hi! i was the one that sent in the request for rhaenyra x platonic daughter ✨ back again for more (not connected to the first request)
Set in Dragonstone: instead of Rhaenyra, Aegon sends Ser Arryk to kill reader, as revenge for what happened to Jaehaerys. Reader is in her chambers when he comes in. It’s obviously crazy, she did try to defend herself, even cutting her hands (like Catelyn Stark when she saved Bran in GOT) but is still no match for him. Rhaenyra is frantic, since its almost impossible to break into the room. Once they manage to go in and she sees her hurt, she kills Arryk before his twin Erryk can, while Jace helps his sister. At the end, Rhaenyra starts growing even more possessive, what else can she do to keep her daughter safe
Rhaenyra Targaryen x platonicdaugther!reader
warning(s): violence and attempted murder, blood and injuries, assassination attempt, panic, distress, and emotional trauma, possessive/controlling behaviour
The evening had settled over Dragonstone like a shroud, the ancient fortress wrapped in the familiar sounds of crashing waves and distant dragon calls. You sat by the window of your chambers, a book of Valyrian history open in your lap, though your eyes had long since stopped following the words. The candlelight flickered across the pages, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls that had become as familiar to you as your own reflection.
This was your sanctuary, these rooms that overlooked the dark waters of Blackwater Bay. Here, you could almost forget the war that raged across the realm, the war that had already claimed so much. The death of little Jaehaerys haunted you still, though you had no hand in it. Blood and Cheese had acted on orders you would never have given, yet the guilt sat heavy in your chest nonetheless. He had been a child, innocent of the sins of his father.
You closed the book with a soft thud and moved to the hearth, seeking warmth against the chill that seemed to seep through the very stones of Dragonstone. Your mother had been in council all evening, discussing strategies and alliances with her advisors. Daemon had been there too, his presence always a storm barely contained. You had excused yourself early, claiming fatigue, though in truth you simply needed solitude.
The fire crackled and popped, and you held your hands toward it, watching the flames dance. Outside your door, you knew guards stood watch. Ser Erryk had personally overseen the security of the family quarters before taking his own post. You were safe here, or so everyone believed.
The sound, when it came, was so subtle you almost missed it. A scrape of metal against stone, barely audible over the fire's whisper. You turned, your heart suddenly beating faster, some primal instinct screaming danger before your mind could catch up.
The door to your chambers stood closed, but the shadows near the window seemed wrong somehow. Too deep. Too still.
"Who's there?" Your voice came out steadier than you felt, your hand moving instinctively to the small dagger you kept at your belt. It was ornamental more than practical, a gift from Jace on your last name day, but it was sharp enough.
The shadow moved, and then he was there, stepping into the candlelight with the fluid grace of a trained killer. Ser Arryk Cargyll, identical to his brother in every way save for the cold purpose in his eyes. He wore the white cloak of the Kingsguard, Aegon's Kingsguard, and in his hand was a sword that gleamed with deadly intent.
"Princess," he said, and his voice was almost apologetic. "I am sorry. Truly."
Terror flooded your veins like ice water, but you forced yourself to move, to think. The door was too far, and he stood between you and escape. Your fingers closed around the dagger's hilt as you backed toward the hearth.
"My mother will kill you for this," you said, and you meant it with every fiber of your being. "She will burn you alive."
"Perhaps," Arryk acknowledged, advancing slowly. "But the king has commanded it. A son for a daughter. Blood for blood."
He moved with terrible swiftness, his sword arcing toward you in a strike meant to end this quickly. You threw yourself aside, the blade missing you by inches, and grabbed the first thing your hand found: a heavy brass candlestick. You swung it with all your strength, connecting with his shoulder in a blow that would have felled a lesser man.
Arryk barely flinched. He was armored beneath his cloak, protected in ways you were not. But you had surprised him, and that gave you precious seconds.
You ran, not for the door but for the other side of the room where your writing desk stood. Your fingers found the letter opener, longer and sharper than your decorative dagger, and you spun to face him with a blade in each hand.
