Summarized: (your name) died in a horrific way, but she has been reborn in a new world, where the body she is trapped in is (your name) Targaryen, daughter of Alicent Hightower and Viserys Targaryen, who took her own life after the death of her dear sister Helaena, who was very close to her.
Warning: This story contains descriptions of sexual violence and vulgar language, a small change of ages of the characters to make more sense.
Author's note: English is not my first language, please let me know so I can correct them.
masterlist — Pt. 2 >>
You just want to relax at least one second or two, maybe end that series or read that special book. Being at university was tough but it was even tougher having a job too in a bar, where if a man showed even a minor interest in you will go he would comein you direction, visibly drunk, smelly and disgusting putting money in your uniform and saying obscenities. Some would just go and leave you alone if you were lucky, but others would try to follow you or even try to touch you, but you always managed to get away and escape them.
But is seems that this time, you didn't. Now you were pulled into a lonely alley, next to the trash, with an obviously drunk man, with ginger hair, horrible teeth and a foul smell he gave you a ten-dollar tip but now he was trying to take your clothes off. Fighting and fighting, that's the only thing you could do, and the worst of all you just DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO. How to getting yourself out of this situation? He was stronger and bigger than you, he had already taken you underwear off under your skirt until he freed one hand to unzip his jeans, so you put your only free hand in his eye, pressing as hard you could and with rage.
"Ahh! bloody bitch!"
When he let you go, you ran as fast you could, but he grabbed your ankle, causing you to hit your head. You felt dizzy, numb, and you couldn't move your body. Plus your vision was lost; you could only see the little mark on the wall, a dragon with more than one head or at least you thought could see.
"Hey! Get up! I'm not playing! GET UP, BITCH!"
You just heard him, you wished, you really wished that you could get up, but you couldn't. You felt water around your head and neck, but you could see now, it was not water, it was blood, your blood.
Now it was cold or at least it was for you, and it was catching you, cold, and colder you felt. that bastard haad gone already, leaving you there, alone, cold, and without underwear. Maybe is a good idea to take a nap, isn't it? Maybe in the morning everything will be better, just maybe.
When you wake up, you are in your crib, hungry, and alone, so you did the only thing you could: you cried.
"What is wrong now,dear?" A woman came up, your mother, "You are hungry, right?" your mother look at you with a soft smile, taking out her breast, she gently brushed your hair as you fed.
You are her little baby, her replica. She wasn’t going to use you like she did with your brothers; you would have freedom in this harsh world, she often thought about your future. But one thing was certain: you weren’t going anywhere from her side. Before she could think of anything else. She left you in your crib, your stomach already full. Even though her other sons wasn’t like you, she loved them. It’s just that you were like her—you have her hair, her nose, her cheeks, and even her smile. You only have your big purple eyes, but that didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that you were another piece of her.
Even though she didn’t like to admit it, you were her favourite. And even if she never said it, it was obvious to everyone. She fed you herself; you didn’t have a wet nurse like your siblings. She knew that, apart from Rhaenyra, you were the second favourite of the king, her husband. And then there was your sister Helaena, always watching you with her curious eyes, who was only one year older than you. As for Aegon, well, he would always be Aegon—jealous of all the attention and love you received. Of course, he loved you, but why? Why did you receive so much attention and affection? He felt like he had to beg for even a little, as if he didn’t have a grain of love, as if he wasn’t special.
A while later that night, the doors opened, letting in your dear father, followed by someone behind him—your older sister, Rhaenyra. With a smile on his lips and without greeting anyone, not even his wife, he went straight to your crib.
"How is the little one? It seems she’s resting just fine," he said, touching your cheek lovingly.
"Everything is fine; she just needs her space, Your Grace," Alicent responded, her voice tense.
"She looks like you, but I can feel the dragon inside her," said Rhaenyra, gazing down at you beside her father.
"Yes, but I really need the two of you to go. She’s already asleep, and I don’t want anyone disturbing her and—" before the Queen could finish, Rhaenyra interrupted.
"We aren’t making any noise. Just five minutes won’t hurt, being by her side."
"Please, Alicent, she’s just a baby. She doesn’t need space; we can stay here with her," the King responded, a touch of obviousness in his voice.
"As you command, Your Grace," Alicent replied.
The only thing Alicent could do in that moment was clench her fists behind her back and bite the inside of her cheek, merely watching as her husband and Rhaenyra hovered over your crib, oblivious to the tension and rage on her face. You stirred lightly in your sleep, unaware of the silent battle above you.
"You’ll see, my Queen, she’ll be like me—like a dragon, big and strong," Rhaenyra said softly, her voice filled with affection as she gazed at you.
Alicent’s eyes narrowed, her frustration growing with each word Rhaenyra spoke about you and herself. How dare she compare herself to my daughter? Alicent thought bitterly. And how dare they act as if they know what’s best for her? You were her child, and you would never be like Rhaenyra, bearing bastards and shaming the name and duty of your house.
"Yes, she’ll be strong. But now, let’s leave her to rest. It’s late, and we don’t want to wake her," the King said, turning to Alicent. "Thank you, my dear. You’ve done well."
Alicent bowed her head, the polite gesture hiding her fury. "Of course, Your Grace."
As they turned to leave, Alicent stood by your crib, just the two of you once more, her mind racing. She would protect you, no matter what. You were her baby.
The next morning Alicent was awaken by the maids, who prepare her for the day, when she came back in her room were you were before, your crib was empty. Scared call one of the maids
"Where's my daughter?!" She asked with anxiety and tension clear in his voice. "I'm not sure, my Queen. I'll find out right away."
While the maid was gone, Alicent’s anxiety grew. She rushed out of the room, determined to find her daughter. Who dared take her baby away from her protection?
She searched everywhere, her worry mounting with each passing moment. It wasn’t until she reached the garden that she finally saw you—her little baby girl—in the arms of Rhaenyra, walking through the garden with her illegitimate sons, as if nothing had happened,as if they had just stolen her baby.
"How dare you?!" Alicent's pace quickened as she moved to take you into her arms. Before she could reach you, Rhaenyra stepped aside, still carrying you, blocking Alicent’s path.
“We were just taking a walk. She looked so bored and alone in her room, so I thought it would be nice for her to get a little sun,” Rhaenyra explained, gently brushing the little bit of hair you had.
“She’s not yours to decide that! She is my dau—” Alicent began, but before she could continue, Viserys cut her off.
