Y/N Targaryen, the last true daughter of House Targaryen, bears the weight of her lineage on her broad shoulders. Young, fiercely determined, and often underestimated for her plus-size figure, she is forced into an unyielding marriage alliance with one of the most dangerous men across the seas: Crocodile, the ruthless warlord and cunning leader of Baroque Works. Torn from Westeros and thrust into the unpredictable waters of the Grand Line, Y/N must navigate the treacherous alliances, schemes, and monstrous forces that haunt her every step. As Crocodile’s bride, her life becomes a game of survival—earning his respect while enduring his cold indifference and manipulative tendencies. However, the fire in her blood will not be dimmed. With whispers of ancient dragons and visions of the Iron Throne calling her home, Y/N begins to embrace her Targaryen birthright, proving that dragons do not cower—they conquer.As war brews across the seas and in Westeros alike, Y/N’s journey will test her body, spirit, and mind. With Crocodile as both her captor and potential ally, she will rise through betrayal, blood, and fire to claim her destiny. Winter is coming, but fire and blood will follow.
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Author: HELLO welcome to my new one piece fan fiction! First of all, I just want to point out, I'm a One Piece fan, and a game of thrones fan, so, why not put them together!!! This story out of warning from my heart, IS NOT FOR CHILDREN OR PEOPLR UNDER THE AGE OF 18!! Game of thrones is a violent show, and combining it with One Piece, it's going to have a lot of graphic scenes like violence, a lot of nudity, love making scenes, and just, game of thrones stuff. BUT! DONT worry, there will be One Piece stuff included too, as it is a story about both shows, put together. Y/n in this story, which is you all! Is a plus size, over weight woman. I wanted to make this book to show women no matter what size you are YOU ARE STRONG! As it is exactly what this Y/n I created to be!!!!
Things to point out: One, I do not own game of thrones or One Piece, they are separate shows and owned by their creators! Y/n means your name. Y/e/c means your eye color. Y/s/c is your skin color, and Y/H/L means your hair length, and Y/H/C means your hair color!!!
Another quick update, if the text is small, I wrote this on Chat GTP for spelling and grammar, so the story would be extra good!
Alright! Without further a do! Enjoy the prologue of my newest book!
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The wind keened through the streets of Loguetown, a mournful howl carried on the salt-laden air. The execution square trembled under the weight of thousands, every voice rising, every body pressing forward as if proximity to the moment might grant them a piece of eternity.
At the center of it all stood him.
The platform beneath his feet was rough-hewn wood, darkened by age and the spit of rain from earlier that morning. Bound in thick iron chains, Roger stood tall, his massive chest bared to the wind. The man exuded something no noose could choke—something no death could claim. He was smiling. Not the smile of a defeated man, but one of triumph, as though he had already conquered death itself.
Beside him, Vice Admiral Garp stood like a stone monolith. His fists clenched at his sides, his expression unreadable save for the tautness around his mouth. He had begged, argued, threatened, all in hopes that Roger might leave this world quietly, without stirring the embers he knew were ready to ignite. But he should have known better.
From the crowd, a cry shattered the air.
“Where’s the treasure, Roger?”
Another voice joined it, shrill with desperation: “Tell us where it is!”
“The Seven Nations! Did you find them?” someone else screamed.
The Seven Nations—the distant lands across the seas, rumored in drunken tales among pirates and whispered over maps held together with wishful thinking. Westeros, they called it, a place where kings warred over a throne forged in fire and death. The Iron Throne—an icon, a myth—rumored to control the very earth and seas. To men who ruled the waves, such a place was an obsession. But if anyone had known its secrets, it would have been him.
The crowd swelled and surged, hands raised as if reaching for salvation. “The Iron Throne, Roger! Does it exist?”
Gol D. Roger tilted his head back, the dying sun catching the edges of his face. He turned, just slightly, to where Garp stood rigid at his side. “You’ll see,” Roger said, his voice low but carrying a weight that made Garp flinch. “This world’s far from over.”
Then he turned to the crowd, his voice booming across the square, silencing even the wails of the wind.
“You want my treasure?” he roared, his words carrying as far as the sea itself. “You can have it!”
A gasp swept through the crowd like a ripple across water, jaws slack, hands frozen mid-air.
