

And judging by the comments, it was working.

“You’re actually a goddess.”

“This is illegal. It has to be.”

“I need a minute. Maybe an hour. Maybe my whole life.”

“If he doesn’t wife you after this, I will.”

Aemond’s jaw clenched so tightly it ached. His chest burned with something vicious, a white-hot fury that spread through his veins like wildfire.

Who the fuck did these men think they were? Speaking like this—like they even had the right to look at you, let alone imagine more.

His breathing was slow, controlled, forced—because if he let himself fully feel this, he’d break something.

He opened your messages, his fingers moving before he could even think.

Aemond: Take it down.

No response.

His teeth ground together, his patience already paper-thin. He could feel you smirking at your phone, waiting, pushing him.

Aemond: Now.

Still nothing.

A dangerous heat flickered behind his eye. His grip on the phone was dangerous now, his mind already racing with possibilities.

Aemond: You think this is a game? You think I’ll just sit back while you let every desperate bastard in the world stare at what’s mine?

His lips curled into a sneer as he refreshed your post, seeing the numbers climb—more likes, more comments, more eyes on you.

Fine. If you wanted attention, he was about to give it to you.

Aemond: You’re going to regret this.

And before he even gave you a chance to answer, he sent one last message.

Aemond: I’m coming to you. Right now.

You wanted to test him? To push him to the edge? You were about to see exactly what happened when Aemond Targaryen is jealous.

Aemond revenge :

The Internet Was Not Just Broken—It Was Destroyed.

Aemond had been quiet lately. Too quiet.

People should have known he was plotting.

And then—

He dropped the video.

Dark sheets. Low lighting. Your body sprawled against his bed, wrists tied above your head, satin bindings digging into your skin.

And then—

His hand.

Slow. Intentional. Inside your cunt.

Aemond wasn’t even looking at the camera—his gaze was locked on you. Sharp. Unrelenting. His lips curled into something dangerous as he watched you struggle beneath him.

And then—his voice. Low. Rough. Possessive.

“They can watch. But they’ll never touch.”

And the caption?

“Don’t bother fantasizing. She’s already ruined for anyone else.”

The Internet? Utterly Incinerated.

The Guys:

“I can’t keep doing this, bro.”

“AEMOND. THIS WAS NOT NECESSARY.”

“This wasn’t even a flex. This was pure domination.”

“I was a happy man. Now I’m in hell.”

“He could have just hinted at it. But no. He had to prove it.”

“What the actual fuck is this??”

“I just dropped to my knees in Walmart.”

“I need time to process. Maybe a lifetime.”

“WHO ALLOWED THIS???”

“No way. NO WAY. I refuse to accept this reality.”

“This is actually a hate crime"

The Girls:

“The hand placement. The bindings. I actually feel pain.”

“Aemond Targaryen is actually disrespectful for this.”

“I don’t know whether to cry, scream, or book a one-way flight to his bed.”

“The way he’s just watching her struggle—I am NOT OKAY.”

“WHO GAVE HIM THE RIGHT??”

“I hate her. I love her. I want to be her.”

“The fact that he tied her up and still made sure to show off?? I need a moment.”

Meanwhile, Aemond?

Unbothered. Probably sipping wine, watching men suffer, knowing no one could ever take you from him.

And just to finish them off, he dropped a comment under his own post:

“Cry harder. She’s not leaving my bed.”

With that—

The internet was officially annihilated.

Jace :

Jace wasn’t the type to obsess over social media. He didn’t scroll mindlessly or waste time checking comments. But when his phone wouldn’t stop buzzing—when his notifications were flooded with messages, tags, and people sending him something over and over—he knew something was up.

Then he saw it.

And everything else faded.

You. Practically naked. The lighting was soft, shadows barely concealing you. The way you posed, the way your skin was on full display—every inch of the picture was deliberate.

And the comments?

“Holy fucking shit.”

“No way in hell Jace is letting this slide.”

“You’re actually unreal.”

“If you ever need someone to treat you better… just say the word, baby.”

Jace’s jaw locked. His grip on the phone tightened so hard his knuckles went white.

His chest burned—jealousy, rage, something dark and possessive twisting deep in his gut. Did you want this attention? Were you enjoying the way these men spoke to you, the way they looked at you? Did you forget who you belonged to?

His vision blurred as he opened your messages, his fingers moving before he could think.

Jace: Take it down. Now.

Nothing.

His knee bounced, jaw ticking as he refreshed your page, watching the numbers climb. More likes. More comments. More eyes on you.

Jace: Don’t make me repeat myself.

Still nothing.

His tongue pressed hard against the inside of his cheek, his blood boiling. He knew you were doing this on purpose. Testing him. Pushing him.

Jace: You think this is funny? Letting every desperate asshole in the world think they have a chance?

He exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand through his hair before sending one last message.

Jace: Fine. You don’t want to listen? I’m coming to you.

Because if you thought you could make him jealous, make him furious, and just get away with it?

You were about to learn exactly what happened when Jace Velaryon snapped.

Jace Revenge :

The Internet Was NOT Okay.

People were still recovering from the last time you posted something that had them spiraling—

And then he ruined lives all over again.

A video.

Low, moody lighting. The golden glow of a bedside lamp casting soft shadows over your bare back, your skin flushed, the smooth curve of your spine on full display.

And then—

His hand.

Fingers twisting in your hair, pulling just enough to tilt your head back, exposing the slope of your neck, the sharp inhale that followed.

His other hand—out of frame, but you could feel it.