“Alicent! Stop right now. She is my daughter too, and I think it’s a good idea that she spends time with her sister and nephews.”
Defedent Alicent just look the little smirk that Rhaenyra gave her. Rhaenyra triumphantly thanked her father, and walked away with you and her little toddlers.
How could she protect you when you had been taken from her side so easily? Why did no one listen to her about what she wanted for her baby? Why was everyone so ignorant?
While Rhaenyra was just happy, feeling she had won against Alicent for you, her little sister, she imagined everything would be better if you were her daughter, her little baby. But Alicent always seemed to step in the way. Soon, you and Rhaenyra would be inseparable. Perhaps you could marry one of her sons, and in that way, you would be with her forever. She envisioned herself as your mother, but ultimately, she would be your mother, no matter what—regardless of Alicent’s rants or even your brothers.
Pt. 2 >>
Author's note: (your name) doesn’t know what will happen to everyone or what will happen to her in the other world.
The Targaryen Princess is the younger sister of Rhaenyra and the second daughter of King Viserys and the late Queen Aemma x Lord Cregan Stark in a dynamic inspired by The Swan Princess.
Viserys and Rickon Stark arrange for the princess and Cregan to be wed once she comes of age. To build familiarity, they reunite them every few years, however, from a young age, they absolutely despise each other.
Young fem Targ reader x young Cregan Stark.
Warnings: Reader glazing, like to the max.
You had long understood that the world bowed before beauty, that men and women alike were drawn to it as moths to a flame. The great halls of court had taught you this lesson well—whispered it into your ear before you were old enough to truly grasp its weight.
You had seen it in your sister, in the way lords and ladies alike marvelled at her Valyrian splendour, at the silver of her hair and the striking violet of her eyes. They spoke of Rhaenyra in hushed, adoring tones, weaving tales of how she would one day sit upon the throne, not merely as a ruler but as a queen of legend, a vision of Old Valyria made flesh.
And you had seen it in yourself.
At first, there had been nothing of note, nothing remarkable. You had been but a child, young and unformed, another girl in the shadow of a much-adored princess. But as the years passed and maidenhood crept upon you, your reflection began to… shift. The glances that once passed over you without care began to linger.
You had blossomed into something resplendent, something the court could no longer dismiss with fleeting glances and half-hearted courtesies. The whispers that once surrounded Rhaenyra now turned to you, their tones shifting from admiration to reverence, to awe.
They called you lovely, the fairest flower in the gardens of Westeros, the jewel of the realm. The most beautiful maiden the Seven Kingdoms had seen in an age.
Some likened you to your mother—a woman you hardly remember, yet whose beauty had been spoken of as though it were myth, a thing of legend. Others, in hushed reverence, murmured of Queen Alysanne, your grandmother, claiming you bore her grace, her quiet warmth, the effortless charm that had once soothed even the most unruly of lords and bent the hearts of the realm to her will.
The nobles adored you, vying for your favor as though your mere glance could bestow fortune. The smallfolk, too, had not been untouched by your radiance; they sang of you in the streets, wove your name into songs, whispered prayers for just a glimpse of you.
Wherever you walked, eyes followed. Some were filled with admiration, others with longing. They laid their devotion before you like an offering at a sacred altar—on silver platters and bent knees, eager, breathless, desperate to bask in your favour.
And you… well, you embraced it, even if you didn't ask for it because why wouldn’t you?
It was nice to be admired, to be adored and It was a power in its own right. Not in the brute force of a warrior, nor the sharp cunning of a schemer. No, yours was a power far more delicate, It required no steel, no whispered plots in darkened corridors. It was effortless. Natural. Expected.
And in a place like Westeros, where power was everything, you had come to understand, even at a young age, that even this—even beauty, even admiration, even the weight of lingering gazes—was a power worth holding. A power necessary to survive if it was ever to come to it.
So you gave them what they wished to see.
A princess draped in the finest silks, the blush of soft colours kissing the fabric, golden embroidery catching in the light like spun sunlight. Your silver hair fell in perfect waves, untouched by the wind, each curl arranged just so. You spoke with a voice as sweet as honeyed wine, each word measured, each tone effortless. You let your dragon blood come out just at the right moment. You laughed in melodies, a sound as light as birdsong, and you smiled—a smile that held no sharp edges, no shadows, no sorrow.
Lovely.
Good.
Perfect.
You were the ideal princess. The dream. The fantasy. A creature of spun gold and sunshine, a vision too beautiful to be touched, too radiant to be real and they loved you for it.
Well—most of them.
Queen Alicent’s gaze was always careful, always measured. Her smiles never quite reached her eyes, and her words were always polished to civility but never warmth. She did not say she disliked you—no, she was far too shrewd for such carelessness—but you knew. You could feel it in the way she watched you, in the way her hands curled just slightly too tight around the arms of her chair when your father doted on you without doing anyhting but exist.
And then there was him.
Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King. Ever the quiet spectre at her side, ever the patient strategist. He regarded you not with admiration nor disdain, but calculation, as though you were a chess piece yet to be moved, a weapon yet to be wielded. You could almost see the gears turning behind his gaze, the careful consideration of what you were—what you could be.
But the rest of the court? They worshipped the very ground you walked upon, their devotion woven into every glance, every whispered word, every offering of favour.
And why shouldn’t they?
You were beautiful. You were charming. You were everything they wanted you to be.
No one truly knew you, of course. No one tried to, no one except your sister, Rhaenyra.
With her, the mask slipped—you let yourself breathe. With her, you were not the realm’s jewel, not the golden girl the court placed upon a pedestal. You were just a girl. Just her sister.
In the quiet of her chambers, away from the ever-watchful eyes of the court, you could shed the weight of their expectations. You could lean into her warmth, rest your head against her shoulder, and let the exhaustion settle into your bones without fear of judgment or the need to meet expectations.
Rhaenyra’s chambers were warm, the heavy scent of lavender oil and burning candle wax thick in the air. The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting flickering bands of gold and amber across the stone walls. Shadows swayed with each movement of the flame, stretching and shrinking like silent spectres.
Seated before the mirror, you slowly ran a silver comb through your hair, the polished metal catching the firelight, glinting as it passed through each curl. The rhythmic strokes were soothing, an idle task as your thoughts drifted.