"I will not make this easy for you," you snarled, and some part of you recognized your mother in your own voice, that Targaryen fire that would not be extinguished without a fight.
Arryk's expression shifted, something like respect flickering across his features. "I did not expect you would, princess."
He came at you again, and this time you were ready. You ducked under his swing and drove the letter opener toward his side, finding the gap between his armor plates. The blade sank in, not deep but enough to draw blood, enough to prove you were not helpless prey.
Arryk grunted and backhanded you with his free hand, the blow sending you sprawling across the floor. Stars exploded across your vision, and you tasted blood in your mouth. But you still had your weapons, and you still had your will to live.
You scrambled backward as he advanced, your mind racing through every lesson Daemon had ever tried to teach you about fighting, about survival. Use your environment. Use your size. Never stop moving.
The chair. You grabbed it and threw it at him, forcing him to deflect it with his sword. Then you were on your feet again, circling, keeping furniture between you and death.
"The queen will know it was you," you said, trying to buy time, trying to think. "Erryk will know. Your own brother will hunt you down."
Something flickered in Arryk's eyes at the mention of his twin, but his resolve did not waver. "My brother made his choice. I have made mine."
He feinted left and struck right, and this time you were not fast enough. His blade caught your forearm, slicing through fabric and flesh with equal ease. You cried out, more from shock than pain, though the pain came quickly enough, hot and sharp and terrifying.
Blood welled from the wound, running down your arm in rivulets that dripped onto the stone floor. Your own blood, spilled in your own chambers, in the place you had thought safe.
The sight of it triggered something primal in you, some desperate animal need to survive. When Arryk pressed his advantage, you did not retreat. Instead, you lunged forward, inside his guard, and drove your dagger toward his throat.
He caught your wrist, his grip like iron, and you felt the bones grind together. But your other hand, slick with your own blood, still held the letter opener. You brought it up and across, aiming for his face, his eyes, anything vulnerable.
The blade caught him across the cheek, opening a red line from ear to jaw. Arryk roared and threw you backward, and you crashed into the table, sending books and papers flying. Your wounded arm screamed in agony as you landed on it, and for a moment, the world went gray at the edges.
Through the haze of pain, you saw Arryk touching his bleeding face, saw the cold fury that replaced his earlier calm. He had meant to make this quick, perhaps even merciful in his own twisted way. But you had hurt him, humiliated him, and now he would make you pay for it.
"Enough," he growled, and came at you with renewed violence.
You tried to rise, tried to defend yourself, but your injured arm would not cooperate. You managed to roll aside as his sword struck the floor where you had been, sparks flying from the impact. Your hand found a shard of broken pottery, and you slashed at his leg as he passed, opening another wound through his breeches.
But it was not enough. It would never be enough. He was trained, armored, stronger, and you were bleeding, exhausted, running out of room to retreat.
Your back hit the wall beside the hearth, and you knew this was where you would make your last stand. You raised your dagger, your hand shaking but your eyes defiant, and waited for him to come.
Arryk raised his sword, and you saw your death in his eyes.
Then you screamed. Not a cry of fear, but a wordless shriek of rage and defiance that echoed off the stone walls. You screamed for your mother, for your brothers, for everyone who loved you and would mourn you. You screamed because you would not die silent and afraid.
And somewhere in the depths of Dragonstone, Rhaenyra Targaryen heard her daughter scream.
-————————————————————————
The council chamber had grown stifling, the air thick with tension and the smoke from the hearth. Rhaenyra sat at the head of the table, listening to Lord Celtigar drone on about supply lines and grain stores, but her mind was elsewhere. Something felt wrong, had felt wrong all evening, a creeping unease that she could not name or dismiss.
Daemon sat to her right, his fingers drumming an impatient rhythm on the table. He caught her eye and raised an eyebrow, silently asking if she wanted him to end this meeting. She was about to nod when it hit her.
A feeling like ice water down her spine, like a hand closing around her heart. Terror, pure and primal, that was not her own but might as well have been.