The video was silent, except for the sound of breathing—his and yours, deep, uneven, filled with undeniable tension.

And the caption?

“Mine.”

The Internet? SHATTERED.

The Guys:

“Jace, bro. What the fuck.”

“This is personal. I feel personally attacked.”

“Nah. This is war.”

"BLOCKED. REPORTED. UNFOLLOWED.”

“I can’t do this anymore. I’m logging out forever.”

“This is actually illegal. I’m calling the police.”

“Jace, be honest… was this necessary? Was it??”

“I just threw my phone across the room. I can’t look at this.”

“Bro really said ‘you thought you had a chance?’ and ended us all.”

“At least let me heal from the last post first, damn.”

The Girls:

“That hand placement? That possessiveness? Yeah, I’m in pain.”

“Jace Velaryon is the standard. I’m sorry.”

“The hand in the hair. The bare back. The silence. Yeah, I’m not okay.”

“HOW DO I APPLY TO BE HER?”

“The way he’s handling her like that… this is too much.”

“I will never get over this. Ever.”

“Who gave him the right to post something like this?”

Meanwhile, Jace?

Completely unbothered. Probably smirking, watching the chaos unfold, scrolling through the absolute meltdown happening in his comments.

And just to ruin them further, he dropped a comment under his own post:

“Don’t be jealous. She’s right where she belongs.”

With that—

The internet was officially in ruins.

Daemon :

Daemon wasn’t a man who checked social media often. He didn’t care for it. But when his phone wouldn’t stop buzzing—when people kept sending him something, tagging him, warning him—he knew something was wrong.

Then he saw it.

And the world around him went silent.

It was you. Practically naked.

Soft lighting, shadows teasing just enough to make the image dangerous. The way you posed—deliberate, taunting, meant to provoke.

And the comments?

“I need a moment. Or a lifetime.”

“She’s actually unreal.”

“Daemon’s done for. There’s no way he’s letting this slide.”

“If he won’t treat you right, just know my DMs are open, .”

His fingers curled around his phone, grip tightening until the device creaked.

His jaw clenched, his breathing slow and controlled—because if he let himself fully feel this, if he let the jealousy and rage take hold, he would break something.

Or someone.

You were his. And yet, here you were, putting yourself on display for every desperate, pathetic fool to see. Did you enjoy this? The attention? The way they drooled over you?

A muscle in his jaw ticked as he opened your messages.

Daemon: Delete it. Now.

Nothing.

His nostrils flared, his lips pressing into a thin line. He refreshed the page—saw the likes climbing, the comments piling up. More eyes on you. More men thinking they had a chance.

Daemon: I won’t ask again.

Still, no response.

His vision blurred at the edges, his pulse pounding hard in his ears. He didn’t need to guess what you were doing—smirking at your phone, waiting, pushing him.

Fine. You wanted to play this game?

He sent one last message.

Daemon: I hope you had your fun. Because I’m coming to you. And when I get there, you’re going to regret making me jealous.

If you thought you could tease him, taunt him, make him seethe like this and get away with it—

You were about to learn exactly what happened when Daemon Targaryen snapped.

Daemon Revenge :

The Internet Was Not Ready.

People were barely breathing after the last time you pulled a stunt—

And then, he ended them.

A video.

Steam curled in the dimly lit bathroom, water cascading down your bare skin. Your body, glistening under the soft glow, was pressed firmly against the fogged-up glass.

And then—

Daemon.

His hand, wrapped around your wrists, pinning them behind your back. His body, completely covering yours, silver hair damp, clinging to his skin.

He wasn’t looking at the camera—he was looking at you.

His lips ghosted along your neck, his teeth scraping against your skin as his voice—low, smug, downright sinful—rumbled against your ear:

“Go on, love. Tell them how badly you want me.”

And the caption?

"Try harder. She’s not going anywhere."

The Internet? Decimated.

The Guys:

“THIS IS A CRIME AGAINST HUMANITY.”

“I am NOT okay. This is NOT okay.”

“You didn’t just flex. You obliterated us.”

“Daemon, bro, was this NECESSARY???”

“The way he claimed her, I—no, I can’t do this anymore.”

“Just say you hate us and go.”

“I actually felt physical pain watching this.”

“Daemon, bro. This was unnecessary.”

“HE’S NOT EVEN FLEXING—HE’S JUST OWNING US.”

“This man has no mercy. ZERO.”

“I would literally sell my soul to trade places with him.”

The Girls:

“I CAN’T DO THIS TODAY.”

“The way he’s just holding her there like that… I need to go outside.”

“Hands behind her back??? IN THE SHOWER??? I am ACTUALLY in pain.”

“That hand placement… I’m unwell.”

“You’re telling me she gets to live this life for FREE?”

“Daemon is disrespectful for this and I love it.”

“The way he’s handling her… yeah, I’m done.”

“This is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen and I will never recover.”

Meanwhile, Daemon?

He was grinning, scrolling through the utter destruction he left in his wake, watching the internet collectively lose its mind.

And just to make it worse, he dropped a comment under his own post:

“Tell me again how you had a chance?”

With that—

The internet was officially in ruins.

Luke :

Luke was never the jealous type. He was sweet, easygoing—never the one to start fights, never the one to lose his temper.

But when he saw your post?

That soft, kindhearted boy? Gone.

His breath caught in his throat as his grip tightened around his phone, fingers pressing into the edges so hard the plastic nearly cracked. His jaw clenched, his heartbeat hammering in his chest.

You.