"The lists have been finalized," you mused, your eyes flicking to the reflection of your sister as she poured herself a goblet of deep red wine. "I heard Lord Tyrell’s oldest son is to ride this time. Apparently, he fancies himself a true knight."
Rhaenyra snorted, lounging carelessly on the chaise, one arm draped over its cushioned edge, her every movement one of effortless confidence.
"He fancies himself much," she drawled, taking a slow sip of wine before tilting her head in amusement. "But Leanor says he rides like a green boy fresh to the lists—clumsy, over-eager, more bluster than skill."
You giggled, setting down your comb, twisting to face her properly. "Poor boy. The Reach lords are always so desperate to prove themselves at court. What do you think Father will say if Ser Harwin competes?"
A knowing smirk tugged at the corner of Rhaenyra’s lips, the kind that spoke of secrets unshared.
"He won't say anything because Ser Harwin is the strongest knight in the realm," She leaned back with a sigh, swirling the wine in her goblet, watching the liquid catch the light. "Besides, he has no reason to forbid it. He is my sworn shield."
Her words were casual, but the glint in her eyes was anything but.
You rolled your eyes, amusement dancing behind them, but before you could reply, a soft knock echoed against the chamber door.
"Enter," Rhaenyra called, already setting her goblet aside, her posture shifting ever so slightly—relaxed yet expectant, as though she already knew who had come to seek her.
The door creaked open, candlelight spilling onto the figures standing beyond it. Two maids stepped in, their hands cradling the most precious of burdens.
"Prince Jacaerys and Prince Lucerys, my princess," one of them announced, her voice gentle, reverent.
Your heart soared.
Jace, a chubby little thing, toddled inside with an eager grin, his dark curls bouncing as he rushed toward his mother, his small boots tapping hurriedly against the stone floor. Behind him, one of the maids cradled Luke, still but a babe, his plump cheeks kissed with warmth, his tiny features relaxed in that drowsy way of infants just waking. His dark lashes fluttered as he squirmed in the nursemaid’s arms, little fingers flexing, reaching for something unseen.
You did not hesitate.
With a delighted gasp, you all but flew from your seat, reaching Jace before he could reach Rhaenyra, sweeping him up into your embrace. He squealed in laughter, arms wrapping around your neck as you spun him ever so slightly, the movement drawing another burst of giggles from his tiny frame.
"Oh, my sweet prince!" you cooed, pressing a flurry of kisses against his rosy cheeks. "You are growing so big, aren’t you?"
"‘M big!" Jace declared proudly, puffing his chest out as he beamed at you.
"Oh, you are," you agreed solemnly, your eyes twinkling with amusement as you gave him another affectionate squeeze before setting him gently back on his feet.
Then, without pause, your gaze shifted, softening as you turned toward the maid who held Luke.
"Come here, my darling boy," you murmured, your hands already reaching, waiting.
The nursemaid, knowing well this was a ritual repeated many times over, carefully placed the babe into your arms. The moment his small form settled against you, warmth bloomed in your chest, a fierce, unspoken devotion unfurling in your ribcage.
Luke let out a soft, contented noise, his little hand curling instinctively into the fabric of your gown, his fingers gripping tight even in his half-waking state. His tiny head lolled against you, his warmth soaking into your skin.
“Oh, sweet darlings,” you cooed, rocking him gently. “My perfect little dragons.”
Rhaenyra watched you with fond amusement, her lips curving into a knowing smile. “You act as though they are your own.”
"They are mine," you said without hesitation, your voice as certain as the rising of the sun. You continued to run a soothing hand over Lucerys’s tiny back, feeling the soft rise and fall of his breath against you. "At least half mine. My sweet nephews, the only men in this kingdom worth my love."
Jace wiggled happily in your grasp, seemingly pleased with your declaration, his little chest puffing out as if he understood the weight of your words. Against your heart, Luke let out a soft, contented noise, his fingers still curled tightly into the fabric of your gown.
Rhaenyra shook her head, though her smile did not fade. "One day, you will have babes of your own, and then we shall see how much you dote on them."
You scoffed lightly, shifting Jace in your hold with practised ease so that you had one boy in each arm, their warmth pressing into you like a shield against the chill of the stone chamber.
"Perhaps," you allowed, though your tone was airy, unconvinced. "But for now, these two will suffice."
Rhaenyra only hummed, eyes gleaming with something unreadable, something knowing. But she said nothing more, merely watching as you held her sons as if they were your own.
Jace wriggled in your arms as you settled onto a cushioned seat, his small hands reaching curiously for the delicate braids woven into your silver hair. He toyed with them absentmindedly, tiny fingers tugging at the strands as if they were ribbons to unravel, but you barely noticed. Your attention remained on Luke, rocking him gently as he nestled further into your embrace, his warm little body moulding against you, utterly at peace.
"You know," you murmured, absently smoothing a hand over Jace’s unruly curls, "I loathe that we must attend this wretched tournament."
Rhaenyra snorted, lifting her goblet to her lips, her expression one of lazy amusement. "It is for our father’s name day. You should at least pretend to enjoy it."
"I enjoy the feast," you corrected, pressing a light kiss to Luke’s downy curls. "The food, the music, the dancing—those are far more tolerable than watching grown men knock each other senseless for the sake of posturing."
Rhaenyra hummed knowingly, swirling the deep red wine in her goblet. "And yet, half the men in the realm will be there, hoping to impress you."
You groaned, throwing your head back against the cushion in an exaggerated display of suffering. "Gods spare me."
Rhaenyra only laughed, her eyes gleaming with mischief over the rim of her cup. "You say that," she teased, "but I know you will preen under all the attention."
You gasped, placing a hand over your heart in mock offense, eyes widening as if she had struck you. "You wound me, sister. Am I so vain?"
Rhaenyra said nothing. She merely looked at you, one brow arched, the corners of her lips twitching as though she were barely restraining another laugh.
You huffed, shifting Luke slightly in your arms, adjusting the soft blanket draped over him.
"I simply think," you continued airily, "that if I must be subjected to endless praise, I might as well enjoy it."
"And enjoy it you shall," Rhaenyra mused, her voice laced with amusement. "Almost the entire realm will be in attendance. The Baratheons, the Lannisters, the Velaryons, the Hightowers, the Martells, the Arryns... the Starks—"
At that, you let out an exaggerated gagging noise, rolling your eyes so hard it nearly hurt. "No. You jest."