“I left everything I own in one place!” Roger bellowed, his grin widening into something maniacal, something eternal. “Find it! The throne, the gold, all of it!”
For a moment, the crowd froze as if the world itself had stopped spinning. And then chaos erupted. Shouts and screams rang out as men pushed and shoved, their eyes wild with greed, their minds already chasing dreams they had yet to form.
Garp closed his eyes briefly, his face twisting with something too heavy for words. Damn you, Roger.
The executioner’s blade gleamed in the dying light. Roger stood tall, his chains rattling like the echoes of thunder. His grin remained. His eyes burned. And as the blade came down, the Pirate King died—but his words lived, spreading like wildfire, from the seas to the kingdoms, from the Grand Line to Westeros.
The age of pirates had begun.
The cool hands of the housewives moved over Y/N’s body, their touch efficient and dispassionate. The air in the chamber was heavy with the scent of oils and perfumes, the richness cloying against her skin. She sat on a low stool, her weight pressing into the cushioned seat, as they fastened the fabric of her gown around her.
It was Alabasta’s finest silk—a deep crimson with golden embroidery that traced the outline of dragons curling around the hem. It clung to her form as it was tied and pinned, the heavy fabric made heavier still by the way it was meant to accentuate her figure.
Y/N said nothing as the women whispered to one another. She had learned long ago that silence was her armor.
“Sit straighter,” one of them barked, nudging her spine as if she were made of clay.
She complied, but only barely. Her gaze remained fixed on the tall mirror before her. The face staring back was her own, though she barely recognized it beneath the powders and oils smeared across her cheeks, the kohl darkening her eyes. She was presentable. She was worthy. That’s what they wanted, wasn’t it?
The doors creaked open behind her. The women fell silent, their heads bowing as if to a god. She didn’t need to turn to know who had entered.
“Leave us,” her brother said, his tone clipped but soft—like silk pulled tight over a knife’s edge.
The housewives scurried from the chamber, their bare feet slapping softly against the marble. The door clicked shut, and the room fell into silence, broken only by the faint hiss of the wind outside.
Her brother stepped forward, his reflection appearing behind her in the mirror. He was tall and lean, his pale hair falling in soft waves over his shoulders. His face, angular and sharp, bore a cruel sort of beauty—a beauty that masked the rot beneath.
“You clean up well, sister,” he said softly, his tone almost kind, but Y/N had learned long ago that there was no kindness in him. Only control.
He stepped closer, his hands coming to rest lightly on her shoulders. She tensed beneath his touch, her stomach curling in on itself. He noticed, of course. He always noticed.
His fingers traced along the silk straps of her gown, tugging at them gently, one after the other. They slid from her shoulders without resistance, and the heavy gown pooled at her waist. The chill of the chamber kissed her bare skin, her full, heavy form now exposed beneath his gaze.
He didn’t speak. Instead, his fingers moved—tracing the curve of her neck, dragging softly across her collarbone, then lower, grazing the top of her breast.
“You are a Targaryen,” he murmured, his voice a low purr. “Blood of dragons. Fire incarnate. To think....that this body..." his hands traced lower, caressing her plush, and pudgy waist, stopping at her hips.
Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. She kept her gaze fixed on the mirror, refusing to look away. Her brother’s hands were cold, the touch possessive, but she would not let him see her flinch. That would be a victory, and he did not deserve victories.
He smiled faintly, his fingers lingering for just a moment longer before withdrawing. He stepped back, leaving the air colder in his absence.
“Crocodile will arrive soon,” he said, his voice returning to its clipped, businesslike tone. “And I hope that he sees you as of I, a way back home. But." His eyes darken with seriousness and evil. " You will not embarrass me. Do you understand?”
She nodded once, her expression unreadable.
“Good.” He turned to leave, pausing at the door to glance over his shoulder. “Remember, sister—you are nothing without me.”
The door creaked shut behind him, and Y/N sat alone, her gown still pooled at her waist. She exhaled slowly, the sound breaking the silence like a shattering mirror.
For now, she was a pawn. A bargaining chip. A daughter sold to the highest bidder. But the blood in her veins whispered of dragons. And dragons, no matter how long they sleep, always rise
All she has to do.....is survive.
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