She was on her feet before she realized she had moved, the chair scraping back with a harsh sound that cut through Lord Celtigar's words.
"Your Grace?" he asked, confused.
But Rhaenyra was not listening. She was already moving toward the door, her instincts screaming at her that something was terribly, horribly wrong. One of her children was in danger. She knew it the way she knew her own name, knew it in her bones and blood.
"The princess," she said, and her voice came out strange, tight with fear she rarely allowed herself to show. "Where is my daughter?"
"In her chambers, Your Grace," Ser Lorent said from his post by the door. "Ser Erryk is watching over the family quarters."
But that did nothing to ease the terror clawing at Rhaenyra's chest. She pushed past the knight and into the corridor, her pace quickening with each step. Behind her, she heard Daemon calling her name, heard the scrape of chairs as the council rose in confusion.
She did not care. She broke into a run, her skirts gathered in her fists, her heart pounding a desperate rhythm. The corridors of Dragonstone blurred around her, familiar passages that suddenly seemed endless. Guards turned to stare as their queen raced past, but she did not slow.
Please, she thought, though she did not know to whom she prayed. Please let her be safe. Please let me be wrong.
But she was not wrong. She knew she was not wrong.
Daemon caught up to her, his longer stride eating up the distance. "Rhaenyra, what is it?"
"Something is wrong," she gasped, still running. "Something is wrong with her."
He did not question her, did not ask how she knew. He simply drew his sword and ran with her, and behind them came the sound of more guards following.
They rounded the final corner to the family quarters, and Rhaenyra's blood turned to ice. Ser Erryk lay slumped against the wall, blood pooling beneath him from a wound to his head. He was breathing, barely, but unconscious.
And beyond him, the door to your chambers stood closed.
"No," Rhaenyra breathed, and then she was at the door, her hands on the handle, pulling. It did not budge. Locked or barred from within.
From inside came the sound of a crash, of something breaking, and then a scream that turned Rhaenyra's world to ash and fury.
Your scream. Her daughter's scream.
"Break it down!" she shrieked, pounding on the door with her fists. "Break it down now!"
Daemon and the guards threw themselves at the door, their shoulders slamming into the heavy wood. Once, twice, three times. The door shuddered but held.
Inside, Rhaenyra could hear the sounds of struggle, could hear your voice crying out, and every second that passed was an eternity of helpless terror. She was the queen, she was a dragonrider, she was your mother, and she could not reach you.
"Again!" Daemon roared, and they hit the door together, all their strength focused on that single barrier between Rhaenyra and her child.
The wood splintered. Cracked. But still it held.
Rhaenyra wanted to scream, wanted to tear the door apart with her bare hands, wanted to burn the entire castle down if that was what it took. Her daughter was dying on the other side of that door, and she was powerless.
No. Not powerless. Never powerless.
She grabbed a fallen torch from the wall and thrust it at the door, at the gap where the wood had splintered. "Burn it," she snarled. "Burn it down."
But before she could set the flame to wood, the door gave way with a final, splintering crash. Daemon and the guards stumbled through, and Rhaenyra was right behind them, her eyes wild, her heart in her throat.
The scene that greeted her would haunt her for the rest of her days.
You were backed against the wall beside the hearth, your arm bleeding freely, your face pale with shock and pain. Blood stained your dress, your hands, the floor around you. And standing over you, his sword raised for a killing blow, was a man in a white cloak.
For a single, terrible moment, Rhaenyra thought it was Erryk. Thought that the knight she trusted had betrayed her, had tried to murder her daughter. The grief and rage of that thought nearly drove her to her knees.
But then she saw the cut on his face, the cold purpose in his eyes, and she understood. Arryk. Aegon had sent Arryk.
The knight heard them enter and turned, his moment of distraction giving you a chance to slash at him again with your dagger. The blade caught his wrist, and he dropped his sword with a curse.
Rhaenyra did not think. Did not plan. She simply moved.