"I do not," Rhaenyra said, her smirk widening in clear delight at your suffering. "Lord Rickon has sent word—he and his son are to attend."
You groaned again, this time with true despair, letting your head fall back against the cushions as though the weight of such a revelation had physically weakened you. "Must I suffer him again? Have I not endured enough in this life?"
Rhaenyra laughed outright at that, the rich sound filling the chamber as she stood, moving to take Jace from your arms. "Come now, sister. It has been some time since you last saw him."
"And that has been my greatest blessing," you muttered, shifting Luke carefully in your arms before placing him in his cradle. You took a moment to tuck the soft blanket around him, ensuring he was snug and warm before straightening with a huff.
"Oh, do not be so dramatic."
You turned to Rhaenyra, utterly aghast. "Dramatic? Dramatic? Rhaenyra, do you not remember what he did to me?"
She smirked, the expression infuriatingly amused. "Do you mean when you got lost in the woods after he left you there?"
Your eyes narrowed, lips pressing into a thin line. "You know, most sisters would take my side."
"I am merely pointing it out," she said airily, adjusting Jace on her hip, "After all, you did set his hair aflame and burned his eyebrow off."
You scoffed, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. "I did not do it—Drakaryon did. But nonetheless, he deserved it." Your voice grew hot with indignation. "Leaving a princess alone in the Wolfswood—he’s lucky Drakaryon didn’t burn more than just his eyebrow."
Rhaenyra chuckled, utterly unbothered. "I suppose you could have called him back before the poor boy lost half his face."
"A mercy he had a face left at all," you muttered darkly, tilting your chin up. "And yet, I am the one forced to endure his presence again. It is an injustice."
"Truly, sister," Rhaenyra teased, her smirk deepening, "your suffering knows no bounds."
You huffed dramatically, flopping into the nearest chair with all the grace of a fallen maiden in some tragic tale.“I care not for Lord Cregan Stark, nor his miserable presence. I shall simply focus on the feast.”
“Ah, yes,” Rhaenyra mused, leaning back into her chaise. “And your new gown?”
That brightened your mood considerably. “Oh! You must see it, Rhaenyra,” you gushed, your distaste for the tournament momentarily forgotten. “It is to be the softest red, with golden embroidery, delicate like the petals of a summer rose.”
Rhaenyra smirked, swirling the last remnants of wine in her goblet. "You shall outshine the Queen herself."
You grinned, tilting your chin with an air of playful vanity. "That would not be difficult."
Rhaenyra shot you a pointed look, one that might have been a scolding if not for the unmistakable glint of amusement in her violet gaze.
Days later, you found yourself—albeit reluctantly—surrounded by lords and ladies, exchanging pleasantries, smiling sweetly, and accepting compliments as though it were your very purpose in life.
And Harrenhal had never felt quite so alive.
The great fortress, with its looming, blackened towers and sprawling grounds, had become a city unto itself, thrumming with the restless energy of nobles gathered from every corner of Westeros. The tournament had drawn them all—lords and ladies, knights and squires, banners billowing in the crisp autumn air, their house colours bold against the dull grey of the ancient stones.
Tents stretched across the fields like a sea of silk, each vying for attention, for prominence. Servants bustled about, tending to their lords' demands, polishing armour, securing horses, and whispering the latest courtly gossip. The air was thick with the scent of roasting meats and fresh bread, mingling with the sharp tang of steel and the ever-present smoke curling from the distant kitchens.
They had come, of course, to honour your father, to swear their fealty, to witness the grand spectacle of knights clashing in his name.
And yet, for as much as they had come for glory, for sport, for politics—there was another reason they had come, one unspoken but well-understood.
They have come for you too.
As the second, almost of age, unwed daughter of the King, you were a prize yet unclaimed, a jewel unspoken for. The lords of Westeros—young and old, bold and timid, gallant and grasping—had gathered not just for sport, not merely for glory, but for you.
And they were eager to impress, to court favour, to steal a glance, a word, a moment in your presence.
The courtyard was alive with the hum of noble voices, the lilt of music weaving through the air, and laughter bubbling like the fountains that dotted the castle grounds. Beyond the merriment, the distant clang of steel rang out as knights prepared for the coming tourney, the rhythmic pounding of horses' hooves echoing from the lists.
"Princess, you must tell me who crafted your gown," Lady Floris Baratheon gushed, her brown eyes wide with admiration as she took in every detail, from the fine embroidery to the glistening pearls that crowned your head. "I have never seen anything so perfectly suited to a lady."
You smiled warmly, tilting your head just so, allowing the sunlight to catch upon the subtle shimmer of your lilac eyes.
"It is the work of the seamstresses in the Red Keep," you said graciously, "though I am certain they would craft something just as lovely for you, my Lady."
The young Baratheon flushed at your words, her pleasure evident, as though you had placed a crown upon her own head. "You are too kind, Princess."
"Kind and wise beyond measure," Lord Owen Fossoway added from your other side, his green-and-red doublet bright beneath the midday sun. "A Princess of grace, beauty, and wit—gods help the poor man who dares to seek your favour, for he shall find himself utterly undone."
"Oh, nonsense, Lord Fossoway," you said, your voice smooth as honey, warm and effortlessly graceful. With a delicate wave of your hand, you dismissed the flattery with modest ease, though the glint in your eyes betrayed your amusement. "I only hope my presence brings some small joy to such a grand occasion."
While some were more subtle, lingering at the edges of your sight, watching, waiting for the perfect moment to catch your eye, others came with bold declarations—sons of great houses bowing low before you, offering pretty words rehearsed in their fathers’ halls. Even older gentlemen, seasoned lords with silvering hair and knowing smiles, felt compelled to voice their admiration as if their years granted them wisdom or rather an audacity to appreciate beauty more than the young.
"Princess," Lord Lannister purred, stepping forward with effortless confidence, his golden curls gleaming under the afternoon sun. He bowed deeply before you, his crimson-and-gold doublet tailored to perfection, a lion in both bearing and name. "Your beauty shines brighter than the tourney itself."
You smiled sweetly, tilting your chin just so, letting the sunlight dance across your features as if you had been sculpted for admiration. "How kind, my lord."
Beside him, his younger brother, not to be outdone, stepped forward with eagerness, his voice laced with the ambition of youth. ""You need not win a tournament favour—every knight here would gladly fall upon his sword for you, as I would too, Your Highness.