Barely covered, skin on full display, your gaze sultry, teasing—like you knew exactly what you were doing.

And the comments.

“This is my Roman Empire.”

“Imagine waking up next to her every morning.”

“Luke is too soft for this, he ain’t doing what needs to be done.”

“If Luke won’t handle her, I will.”

“She doesn’t belong to just one man. She’s for us.”

His vision blurred with rage. Us? The fuck do they mean, us? Did they really think they had a chance? That they could talk about you like this?

He immediately opened your messages, his breathing sharp, his fingers moving fast.

Luke: Take it down. Now.

Nothing.

His nostrils flared. He refreshed the post—saw the likes climbing, the comments piling up.

Luke: I’m serious.

Still nothing.

His patience? Gone. His normally warm, easygoing demeanor? Shattered.

You thought this was funny, didn’t you? You were pushing him, testing him.

Fine.

His next message was short.

Luke: Keep playing, love. But when I see you, don’t bother acting innocent. You wanted my attention? You’ve got it.

And Luke Velaryon?

He never let things slide.

Luke Revenge :

The internet collapsed.

People were barely breathing after your last post, still clawing their way back to sanity—

And then Luke decided to ruin lives.

A video.

Dim lighting, tangled sheets, the heavy sound of breathing filling the air. The camera was shaky, intimate—Luke wasn’t filming for them, he was filming for himself.

And then—

Your voice.

A broken, breathless moan of his name, soft, needy, wrecked.

And in the background?

Luke.

Smirking.

The angle barely caught him—just a glimpse of his sweat-slicked skin, the possessive grip of his hands on your waist. His voice, low, teasing, barely above a whisper:

“Louder, love. Let them know exactly who you belong to.”

And the caption?

"I don’t hear them laughing now."

The Internet Was NOT Okay.

The Guys:

“Nah. This ain’t right.”

“Luke, bro, please, have some mercy.”

“I can’t breathe. I actually can’t breathe.”

“I was having a good day.”

“I need everyone to stop what they’re doing and just process this.”

“He knew what he was doing. And I hate him for it.”

The Girls:

“I am actually going to scream.”

“Luke Velaryon is disrespectful.”

“She is so lucky and I hate it here.”

“I need what she has. IMMEDIATELY.”

“He really had to flex like this? On today of all days?”

Meanwhile, Luke?

He was grinning, scrolling through the absolute carnage in his comments, watching men and women completely unravel.

And just to finish them off, he dropped a comment under his own post:

“Jealous? You should be.”

With that—

The internet was officially deceased.

Margor :

Maegor didn’t do social media. He barely tolerated its existence. But when his phone wouldn’t stop buzzing—when people kept sending him something with messages that ranged from “Bro, you need to handle this” to “LMAO, she’s testing you”—he finally checked.

And his blood boiled.

It was you.

Practically naked.

Soft lighting, shadows teasing every dangerous curve, your expression taunting—as if you knew exactly what you were doing. As if you wanted to drive men insane.

And the comments.

“This is a religious experience.”

“If Maegor won’t handle you, I will.”

“She’s too stunning to be owned by just one man.”

“She belongs to the people now.”

“Maegor is somewhere flipping tables right now.”

His grip tightened around his phone, fingers curling so hard the device nearly cracked. His chest heaved as he breathed through his nose, his jaw locked so tight it ached.

You were his. And yet, here you were, putting yourself on display for every desperate, pathetic fool to see. Did you enjoy this? The attention? The way they lusted after you?

He opened your messages, his anger controlled—for now.

Maegor : The fuck you thinking?

Maegor: Delete it. Now.

Nothing.

His nostrils flared, his patience already threadbare. He refreshed the page—saw the likes climbing, the comments piling up. More eyes on you. More men thinking they had a chance.

Maegor: I won’t ask again.

Still, no response.

His vision darkened at the edges, his rage sinking deep into his bones. He could already see you smirking at your phone, waiting, pushing him.

Fine. You wanted to play this game?

His next message was short.

Maegor: I hope you enjoyed your little show. Because when I get to you, you’re going to learn exactly what happens when you make me jealous.

And when Maegor Targaryen snapped—

There was no escaping him.

Maegor Revenge :

The Internet Was Not Just Broken—It Was Obliterated.

No one was prepared. No one even had time to brace themselves.

Because Maegor Targaryen?

He didn’t just post—he declared war.

A video.

Dim lighting. A massive, gilded mirror reflecting the carnage behind it. Your body—wrecked, ruined, utterly claimed—pressed against the cold glass, your bare skin glistening with sweat.

And then—

Him.

Towering over you, still inside you, his broad hands gripping your hips so tightly there would be bruises—his bruises.

He didn’t even bother hiding his face.

Silver hair wild, lips parted, gaze locked on the mirror, watching himself own you in every way imaginable.

And then—his voice. Low, dark, dangerous.

“Let them watch.”

And the caption?

"You’ll never be me."

The Internet? Dead on Arrival.

The Guys:

“I have never been more jealous of a man in my entire life.”

“Maegor, please, have some HUMAN DECENCY.”

“This wasn’t a flex. This was a public execution.”

“I was happy. I was living my life. And now? I have to deal with this.”

“He’s not even trying to be humble. He’s just taunting us.”

“You know what? I’m logging off. I can’t do this today.”

The Girls:

“I’m actually feral right now.”

“HOW DO I APPLY TO BE HER.”

“The way he’s just holding her there like she’s nothing—I need a moment.”

“THIS COULD HAVE BEEN AN EMAIL, MAEGOR.”