She crossed the room in three strides, faster than she had ever moved in her life, and her hand closed around the fallen sword. It was heavier than she expected, awkward in her grip, but she did not care. She swung it with all the strength of her fury, all the terror and rage of a mother who had nearly lost her child.
The blade caught Arryk in the side, sliding between his ribs with a resistance that she felt all the way up her arms. He gasped, his eyes going wide with shock, and staggered backward.
Rhaenyra followed him, pulling the sword free and striking again. And again. She was screaming, she realized distantly, screaming words that might have been curses or prayers or simply wordless rage.
Arryk fell to his knees, blood pouring from multiple wounds, and still Rhaenyra did not stop. She could not stop. This man had tried to kill her daughter, had hurt her baby, had spilled her blood, and for that, there could be no mercy.
"Your Grace!" Daemon's voice cut through her fury, and she felt his hands on her shoulders, pulling her back. "Rhaenyra, he's dead. He's dead."
She looked down and saw that it was true. Arryk Cargyll lay in a spreading pool of his own blood, his eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling. She had killed him, had butchered him with his own sword, and she felt no remorse. Only a savage satisfaction that he would never threaten her child again.
The sword fell from her nerveless fingers, clattering on the stone, and then she was moving again, stumbling toward you.
"Mother," you whispered, and the word broke something in her chest.
You were sliding down the wall, your legs no longer able to hold you, and Rhaenyra caught you before you could fall. She sank to the floor with you in her arms, heedless of the blood that soaked into her dress, and held you as tightly as she dared.
"I have you," she breathed into your hair, her voice shaking. "I have you, my darling. You're safe now. You're safe."
But you were not safe. You were bleeding, wounded, traumatized. And it was her fault. She had not protected you. She had not kept you safe.
"Jace!" Daemon was shouting into the corridor. "Fetch the maester! Now!"
Footsteps pounded in the hallway, and then Jace was there, his face going white as he took in the scene. The body on the floor. The blood. His sister cradled in their mother's arms.
"Gods," he breathed, and dropped to his knees beside you. "Sister, I'm here. I'm here."
You turned your head toward him, and Rhaenyra saw the tears tracking through the blood on your face. "He came to kill me," you said, your voice small and lost. "For Jaehaerys. He came to kill me for Jaehaerys."
"Hush," Rhaenyra said, though her own tears were falling now, hot and unchecked. "Hush, my love. Don't speak. Save your strength."
She looked at your arm, at the deep gash that still bled sluggishly, and her stomach turned. Your hands were cut too, defensive wounds from trying to grab the blade. Like Catelyn Stark, she thought distantly, remembering the stories of the Lady of Winterfell who had nearly lost her fingers saving her son from an assassin.
History repeating itself. Blood and betrayal and mothers trying desperately to save their children.
"Let me see," Jace said, his voice steadier than his hands. He pulled off his cloak and began wrapping it around your arm, applying pressure to slow the bleeding. "You're going to be fine. The maester will be here soon."
But Rhaenyra could see the fear in his eyes, could see how pale you had become. You had lost so much blood, had fought so hard, and the shock was setting in now that the danger had passed.
"Stay with me," Rhaenyra commanded, cupping your face in her hands. "Look at me, darling. Stay with me."
Your eyes focused on hers, and she saw the pain there, the fear, but also the fierce will to survive that was pure Targaryen. You had fought. You had not gone quietly into the dark. Pride swelled in her chest alongside the terror.
"I'm sorry," you whispered. "I'm sorry I couldn't stop him."
"No," Rhaenyra said fiercely. "No, you have nothing to apologize for. You fought. You survived. That is all that matters."
The maester arrived in a flurry of robes and clinking bottles, his apprentices behind him carrying supplies. He took one look at you and began barking orders, his hands already reaching for your wounded arm.
Rhaenyra did not want to let you go, did not want to release you even for a moment, but Jace gently pried her arms away. "Let him work, Mother. Let him help her."