You regarded him with gentle amusement, your expression as measured as it was warm yet inside you were rolling your eyes. “Then let us pray none are so foolish. The tourney would be quite dull if they all perished on my account.”
Laughter rippled around the noble folks around you, the lords and ladies utterly enchanted.
You did enjoy being admired.
You enjoyed the way courtiers flocked to you, their words dipped in honey, their eyes lingering upon you as though you hung the stars. You delighted in the way men stumbled over their words in their attempts to impress you, their practised lines unravelling beneath the weight of your gaze. You had long learned that a well-placed smile, a fleeting touch upon the arm, or a slight tilt of the chin could make even the most stubborn of lords melt like wax before a flame.
And yet—Gods, was it exhausting.
"Princess, your beauty outshines even the sun today," one of the young lords cooed, standing just a little too close for your liking.
You maintained your composure, offering him a smile as practised as it was charming, tilting your head ever so slightly. "How kind of you to say, my lord."
"Tell me, shall I ride in your honour, my princess?" another asked, his grin broad, his chest puffed in obvious arrogance, as though the mere suggestion of it was a gift beyond measure.
You had half a mind to tell him that if he were truly worthy of such an honour, he would not need to ask, but instead, you merely inclined your head with effortless grace.
"I would be honoured," you said sweetly, though in truth, you could not even recall his name.
As time flew by and more lords came and went, each eager to impress, their words blurring into the same predictable flattery, your thoughts began to wander.
Perhaps—just perhaps—you ought to grant your favour to one of them.
Not for love, nor duty, nor any deeper reason. Simply for the fun of it.
Let them fight over you—not for marriage, nor power, nor grand alliances, but for the mere pleasure of calling themselves your champion. Let them brandish their swords and crash upon the lists with reckless abandon, desperate for the honour of a token tied to their lance, for the whisper of your name upon the lips of the court.
The thought amused you greatly.
You had no real enjoyment for tourneys—the dust, the sweat, the men posturing like peacocks in steel—but this? This was entertainment.
To watch them scramble, to see them puff their chests and vie for your fleeting favour, all while knowing it meant nothing in the grander scheme of things.
The great hall of Harrenhal was alive with merriment, the air thick with laughter and music, the scent of roasted meats and Dornish wine curling through the space like a warm embrace. The flickering glow of torchlight caught on the polished silver goblets and golden embroidery, illuminating the lords and ladies who had gathered for the feast.
You had been seated for only a few moments, indulging in light conversation with your sulking younger brother, Aegon. He lounged beside you, slouched in his chair, silver hair tousled in careless waves, his lips twisted in that familiar pout, his violet eyes dark with something unreadable, petulant.
"You’ve barely spoken to me all evening," he muttered. "Off flitting about with your admirers, leaving your poor brother to rot in solitude."
You arched a brow, amused but unimpressed. "Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Aegon."
"Dramatic?" he scoffed, placing a hand over his chest as though you had mortally wounded him. "I am your dearest brother, your favourite brother, and yet you abandon me to suffer alone in this dreadful tourney—"
"I spent the whole of yesterday with you."
"Yes," he muttered, eyes flicking to his untouched goblet, "and now it is today."
There was something else beneath his words, something thick and bitter, but you did not care to decipher it. You had long learned that Aegon’s moods were unpredictable, shifting as the wind did. And, you thought with mild exasperation, if he had something to say, he should say it.
Instead, you sighed, turning to him with a look of tired affection. "Go play with Helaena."
"Helaena is weird-- just as the words left his lips, the first lord approached. Aegon exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he leaned back in his seat. "And so it begins."
"Princess," Lord Merryweather greeted smoothly, dipping into a low bow, his beard streaked with silver, his fine velvets hinting at wealth and experience. "Might I have the honour of a dance?"
You smiled, tilting your head in polite consideration before placing your hand in his. "It would be my pleasure, my lord."
The dance was light, effortless, and filled with easy conversation as he guided you across the floor, his steps practised, his hold gentle but assured. Around you, the great hall bustled with movement—the soft strains of the musicians, the rustle of silk skirts, the occasional murmur of courtiers watching from the edges of the dance floor, waiting for their turn to claim you.
"You must know," Lord Merryweather mused with a knowing smile, "many a man here wishes to claim your favour."
You laughed softly, allowing your lashes to flutter just enough, a practised movement that sent many lords into a flustered mess. "Then I hope they have good fortune in the lists, my lord. I would not wish to grant it to a man bested in the first tilt."
The old lord chuckled, evidently pleased with your answer, but as the song came to a close, another was already waiting to take his place.
Lord Tyrell stepped forward next, then Lord Frey, followed swiftly by Lord Bracken—one after another, young and old alike, each eager for a sliver of your attention, each with a well-practiced compliment upon his lips, wrapped in the polished charm of courtly men who had spent their lives perfecting the art of flattery.
"I daresay His Grace must be beset by betrothal offers, Princess," Lord Bracken remarked as he led you through a smooth turn, his grip firm yet respectful. "A beauty such as yours should not go unwed for long."
You met his gaze with a smile, your voice light, effortless. "It is not my father who drowns, my lord, but I. The offers come as swiftly as the tide, yet still, I stand before you—unclaimed."
His laughter was deep, knowing, the kind of sound that suggested he saw himself above the rest. "A grievous injustice, indeed. Perhaps I shall be the next to put quill to parchment and entreat His Grace for your hand."
Before you could grant him a reply, the song came to an end, sparing you the trouble. With practised grace, you curtsied, allowing him to lead you back toward your table, where the air was thick with the scent of spiced wine and roasted meats.
You had just reached for your goblet, eager for a moment’s reprieve, when another voice cut through the din of the hall.
"You have tired the poor girl, Lord Bracken," Lord Tully jested from his seat nearby, his round face flushed with wine, his voice rich with mirth. "One might think you seek to keep her for yourself."
Lord Bracken chuckled, shaking his head with feigned regret. "Ah, if only I were a younger man."
"Younger or not," Lord Wylde added with a knowing smirk, swirling the deep red wine in his goblet, "I imagine His Grace will not be so quick to part with her. A rare jewel indeed."
"Quite rare," Lord Tully agreed, his eyes twinkling with desire as he glanced in your direction. "And a jewel should be placed in the hands of one who knows its worth."
The implication was clear and yet, you merely smiled, lifting your goblet gracefully to your lips, sipping your wine as if you had not heard them at all.