“I can’t even hate. She’s living my dream.”

“This is the hottest thing I have ever seen. And I hate that I will never recover from it.”

Meanwhile, Maegor?

He wasn’t even looking at his phone. He had better things to do.

But when he finally did check?

He smirked. Slowly. Lazily. Completely unapologetic.

And just to make it worse, he dropped a single comment under his own post:

“Stay jealous. She’s not leaving my bed anytime soon.”

With that—

The internet was officially incinerated.

Aegon I :

Aegon wasn’t the jealous type—at least, that’s what he liked to tell himself. He was easygoing, laid-back, the type to laugh things off.

But then he saw your post.

And something inside him snapped.

His phone nearly slipped from his fingers as he stared at the screen. His chest rose and fell, breathing suddenly too shallow as his jaw tightened—so tight it ached.

You.

Barely covered, skin on full display, lips slightly parted like you knew exactly what you were doing. Like you wanted people to look.

And the comments—

“This is actually life-changing.”

“No way Aegon lets her get away with this LMAO.”

“She’s unreal. Divine. Untouchable.”

“If Aegon won’t claim her, I will.”

“Bro, she’s for the people now.”

His grip on his phone tightened so hard his knuckles turned white. The people? The fucking people? Did they think this was a game? That they could just—talk about you like that?

He opened your messages, fingers moving with an urgency that wasn’t entirely controlled.

Aegon: Take it down.

No response.

His jaw clenched harder. He refreshed the post. More likes. More thirsty comments from pathetic little nobodies who clearly didn’t understand their place.

Aegon: I’m not asking.

Still nothing.

His tongue swiped over his teeth as a low growl built in his throat. Oh, you thought this was funny, didn’t you? You were playing with him. Pushing him.

Fine.

His next message was short.

Aegon: I hope you got all the attention you wanted, baby. Because when I see you, the only thing you’ll be worrying about is how long I plan to keep you in my bed.

And Aegon Targaryen?

He never made empty threats.

Aegon I Revenge :

The Internet Was Not Ready.

People were barely recovering from the last time you decided to ruin their lives—

And then, he destroyed them.

A video.

Low lighting. The soft rustling of silk sheets. Your body glowing, tangled in his bed, looking like sin incarnate—your breath uneven, lips parted, skin flushed.

And then—

His hand.

Large, firm, resting possessively on your breast, fingers slightly digging in, making it painfully clear that you were his.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part was him.

Aegon, half-lidded cocky smirk, his other hand holding the camera, his cock still inside you, his grip lazy, casual—like he had all the time in the world.

And then, his voice—low, smug, devastating:

“Yeah… go ahead. Say something now.”

And the caption?

"Don’t act like you wouldn’t trade places."

The Internet? Absolutely Unhinged.

The Guys:

“Aegon, bro. Please. Have some compassion.”

“This is actually cruel.”

“I hate him so much but I respect it.”

“HE’S NOT EVEN TRYING TO BE HUMBLE ABOUT IT.”

“I was having a good day. Now I have to rethink my whole life.”

“This wasn’t necessary. He just wanted to hurt us.”

The Girls:

“She’s so lucky and I hate her.”

"Not even gonna lie, this ruined my entire day.”

“The way he’s just sitting there like a smug little bastard—yeah, I’m sick.”

“Aegon is the biggest menace to ever exist.”

“I have never known true jealousy until this moment.”

“She’s living the dream. I can’t even be mad.”

“HE KNOWS EXACTLY WHAT HE’S DOING AND IT’S DISRESPECTFUL.”

Meanwhile, Aegon?

He was laughing, scrolling through the absolute devastation in his comments, watching men spiral into despair and women descend into chaos.

And just to finish them off, he dropped a comment under his own post:

“Keep crying. She’s still moaning my name.”

And with that—

The internet was officially in shambles.

Rhaenyra :

Rhaenyra wasn’t one to obsess over social media, but when her phone wouldn’t stop buzzing—when people kept tagging her, sending her messages, practically warning her—she knew something was up.

And then she saw it.

Her stomach dropped. Her grip on the phone tightened.

It was you.

Draped in soft lighting, skin bare and glowing, your pose deliberate—calculated to tease, to tempt, to drive people insane. It left just enough to the imagination, while making it clear you knew exactly what you were doing.

And the comments?

“I can’t believe we’re witnessing perfection in real time.”

“This is actually dangerous.”

“If Rhaenyra doesn’t kill someone over this, I’ll be shocked.”

“No way she’s letting this slide.”

“If she won’t claim you, I will.”

Rhaenyra’s nails dug into her palm as she gritted her teeth. A sharp flare of jealousy surged through her—hot and possessive, a burning anger she rarely felt this intensely.

Because who were they to talk about you like this? To look at you like you weren’t hers?

Did you want this attention? Did you enjoy knowing people were drooling over you, imagining things they had no right to even think about?

She exhaled sharply through her nose, forcing herself to breathe before she opened your messages.

Rhaenyra: Take it down. Now.

No response.

Her fingers tightened around her phone as she refreshed your post. More likes. More comments. More pathetic fools thinking they had a chance.

Rhaenyra: I will not ask again.

Still nothing.

She could see you smirking at your phone, relishing in this, testing her.

Fine.

Her next message was short, sharp, final.

Rhaenyra: I’m coming to you.

If you thought she would just sit back, let you taunt her, let you make her jealous like this—

You were gravely mistaken.

Rhaenyra Revenge :

The internet collapsed.