She stood on shaking legs and watched as the maester cleaned and stitched your wounds, as he wrapped your arm in clean bandages and gave you milk of the poppy for the pain. You drifted in and out of consciousness, your eyes finding hers whenever they opened, seeking reassurance that she was still there.
"I'm here," Rhaenyra said each time. "I'm not leaving you."
Behind her, she heard Daemon speaking in low, urgent tones to the guards. Heard him mention Erryk, who was being tended to in the corridor. The knight had been struck from behind, ambushed by his own brother, and the betrayal of it made Rhaenyra's blood boil anew.
"How did he get in?" she demanded, turning to face Daemon. "How did Arryk get into Dragonstone?"
"We're investigating," Daemon said grimly. "But I suspect he posed as Erryk. They were identical. The guards would have had no reason to question him."
Rhaenyra looked at the body still lying in a pool of blood on her daughter's floor. Ser Arryk Cargyll, who had sworn an oath to protect the royal family and had instead become an assassin. Aegon had sent him. Her half-brother had sent a killer into her home to murder her child.
The rage that filled her then was cold and terrible, a fury that burned like dragonfire in her veins. This was not war. This was not battle. This was the murder of an innocent girl in her own chambers, and for that, there could be no forgiveness.
"Burn the body," she said, her voice flat and hard. "Feed it to Syrax. I want nothing of him left."
Daemon nodded, understanding in his eyes. "And Aegon?"
"Will pay," Rhaenyra said. "In blood and fire, he will pay for this."
But that was for later. For now, all that mattered was you.
The maester finished his work and stepped back, his expression grave. "The princess will recover, Your Grace, but she needs rest. The wounds are clean, but she has lost much blood. She must be watched carefully for signs of fever."
"She will be watched," Rhaenyra said. "Every moment of every day, she will be watched."
She moved back to your side and took your hand, careful of the bandages. Your eyes were closed now, the milk of the poppy pulling you under, but your fingers tightened around hers.
"Mother," you murmured, half-asleep. "Don't leave."
"Never," Rhaenyra promised, and meant it with every fiber of her being. "I will never leave you again."
-———————————————————————-
The days that followed were a blur of fear and fury and an ever-tightening grip on control.
You recovered slowly, your wounds healing but your spirit bruised in ways that no maester could treat. You flinched at sudden sounds, woke screaming from nightmares, and refused to be alone even for a moment. Rhaenyra understood. She felt the same terror, the same need for constant vigilance.
She had your chambers moved to the room adjoining hers, connected by a door that was never locked. She stationed guards outside both rooms, men she trusted absolutely, and had them changed every four hours so that none would grow complacent. She had food tasters assigned to every meal you ate, and she watched you take every bite, counting to make sure you consumed enough to regain your strength.
Jace stayed close as well, sleeping in a chair by your bedside those first few nights, holding your hand when the nightmares came. He blamed himself, Rhaenyra knew, for not being there to protect you. She understood that guilt intimately.
Ser Erryk recovered from his head wound, but the shame of his brother's betrayal weighed heavily on him. He begged Rhaenyra's forgiveness, offered to take the black, to do anything to atone for Arryk's sins. She refused. Erryk had been loyal, had been true, and she would not punish him for his brother's choices. But she saw the way he looked at you now, with a desperate need to prove himself, to make up for his failure.
Everyone had failed you, Rhaenyra thought. Everyone who should have kept you safe had failed.
She would not fail again.
"Mother," you said one evening, nearly a week after the attack. You were sitting up in bed, your arm still bandaged but healing well. "I want to go outside. I want to see the dragons."
Rhaenyra's first instinct was to refuse, to keep you here where she could see you, where she could protect you. But she saw the plea in your eyes, the desperate need for some semblance of normalcy, and she forced herself to nod.
"Very well," she said. "But I will come with you. And Jace. And a full guard."
You did not argue, though she saw the flicker of frustration cross your face. You were not a prisoner, Rhaenyra reminded herself. You were her daughter, and she was only trying to keep you safe.