Thankfully, before another lord asks for a dance, your father’s voice rang through the hall, calling your name. You schooled your features into a look of effortless grace, excusing yourself with a polite smile before making your way toward him.
And you knew.
You knew exactly who would be standing at his side before you even laid eyes upon them.
The Starks.
Lord Rickon, solemn as ever, his presence a quiet force despite the grandeur of the occasion. And beside him—your greatest annoyance, your oldest grievance, your most persistent thorn—Cregan Stark.
Your pace did not falter, nor did your expression shift as you approached, though deep within, your irritation simmered.
As you came to a stop beside your father, he turned to you with a warm smile, his hand resting gently on your back. "Look who just arrived, my sweetling."
Lord Rickon, ever the picture of Northern honour, dipped his head in a respectful bow before speaking, his voice deep and steady. "Princess, it is a pleasure to see you again. It has been some years, and I dare say time has only graced you with more beauty and charm."
It was a compliment, but one wrapped in the blunt honesty of a Northern lord. Unlike the courtiers who lavished you with flowery words, Lord Rickon spoke with simple reverence, neither seeking favor nor flattery—only truth as he saw it.
You smiled at him graciously, dipping your head in return. "You honour me with your words, my lord. The North is fortunate to have such a steadfast Warden."
Lord Rickon let out a quiet hum, something of approval, but before you could say more, another deep timbre of a familiar Northern accent reached your ears.
"Princess."
Cregan Stark bowed, and as he did, you could feel the weight of his gaze. You schooled your expression into something practiced, something sweet, but your fingers twitched at your sides, resisting the urge to cross your arms like a petulant child.
When he straightened, when your lilac eyes locked onto the sharp, storm-grey of his—your stomach twisted.
Cregan Stark had grown.
The boy you had last seen, scowling and covered in soot, was gone.
In his place stood a man.
Taller, broader, his frame lean with the strength of a swordsman, his dark hair longer than you remembered, tied back in a simple leather thong. There was no trace of the sullen youth who had once left you in the Wolfswood, no awkwardness of a boy still finding his place in the world. No—this was a Lord who stood before you now, clad in black and grey, with the dire wolf of House Stark emblazoned upon his chest.
And yet, his eyes—those damnable, piercing Stark eyes—still held that same unwavering intensity, as though he could see straight through you, as though the years had done nothing to soften the way he looked at you.
You hated that he looked good.
You hated how the courtyard was lively, filled with the hum of noble chatter and the laughter of ladies, but none of it seemed to reach him.
Cregan Stark stood before you, rigid and composed, the very image of Northern stoicism. His grey eyes—sharp as steel, cold as winter—were unreadable as they met yours, though you could see the faintest flicker of something beneath them. Something restrained.
You hated that he was so unshakable. You lifted your chin, refusing to yield even an inch.
"Lord Stark," you returned sweetly, your voice smooth as silk, your expression the perfect mask of courtly grace—despite the irritation simmering beneath your skin.
And then you saw it.
The subtle way Lord Rickon nudged his son, a barely perceptible motion, yet it spoke volumes. Even the mighty Cregan Stark was not beyond his father’s quiet commands.
Cregan’s jaw clenched, his shoulders tensing ever so slightly before he stepped forward.
"May I have the honour of a dance, Your Highness," he asked, voice steady, measured, yet laced with something tight beneath the surface.
You glanced down at the hand he held out between you, large and calloused from years of sword work, and for a moment, the very idea of placing your own within it seemed unthinkable.
But then you smiled.
Not a soft smile, nor a warm one, but something playful, something teasing, something pointed.
"Why, Lord Stark," you murmured, placing your hand in his with deliberate slowness, "I thought you Northerners did not care for such frivolities."
His fingers closed around yours—warm, firm, unyielding.
"We do not," he said simply.
He led you onto the floor, the swell of music rising around you, the murmurs of the court fading into the background. Cregan’s grip was firm as he placed his hands on you, his posture stiff, too rigid—too uncomfortable.
It was amusing.
For all his confidence, all his unshakable Stark stoicism, the art of courtly dance was clearly not within his realm of expertise.
You could have teased him for it.
You should have.
But for once, you took pity, deciding instead to let the matter rest. Still, you could not resist tilting your head ever so slightly, a knowing glint in your eyes as you let your amusement surface elsewhere.
"I must say, my lord," you mused, your voice as smooth as silk, "I am glad to see your hair has grown back. I was so very worried."
For the first time since he arrived, something flickered across his sharp features—just for a fraction of a second, just the barest hint of annoyance.
His jaw tightened slightly, his fingers flexing just a little where they held you. "I had nearly forgotten about that."
"Oh, had you?" you feigned innocence, fluttering your lashes just so, your smile deceptively sweet. "Strange, considering how livid you were when it happened. The smell of burnt hair is rather unforgettable, wouldn’t you agree?"
Cregan exhaled sharply through his nose, a poor attempt at masking his irritation as he spun you across the floor, his grip a touch tighter now.
"A bold jest, Princess," he finally said, his tone measured, controlled. But you caught it—the way his fingers flexed slightly against yours, the way his gaze lingered just a moment too long, as though he was calculating something.
Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he added, "I see you are just the same childish princess—"
You nearly stumbled at the sheer audacity.
"How dare you? I am not childish!" you shot back, indignation flaring hot in your chest.
Cregan hummed, his smirk deepening just enough to be infuriating. "
That's right, forgive me, I forgot you are the jewel of the realm," he mused, voice laced with something unreadable. "Tales of your beauty even reach the North, you know."
He looked down at you then, those grey eyes sharp, assessing, amused in a way that made your blood simmer.
"If only they knew," he murmured, the faintest trace of amusement curling his lips, "there's nothing much to you other than beauty."
The words struck like a blade, hidden beneath the guise of idle conversation, wrapped in the veneer of civility yet carrying the same weight as any insult flung in an open field of battle.
Your breath caught—just for a moment, just long enough for irritation to twist into something dangerous but you refused to let him have the satisfaction of knowing he had gotten to you.
So instead, with all the grace of a perfect courtly lady, you smiled—sweetly, delicately—and in a movement so subtle it could have been mistaken for a mere misstep, you stepped on his foot.
Firmly.
Cregan’s grip on you tightened, just briefly, as a sharp inhale passed through his nose, his jaw clenching in pain. When his storm-grey gaze flicked down at you, dark and dangerous, it sent something sharp curling in your belly.