People were barely recovering from your last post—scrolling, coping, trying to move on—when Rhaenyra ended them all with one photo.

A single image that sent the entire world into ruins.

It was you.

In her bed.

Soft lighting, silk sheets tangled around your body. Your head tilted back into the pillow, lips slightly parted, the glow of your skin dangerous in the dim light. And then—her hand. Resting on your thigh, fingers glistening with your release sprawled in a way that left no room for misinterpretation. She wasn’t just touching you. She was claiming you.

And the caption?

“Mine.”

The internet lost its mind.

Guys and girls alike descended into madness:

The Guys:

“I am actually about to throw up.”

“Rhaenyra, PLEASE, LET’S TALK ABOUT THIS.”

“Bro, how am I supposed to recover from this??”

“This isn’t fair. This is violence.”

“We lost. We fucking lost.”

The Girls:

“I’m happy for her but also devastated for me.”

“THIS COULD HAVE BEEN ME IN ANOTHER LIFE.”

“Do I congratulate them or do I cry? Or both?”

“Rhaenyra, what was the reason? WHAT WAS THE REASON??”

“I’m choosing to live in denial.”

Meanwhile, Rhaenyra? She was smirking at her phone, watching the despair unfold. She knew exactly what she was doing—dropping the photo, sitting back, and enjoying the chaos.

And just to truly bury everyone, she left a single comment under her own post:

“You can stop dreaming now.”

And with that—

The internet was officially in shambles.

Alicent :

Alicent never cared much for social media. She found it shallow, a place for desperate attention-seekers, a distraction from real matters. But when her phone wouldn’t stop buzzing—when messages kept coming in, some filled with concern, others with amusement—she knew something was wrong.

And then she saw it.

Her breath hitched. Her fingers tightened around her phone.

It was you.

Practically naked.

The lighting was soft, intimate—dangerous. The way you posed, the way your bare skin was on display, your confidence radiating off the screen… It was deliberate. It was a taunt.

And the comments—the flood of people thirsting over you, speaking as if they had a right to look at you like this, as if they could ever touch you—

“Mother of the gods, I need a moment.”

“Alicent is somewhere seething right now.”

“You’re actually unreal. Perfection.”

“If she won’t claim you, I will.”

“How does it feel to be the most desired person alive???”

Alicent’s grip on her phone was so tight, her knuckles turned white. A slow, hot wave of jealousy coiled in her chest—sharp, possessive, furious.

Did you enjoy this? The way people devoured you with their eyes? Did you want them to look at you, to desire you?

Her jaw locked as she opened your messages, her fingers moving with icy precision.

Alicent: Take it down. Now.

No response.

She refreshed the page. More likes. More disgusting, pathetic fools thinking they had a chance.

Alicent: I will not repeat myself.

Still nothing.

Her nails dug into her palm, her patience snapping thread by thread. She knew you were doing this on purpose. Testing her. Pushing her.

Fine.

Her next message was short. Final.

Alicent: If you think this little stunt is going to go unpunished, you are gravely mistaken.

If you thought she would sit back and allow you to tease her, to make her jealous, to tempt her patience—

You were about to deeply regret it.

Alicent Revenge :

The internet broke.

People were just recovering from your last post—scrolling, coping, trying to move on—when Alicent ended them all in one swift, merciless stroke.

A single photo.

Dim lighting, silk sheets slightly messy, shadows stretching across warm skin. You—in her bed. Head tilted back, lips slightly parted, hair yanked firmly in Alicent’s grip. The way her fingers curled into your strands—possessive, unrelenting, a silent but undeniable claim.

And the caption?

“Mine. And I don’t share.”

The internet descended into absolute chaos.

The Guys:

“I need a support group. This is actually painful.”

“Bro, I can’t compete with this.”

“Alicent did not have to flex this hard.”

“I swear I was fine five seconds ago.”

“The grip she has—on the hair, on the situation, on my emotions—I can’t take this.”

The Girls:

“Happy for them but also screaming inside.”

“This could have been me in another timeline.”

“Alicent said know your place, and I guess I will.”

“Do I cry? Do I throw my phone? Do I respect it? All of the above?”

“I was coping until she posted this. Now I’m just suffering.”

Meanwhile, Alicent? She was satisfied. Watching the world crumble, notifications exploding with people’s rage, jealousy, and despair.

And to truly finish them off, she left a single comment under her own post:

“Go ahead and cry. It changes nothing.”

And with that—

The internet was officially six feet under.

Tag list : @danytar @julessworldd @hangmanscoming @yazzzmints @giirlinblack @searatarg @vaelry @callsignwidow @ashblooddragons

Not wanted (part 1)

Pairing : Daemon Targaryen x Chubby fem reader

Summer : "The silver hair of the prince was blown by the slight breeze, his purplish gaze burned with an anger worthy of his dragon. Y/n although set back could observe the scene unfolding in front of her eyes. Daemon was in front of her father, Dark sister in hand."

Author’s note: hello, I post the first part of "Not wanted" now, so you don’t wait as much. Part two will probably be published during the week or else it will be two publications on Sunday. I hope you enjoy this first part. Enjoy your reading.

Trigger warning: mistakes have undoubtedly had to pass my vigilance, English not being my mother tongue they will be corrected.

Ao3 profile : Earenwen_Leafwhisper

---

There is a feeling, or will it be instinct, which tells you quietly that you are not wanted in a place, it can happen everywhere, whether in school, in the street, at work, but also in the family.