But as the days turned to weeks, the measures grew more restrictive. She had bars installed on your windows, claiming it was to prevent anyone from climbing in. She required you to report your whereabouts at all times, to never go anywhere without an escort. She began sitting in on your lessons, your meals, your every waking moment.
"Your Grace," Daemon said one night, when you had finally fallen asleep and they were alone in their chambers. "You cannot keep her locked away forever."
"I am not locking her away," Rhaenyra said, but even she could hear the defensiveness in her voice. "I am protecting her."
"You are smothering her," Daemon said bluntly. "She is a dragon, Rhaenyra. She needs room to breathe, to fly."
"She nearly died," Rhaenyra snapped, rounding on him. "In her own chambers, in her own home, she nearly died because I was not there to protect her. Do you understand that? Do you understand what it felt like to hear her scream and not be able to reach her?"
Daemon's expression softened, and he reached for her, but she pulled away. She could not afford softness now. Could not afford to let her guard down even for a moment.
"I understand," he said quietly. "But this path you are walking, this need for control, it will not end well. For either of you."
"Then what would you have me do?" Rhaenyra demanded. "Let her wander freely so that Aegon can send another assassin? Let her ride her dragon alone so that she can be shot from the sky? Tell me, Daemon, what is the acceptable level of risk for my daughter's life?"
He had no answer for that, and she had not expected one.
She returned to your room and stood in the doorway, watching you sleep. Your face was peaceful now, the lines of pain and fear smoothed away by slumber. You looked so young, so vulnerable, and the thought of losing you made Rhaenyra's chest tighten until she could barely breathe.
She had lost so much already. Her father. Her throne. Her sons, in a way, sent off to war and danger. She could not lose you too. She would not.
If that meant keeping you close, keeping you safe, keeping you under her watchful eye every moment of every day, then so be it. You might chafe against the restrictions now, might resent her for them, but you would be alive to resent her. That was all that mattered.
Rhaenyra crossed to your bedside and sat in the chair Jace had occupied those first nights. She took your hand in hers, careful not to wake you, and held it gently.
"I will keep you safe," she whispered into the darkness. "No matter what it takes. No matter what I have to do. You are mine, and I will not let anyone take you from me."
Outside, the wind howled around Dragonstone's towers, and somewhere in the distance, a dragon roared. But here, in this room, all was quiet and still.
Rhaenyra did not sleep. She simply sat and watched over you, her daughter, her heart, her reason for everything. And she began to plan.
More guards. More restrictions. Perhaps she should forbid you from leaving the castle entirely, at least until the war was over. Perhaps she should send you away, to some secret location where Aegon could never find you. Or perhaps she should keep you here, in these rooms, where she could see you always.
The thoughts circled in her mind like dragons in flight, each one more extreme than the last. But she did not dismiss them. Could not dismiss them.
Because the alternative, the thought of losing you, of failing to protect you again, was simply unthinkable.
You stirred in your sleep, your hand tightening around hers, and Rhaenyra leaned forward to brush a kiss across your forehead.
"Sleep, my darling," she murmured. "I am here. I will always be here."
And she would be. Every moment, every day, for as long as it took.
Even if it meant becoming the very thing she had always feared: a mother whose love had curdled into something darker, something possessive and all-consuming.
Even if it meant losing you in a different way, seeing the light in your eyes dim as the walls closed in.
It did not matter. Nothing mattered except keeping you alive.
Rhaenyra Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, sat in the darkness and held her daughter's hand, and told herself that this was love.
That this was protection.
That this was the only way.
And if some small voice in the back of her mind whispered that she was wrong, that she was going too far, that she was letting her fear consume her, she ignored it.
Because she had heard you scream. She had seen your blood on the floor. She had nearly lost you.
And she would do anything, sacrifice anything, become anything, to make sure that never happened again.
Even if it meant losing herself in the process.
The candles burned low, casting long shadows across the room, and outside, the dragons of Dragonstone called to each other in the night. But Rhaenyra did not move, did not sleep, did not let go of your hand.
She simply held on, and planned, and promised herself that this time, she would not fail.
This time, she would keep you safe.