"Careful, my lord," you murmured, your voice silken, teasing. "It would be quite tragic if the North’s greatest warrior were felled in the middle of a dance."
"Tragic, indeed," he bit out, though his voice had lost that obnoxious edge of amusement. It was lower now, rougher—strained in a way that sent a thrill up your spine. "But I expected no less from you."
"Why, Lord Stark," you mused, tilting your head just enough to let your breath ghost against the space between you, "it almost sounds as if you missed me."
His glare deepened, but you felt it—the way his fingers flexed against you, the way his breath hitched so subtly that only someone watching for it would have noticed.
"Do not flatter yourself," he said, voice lower now, rougher. "I only miss things worth missing."
"Then it is fortunate," you murmured, allowing your lips to curve into something knowing, something dangerous, "that I am not so easily forgotten."
"You test your limits, Princess," Cregan murmured, voice lower now, quieter, meant only for you.
"And you test your patience, my lord," you countered, a slow, deliberate smile curving your lips as you let the words settle between you like an unsheathed blade.
Just before the song reached its final note, before you could step away and claim victory in whatever battle you and Cregan had been waging, someone came to stand beside you—someone who made you forget all about Cregan Stark.
Prince Qyle Martell.
The golden-skinned Dornish prince had a grin in his eyes before it ever reached his lips, a kind of easy arrogance that was almost charming. You had met him once before, in passing, and you remembered his words as much as the way he had looked at you, like a man appraising something rare, something tempting.
"Princess," he greeted, his voice smooth as fine Dornish wine, dipping into a bow that was just a touch more theatrical than necessary. "Forgive me for interrupting, but I have suffered long enough watching you dance with such stiff company."
Your lips twitched, amused.
Cregan, however, stilled.
It was subtle—the way his fingers flexed slightly on your waist, the way his hold on you lingered before he very deliberately released you, stepping back. His expression was unreadable, his storm-grey eyes carefully blank, but you had spent years picking him apart, years unravelling the smallest cracks in his composure.
You knew the Prince being there bothered him.
"Prince Qyle," you greeted smoothly, offering him your hand. "A pleasure, as always."
"The pleasure is mine, sweet princess," Qyle purred, taking your hand and bringing it to his lips, letting his gaze linger on yours, dark and unreadable. "Had I known you would be so generous with your time this evening, I would have claimed my dance much, much sooner."
Cregan scoffed softly, a barely-there sound, but you caught it and apparently so did Prince Qyle.
He turned to Cregan then, amusement dancing in his dark eyes, an arrogant grin curling at his lips. Despite being a head shorter than the Northern lord, he did not seem the least bit intimidated.
"Lord… Stark, is it?" There was something deliberate in the way he said it—drawn out as if he were tasting the name on his tongue and finding it unimpressive.
Cregan’s expression remained unreadable, but there was a shift in the air, subtle, dangerous. "It is,"
"Ah, of course," Qyle hummed, giving a slow, exaggerated nod. "The Warden of the North in waiting, the Great Wolf of Winterfell. Forgive me, my lord, it is so rare that wolves crawl from their dens— I sometimes forget you exist at all."
Your lips parted slightly, caught between surprise and amusement at the sheer boldness of it.
Cregan, to his credit, did not react—not outwardly. But you saw it. The way his shoulders tensed ever so slightly, the way his fingers flexed at his sides before curling into a loose fist.
"And yet, here I am," he said, voice smooth as untouched ice. "Standing before you, plain as day. Strange, isn’t it, how even those you forget still seem to overshadow you?"
Qyle’s smirk sharpened. "Overshadow? My dear Stark, the sun casts no shadows in Dorne. Only heat." He leaned in just slightly, like a snake coiling before a strike. "Something, I imagine, you Northerners would not know even if it burned you alive."
You had to press your lips together to keep from laughing, the tension between them so thick it was nearly intoxicating.
Cregan's expression was carved from ice, his broad shoulders squared, his hands flexing at his sides as though he were resisting the urge to grip the hilt of a blade that was not there.
You had seen him angry before, felt the weight of his temper simmering beneath his quiet exterior, but this was something else.
And yet, before he could respond—before he could so much as breathe—Qyle squeezed your hand, drawing your attention back to him as though he had already dismissed Cregan entirely.
"Well then, my princess," Qyle purred, his voice warm, teasing, triumphant. "Shall we leave the Lord of Snow and Shadows to glower in peace?"
You allowed yourself the smallest, most delicate smirk, and let Qyle lead you away, though not before casting a final glance over your shoulder.
Cregan had not moved.
But his eyes—those sharp, unrelenting storm-grey eyes—were locked onto you, burning with something neither of you dared to name.
A/N:
Helloooo ya'll I'm sorry it's been a while. I have just been busy, and I still am but I couldn't get this idea off my mind...
I just saw Wicked and loved it so if you see a resemblance between you and Glinda, no you didn't. Also, I can't for the life of me ever get any timeline right, and the timeline of HOD confuses me. So, if you are confused about where this fic aligns with the show, just know I'm just as confused as you but it's obviously before ep 6 obvs, please be patient with me.
Anywyasssssss I hope you enjoyed this one chapter. It is a part I because I just can't leave it like that and FYI I'm researching the shit out of tourneys because I have no clue of how they work in HOD universe and I refuse to read the book for my own well-being, like don't get me wrong I'm 100% sure GMM is an absolute machine of an author (obvs otherwise he wouldn't have TV show after TV show based on his books) but just most of the themes in his books are... not something I would willingly like to read. I'm rambling out of my ass, sorry.
Thank you for all the support, for the reblogs, comments, and hearts. It helps a lot with motivation. <3<3<3
Yandere Husband Daemon Targaryen x neice!wife! reader Targaryen
Warning: Targheryn incest, incest , forced marriage, Viserys being bad father, forced pregnancy, unrequited love, heart break, no comfort, forced affection, mention of manipulation.
Authors note: This is the first story of the series A lone daffodil , this story is a oneshot it's complete in its own the 2nd story will not be it's continuation but another story . The other stories of this series will not be related toeach other..
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He was back with the warm water and wash cloth but he stopped in his tracks.. when he saw you limping and collecting your thrown clothes. The mixture of his slick and cum running down from between your legs and you seemed not to mind it even a bit.
"Wife... You can s..."