This feeling grows over time and it is not pleasant, the worst being the evening when the truth comes out. When your father is drunk with all the alcohol he has drunk since the beginning of the afternoon explains to you that you will never be born, that your life you owe to your mother who wanted more than anything in the world a child. That explains, a lot of things, like never having a "congratulations" when you achieve something, or a "I’m proud of you, I love you my daughter". No. Never, just "Did you see how fat you are?" "Stop reading", "Why don’t you read?" , being cut off at every moment, "Shut up!" followed by "Why don’t you answer me?". Little by little, all your self-esteem eventually crumbles, by a member of your closest family. There is also this question, "What would I do alone?" The moments when you imagine running away.

Being born on Westeros is not a dream life, whether we are peasants or nobles, we have our own personal hell. Yours is your father. Although not wanted, your father decided to do something with you, and marrying a second-rate lord was a good solution. His son, born of a first union, was already married to a lady from your region, strengthening the ties of the two families.

His son, he saw it differently, for him he had nothing to reproach himself. But to all the others, he was a frightful asshole, who amused himself by threatening servants and lords of smaller house than yours. Manipulating everyone around you, going so far as to threaten you, morally and physically, explaining clearly, that the day your father died, he would put you at the door of your castle. But you were just a ball and chain. Your father did not want to marry you, at the very beginning, prefer that no one speaks of you or shows interest, waiting for the coming years, he ends up wanting to see you leave with a lord, he could not see you when he was drunk, insulting you with various sentences, more or less painful, explaining that nobody would want you, the least that nothing. Deep down, he was bubbling, refusing to accept that someone was interested in you.

During the various tournaments in which he participated as spectator, he tried to find you a husband in vain, he reproached you, while it was his fault, because no lords had seen you in the flesh. The lords are trying hard to convince him to get you out of the castle, wanting to see who this misterieuse young woman was.

A date was chosen, those of the games organized by Lord Baratheon, for the adoubement of his eldest son.

---

To say that you were surprised would have been an understatement, your father, one morning sober, warned you or rather ordered you to be present at the games organize for the son Baratheon. Your mind worked very quickly, you felt fear mounted within you, your whole body became warm, your heart throbbing, you felt your blood flowing at the level of your temples, your hands became sweatly. With time you had learned not to believe the good news coming from your father because to each of them, hid a dark face, turning against you.

You instinctively understood that something was wrong. He had never wanted you to accompany the "family", you learned to appreciate the fact of not participating in banquets, the only semblance of banquets in which you had participated was in your very young childhood, during which only the houses vassal to yours participated and at the same time make your acquaintance, having seen you as a child at your mother’s side. Whether it was a courtesy visit or in the most difficult moments, you, the child who tried to do well to please his parents, but ended up seeing his father drunk, yelling at the guests who contradicted him on anything, (whether on the land or on the alcohol he ate) and who fell asleep on one of the benches aligned against a wall of the room, a knight winning up to your nurse in order to sleep safely.

As you grew up, you would stay back, observing in the dark the rare events taking place in your castle, seeing from your apartments, your brother’s wedding, do not participate in the festivities. In a sense you were grateful, you did not want to play this open-air play, where false pretenses were common, you could only wish good luck to the servants, knowing more than very well, that their work and reprimands would be much more severe than usual

Now you had to participate, was it a new way to humiliate yourself? To have you away from the castle so that your brother could make it his stronghold and abandon you in a place that you were unknown?

All possible reasons paraded in your mind, not even trying to find optimism in them.

---

The area of your family was quite far from the stromlands, the journey was long and winding, the summer was coming to an end, the roads formed of a mixture of earth and large stones, you avoided the forests anticipate the slightest attack of bandits who could have hidden in the trees and depths of the forest. You were traveling for the first time outside your castle and your father did not want to worry about looting in addition to having you nearby.

There were two carriages, in the first was your father, a mestre and his advisor. You were present in the second, more modest, made only of wood, without ornaments, made of the rest of the wood of an old carriage, a servant was at your side, helping you to sew a new dress, for the dinner in which you and your father would participate, dinner to help you find a husband. «New», was not the right word, you used fabric of old dresses that belonged to you to make your work. The jerky movements of the carriage made it difficult to sew, more than once you had pricked your fingers, fortunately there was no taste of blood spilled.

Your journey was calm, you stayed in the carriage most of the time, leaving only when you had no choice, escorted by your servant and a knight, you avoid your father, who over the days used up the small reserve of wine he took with him when you left. The less alcohol there was and the faster he started to be irritable. The slightest thing that was contrary to his desires was directly criticized, whether it was the singing of birds early in the morning, the wind blowing a little too loudly, or a knight of one’s armor needed to be oiled. Everything was a pretext for his moods, the rare moments when he was sober and asked how you lived the journey, and his drinking crises where he remembered for an eternal time painful moments for all and reproaching you, even if you had nothing in it.

---

After more than a fortnight of travel, you finally arrived on the edge of the ramparts of Storm’s End, gave you the impression of being gloomy, all its shades of dark color, made you think of the tales that your nanny told you before going to sleep. Your servant looked through the opening of the carriage opposite to yours, observing the little distance that separated you from your destination.

"My lady! Look! In the sky!"

Surprised by her sudden change in behavior, you looked, trying to understand why she had reacted in this way.

You squinted slightly, trying to look towards the clouds that were beginning to gather above the stromlands. It was just clouds, nothing new, just big gray clouds with white reflections. Whatever… There you seemed to see a darker point, moving, appearing and disappearing, moving in movements that did not seem to come from the wind. The more you concentrated, the more you had the impression that it was getting bigger and bigger. Your throbbing heart, you didn’t understand what you see.

"Sir Percival, do you see this form moving in the clouds?"

Sir Percival was a knight of of family who was loyal to yours for several generations, long before the conquest of Westeros by Aegon the conqueror. Percival seemed to be close to your father’s age, as far as you could remember, you had always known her. He had always encouraged you when you were a child doing a task that seemed impossible to you, unlike your father who always found subject to criticism.

Sir Percival mounted on his horse’s saddle, lifted his head, you could see from his profile that he was concentrating, you could see fine wrinkles forming in the corner of the eye that you could see.

“It seems Lady Y/n, that it is, a dragon.”

"A dragon?"

“Lady Rhaenys Targaryen is a cousin of the Baratheon House through her mother. It would not surprise me that other Targaryen would have been invited. Although tensions are still high between the two houses, with regard to the iron thrones. "

“Thank you Sir”

"With pleasure Lady Y/n"

When you put your head in the carriage you began to imagine how big the shape could become, what their dragon riders might look like. Lost in your thoughts, you whispered a sweet.

“Dragons…”

---

Tents stood against the ramparts of the city that was facing the castle. The long and heavy linen fabrics covered them, a ballet of color paraded on both sides of the central aisle. Shades of blue, green, yellow and other warm and cold colors contrasted against the walls of an anthracite gray. The tents closest to the doors were intended for the most noble houses and more precisely for their knights, small paths were formed between the tents, taking visitors in the direction of the tents of the vassal houses, whose tents became increasingly modest according to their ranks and riches.

From inside the carriage, you and your servant could smell scents of roasted meats, grilled vegetables and soups. The smells came from the outskirts of the enormous camp, where servants of vassal houses prepared meals on oak tables, suspended above the campfires, stood pots where various soups and stews marinated. Looking from the openings of the carriage, you could see the knights helping from their squires moving armor, swords, masses and shields towards the forges moving from the city to the camp. The noises they heard were a mixture of words, metal clapping, the neighing of horses and clogs clapping on the ground.

The coach stopped slowly arriving at the level of the places defined at the location of the future tents. Your house was not one of the largest houses of Westeros, but had known to keep its independence from the largest houses, bend the knee only in front of the Targaryen house, after several years of fierce war. Some people in your family had kept a deep resentment towards silver hair, prefer to have links with other houses in Westeros, hence their placement. Coming out of the carriage, you looked around, taking the time to remember every moment, knowing that she would risk being married to a person she did not know at the end of the games.

Your house was placed between the Stark and Tully houses. You had never met a person of the two houses, hearing of them only by the few bits of words coming from messenger or by the books about the conquest of Aegon. The people coming out of the main tent of the Stark house were preparing the beds, moving the weapon and armor racks, they too had to arrive shortly before you.

"You do not speak without permission, you do not look a lord or a lady in the eye, keep your head down, and most importantly! Don’t make me ashamed!"

The words of your father came out of your thoughts, since your departure from the castle, he had not spoken to you directly, you understood that he would not speak to you more, and kissed the head you understood that it was the best solution for the moment, no one present knew you except the knights of your house, no one would have stood up for you.

Sir Percival descended from his horse, standing beside you. He put his hand against your shoulder.

"Don’t worry Lady Y/n, I’m here."

You sighed softly, feeling the weight of the years under your father’s yoke continue to pressure you.

"Shall I wait here until the tents are up?"

"No my lady, your father allows you to go around the camp, under the supervision of a knight."

"In that case, will you be prepared to accompany Sir Percival?"

"Of course."

Sir Percival, bowed gently in the direction of the young woman, letting his young squire take the reins of his horse, helmet under his arm, the knight began to walk beside the young woman, understanding more than his lord that the young woman needed it.

---

You felt several glances resting on you, despite everything you tried to keep your head high, constantly repeating to you, that your father did not see you, that he could not have concrete proof on your posture. The lord closest to your father looked at Sir Percival, recognizing the knight who at times accompanied Lord Y/f/n, they all watched the young woman round, recognizing for the most observant, the few features she shared with her father. So she was the young woman?

Murmurs began to roam the tents, first of all the less noble houses, clearly understanding that it was their chance to assert their houses in order to win ranks to theirs. The noblest houses were the most reluctant, the lords knew enough Y/f/n to know that your presence was hiding something. Never had your father talked about you, no hint, nothing. You could be legitimate just like a bastard they knew nothing about. A union between the two families by your blood did not guarantee the loyalty of the Y/h/n family, or even your legitimacy. There was still a positive point, your house, was known to have stood up to the Targaryen, it was powerful, but the disadvantage came from one man. Lord Y/f/n Y/h/n. Your father. Who of his problems with alcohol, became one of the most detestable men of Westeros, be it his words invaded with a hatred towards any man not thinking in the same way as him, refusing the slightest annoyance, and his bad manners, he turned and farted without any shame, whether during dinners, the shawl or in interviews when they took place at night.

Some shameless lords were already beginning to want to bring their sons closer, thinking they understood that your father could be overthrown quickly in case of an alliance, but the knight accompanying you watched over the grain, He threw black glances at people who observed too insistently his protégé. Fortunately all the families present were not insistent, greeting you simply out of politeness, resuming their activities just after.

From your walk in the central aisle, you could see the affinities of noble houses from their positions, the north remained mainly between them, the south with the south and then there were some houses that did not remain according to their geolocations on Westeros, But by their wedding rings, the children came and went from tents to tents, laughing at each other in a game that annoyed adults.