Your eyes turned to him as you hugged the torn garments close to your naked body. As if he hadn't seen it yet... The innocence in you eyes killing him. He put the tub and towel aside on the table as he approached you. You sweetly tilted you head and let the clothes fall. He was confused for a sec.
"Were we not done lord husband??? My apologies I thought you were done... Should I get on the bed back???"
He gulped his head low.
"No... We ..we were done... I just wanted to clean you a bit...I made quite a mess."
"Oh no need I have hands... And well I need a bath so good night my prince.., and don't worry I'll send someone to change your sheets"
He remembered the day once after you two were newly married. You had came into his bath once while he was there and told him your wanted to spend time with him and assist him. He remembers how he told you that he have hands and don't need your assistance....but also called for the maids to bath him...
His heart ached when he heard you call him prince and lord... The playfully giggles you used to give him in past calling him husband sweetly as if they were lost... You never call him husband now ... You rarely even talk to him or look at him. Even while he is balls deep inside your welcoming warmth you keep your eyes shut or hidden with your arms .
He looked at your face shining because of the fire light. You smiled at him with no ill thoughts.... so purely and then you collected your clothes again.. for one second he was mesmerized... but then as if he remembered something. he hurriedly got to his chair where he had discarded his shirt... He don't want the gaurds to see you naked...
"Please take these ..."
He said as he stretch his hand to you with his tunic in it. But you just smiled and grabbed a big towel nearby . His arm still streched with his shirt in it..when you wrapped the towel around yourself and left the room leaving him alone.
From then on he started to notice your little revolt.... Or maybe it was revolt in his mind only. You two still ate meals together he still called for you or pulled into a shady corner to give you his loads but you stopped clinging on him.
You stopped looking for him as you used to . You stopped asking him to come for an evening stroll with you. Hell you even stopped breathing for a second when he hugged you from behind yesterday while you were looking out of the balcony.
You have stopped asking if he has free moment to talk with you, or to take you out on a ride on Caraxes. Few days ago when he came personally to ask you if you wanted to go on a ride with him. You told him that you don't and informed him that your father Viserys has given you a dragon egg.
You said nothing else . But his heart was unstable. Your father who never even hold you after your birth because he claimed you to be the reason queen and your twin died.... He who threw you at him so that Daemon could take you away from his eyes ... He who never even thought of giving you a dragon...gave you an egg....
He wants to know what made the difference...but in the pit of his stomach he knows that whatever is happening is not good for his marriage with you.
He saw you giggling on something that Criston has said . The knight definitely wanted to bed you. Daemon looked at you with blood in his eyes. You never smile at him like this now ...never... Then what made the knight so lucky to get your smile???
He called Criston to meet him later .
" You.... You will not stay close to her anymore..."
"I don't serve you my prince its the king whom I serve and he told me to take care of her younger daughter , your wife."
"You...I know what you want... You only want to fuck her.... "
Criston smriked and Daemon's blood burnt in his mind he was thinking how happy dark sister would be to taste the knights blood.
"What gave the way?? "
Asked the knight with the same teasing smrik and Daemon's eyes widen . He was not even trying to deny the fact....
"You .. you look at her like you want to bed her... And.."
"And fill her fertile womb with my dark haired bastards that you refused to give her??. Hurting her everynight and forcing her to drink moontea the next morning??.. Yes... And not only me... Half of the knights under you want this... It's just her wiseness that she never let's us cross the line or else she would have been with babe the nth time."
Soon the dark sister was on the knights neck drawing blood and that's when you entered the chambers. You ran to the knight even torn your hem of the skirt to put on the wound to stop the bleeding.
Daemon saw the knight look and him and smirk and he pulled you away from the knight. But you pushed him away. He sheathed as he pulled your face to him.
"You won't meet him again am I clear??"
"I would and I will .. Ser Criston... Go the the masters and get treatment I'll be there in a bit"
Criston walked away before giving you a concernd look.
"Y/n... He.. his intentions are not good ......he only wants to bed you for the throne!!."
"Oh... And your were good?? When you used me as a stepping stone to get close to Reahnyra?? To make her jealous so she would try to steal you from me?? Because she is the heir and you wanted to marry her???you asked for her hand but my father threw the black sheep on you... He threw me to you??"
"Wife..."
Daemon gulped your eyes gleaming tears bearming in them.
"Don't call me that... You don't deserve me... And I'll not be your wife anymore I have talked to father he said he will dissolve the marriage."
You started to walk away to the door when you looked back at him and smiled.
"And oh thank for giving me the moon tea regularly... Im glad I don't have your bastard for you to use it as a means to hold me back."
His mind blank and his heart in put he was sitting on the end of the bed... He can't loose you... You are only he has now...you were the only one who ever gave him everything he asked for without asking... Since you were a child.... You were his... You showed him what love is... He will give love back to you..
Viserys was screaming in anger shouting at the knights for their uselessness how else Daemon was able to take you and run away to dragonstone?? The king was sitting on his throne in disdain... He had failed as father in past when your mother died giving birth to you and your twin brother....
He ignored you as you reminded of her.. and now when he accepted his duties and tried to save you from the roughe prince his brother he lost you again...
Daemon was humming happily and he bargged into his bed chambers where you were sitting sobbing on the bed. Your body naked littered with bite and love marks . You tried to curl into yourself more gripping the white silk sheets to hide your nakedness.
Word "tried" and the chains around your ankle didn't let you get anymore away. He straight got to you peppering your face with kisses as his palm rubbed your belly. You whimpered looking away from him.
His fingers traveling lower to your Netherlands region puffy and sore from last night's act.
"Issa ābrazȳrys why didn't you told me...??? That you wanted me???.. look!! Just how wet you are!!"
(My wife*)
"I-im not.. please... "
"Such a pretty thing... Have not I told you to ask for anything you want from me??? As your husband it's my duty to provide you everything you want !!You never ask though...But I know... What you want...."
He pulled you on his lap nuzzling your shoulder and you still didn't touched him even a bit . you whimpered as his fingers entered you. Trying you push his hand away.
He cooed at you lovingly...
"You know it's not the end... Right!??? I have chosen a dragon egg for the babe... And.. there are many more for the future ones too...Issa gevie dāria "
(My beloved queen*)
He touched his forehead to yours and you sobbed more.. it's not your fault.. you are just young... And well a lot younger than him.. you will understand him later... When you will get a bit of intelligence... You are naive... Then you will understand that what he did was for your was the best...