Looking at them you felt a slight pinch in the heart, you had never known a real moment of innocence to play with other children except one or two children of servants who ended up punished. Only your nanny and some knights kept you company, trying to alleviate the boredom of the little girl you were.

But of all the looks on you, you could never have imagined that one of them would have made you miss a heartbeat.

---

From both ends of the long alley stood two very large tents, of red and black color. From the location that the house Y/h/n, moving in the direction of the right stood the largest and most flamboyant in its shades of red, it was almost contiguous to the large door, this one raised flags of a red tricephal dragon on a black background. Many knights and servants moved in and around the tent, but no silver heads were visible.

“The king is very weak, he must have sent fighters on his behalf for the games.”

It was Percival, who saw the curiosity in your eyes, had spoken.

“In this case, who owns the second tent? It also carries the dragon.”

Percival concentrated, trying to understand why the Targaryen could have been divided into two parts. The Velaryons stood between the royal tent and the knights fighting under the banner of the Baratheon. In this case, the crown wanted to show that the union between the houses was maintained, although the princess was not the future queen. Who was in the second tent? To this Percival had no answer.

"I’m afraid I don’t know, lady Y/n. "

“It is nothing, we will probably learn in the coming days.”

You were right, when you returned to the tent of your house, you could see the second Targaryen tent grow. Unlike the royal tent, it was mainly composed of linen from a jet black. Two banners in the colors of the Targaryen were placed on both sides of the opening. There was very little movement around, the tent seemed almost deserted.

Almost.

A snap of armor was heard, you turned around at the same time as Percival and saw several knights walking quickly in your direction, Percival just had time to grab your arm and shoot at him, preventing you from being rushed. Slightly under the surprise, you did not pay much attention to the number of knights, or even to the fact that they did not apologize. The only thing that captivated your attention was a hair color that you had never seen beyond book to screen, silver hair, your eyes very easily found those that belonged to the person with silver hair. The purple eyes were almost hypnotic, you never thought possible that it exists, it took you a few seconds to turn away, not without fighting. In front of you, a man who seemed barely older walked, he was dressed in black with small touches of dark red. If at first the man’s gaze was surprised, it was quickly changed by a smirk. You felt your breath stay in your throat, time seemed to you to last an eternity. Although in reality your exchange of gaze did not last more than two minutes.

Percival with his protective arm around you, looked at the man younger than him, he growled. He understood why a second tent was present. Prince Daemon Targaryen would participate in his games, and this no longer in Percival. The prince since the appointment of Viserys as successor to the throne, was in dispute with the royal family, rumors about his adventures in the bordelles spanked numerous as his disrespect for people he did not see as his equal, refusing the arranged marriage with Lady Rhea Royce. The rogue prince was not someone the fathers wanted their daughters to meet. Percival though merely your protector feared that the prince would fall under his spell, not for the punishment he would have had, but he only wanted to protect you.

---

On the first night, Y/f/n ordered his knights and servants to keep you inside your tent, refusing to let you speak to anyone before he begins the bargain of your future marriage. He didn’t want you to undermine his progress, not noticing your look lost in the void.

Although you could not get out of the tent, the servants kept the entrance open allowing everyone to see what was happening outside, finding agreements with the servants of the nearby noble houses to say nothing to their lords.

You were sitting near the entrance and looking out, seeing that the movements of the day had faded by the time the noblest houses had come to the opening dinner of the games. You kept hoping you could see the silver-haired man again before your father came back, but he didn’t seem to have left his tent.

This is what you believed, because under a cloak with the hood up, the young prince was out, wanting to enjoy the night outside the large camp. He saw you from the corner of his eye, a servant was taking care of your hair (long/short, thin/thick, lise/curly/frizzy, etc.) y/hair/c.

Daemon was intrigued, he had already met your father on very rare occasions, as well as your half-brother. Oh more than once, the desire for murder had risen in his mind, he could still bear the Baratheons, but these two men, were detestable. Daemon wondered who this round young woman was, having never heard of her. Something in her attracted him, but he did not know what it was and he did not like it.

---

The night gave way to the days, the first games started at dawn, the archery tournament was on the outskirts of the city, long lines of targets next to each other butted in front of wooden bleachers. Ropes prevented the peasants from meeting the nobles. Your house was divided in two, the closest to the ground you were sitting with your servant, you had to keep your head low, feeling the heavy look of your father in the back, this one was two rows above you.

Daemon, from his place, standing back from the royal family, held a goblet of wine in his left hand, he tried to keep his gaze in the direction of the archers who were advancing, but was without hope. His gaze turned away at the slightest opportunity in your direction, he could see that since night, your posture had changed. From a straight posture, you had bent the spine letting appear some curves that he had not yet seen and which did not displease him, observing what was behind you, he saw Y/f/n, of which the black look was directed in your direction, while he seemed to speak with the lord next to him. Daemon despised this scene.

“You seem to be more interested in the Y/h/n house than in the tournament, my prince.” a lord who Daemon had forgotten the name, just spoken.

"If you please, my prince, it would seem that Lord Y/h/n wishes to bride his daugther although with her age I doubt that the lords are interested, they prefer them younger."

This lord annoyed Daemon, whether by his words or by his innuendo.

“At the same time, what did he think of his daughter, she only whas the second child, and of a second wife, his son will inherit everything.”

The second child… Daemon knew what it was like to be the second, more than anyone else.

---

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The King and His Heir

Maegor and Aerea.

Art by @novembermorgon. For my fic, The King and His Heir.