Chapter Text
House of the dragon
Daemon Targaryen x daughter reader. Rhaenyra Targaryen x daughter reader. The reader is an only child.
The day began quietly in the Red Keep, but beneath the surface of its grand halls, your mind was anything but calm. It started in the training yard. You had been practicing your swordplay with Ser Harwin, a trusted knight and your tutor. Normally, you enjoyed sparring; the rhythm of the strikes and the focus required were distractions from the heaviness that sometimes lingered in your chest.
But today was different.
You struggled with the drills. Your movements were sluggish, your strikes off-target. Ser Harwin tried to encourage you, but every missed swing chipped away at your patience. In the corner of your eye, you caught the other squires whispering, their smirks and pointed glances cutting deeper than any blade.
“Come on, princess,” one of them called mockingly when your sword slipped from your grip. “Surely the blood of the dragon can do better than that.”
Their laughter echoed in your ears as you retrieved your weapon, your hands trembling with frustration. You wanted to shout back, to prove them wrong, but the lump in your throat silenced you. Ser Harwin scolded the boys and told them to return to their duties, but the damage was done.
After the session, you rushed back to your chambers, your face hot with embarrassment. You couldn’t shake the humiliation, nor the feeling that you’d let everyone down—your parents, the court, and yourself.
As the afternoon wore on, the weight in your chest only grew heavier. You passed by the council chamber and overheard snippets of conversation. Otto Hightower’s voice carried over the rest, sharp and judgmental.
“The princess struggles with even the simplest of tasks,” he sneered. “How can we trust her to uphold House Targaryen’s legacy?”
You froze, your heart sinking. You weren’t sure if he was talking about you, but his words stung all the same.
Unable to bear it any longer, you retreated to the sanctuary of your chambers. You ignored the meals brought by servants and avoided your mother’s concerned inquiries. By the time the evening fell, the storm inside you had reached its peak.
The bathroom became your refuge. You drew a bath, hoping the warm water would soothe your frayed nerves. As the steam filled the room, you sank into the tub, your knees drawn to your chest. The quiet should have been calming, but instead, it left you alone with your thoughts.
You replayed the events of the day—the smirking faces, Otto’s cutting words, the looks of disappointment you imagined on your parents’ faces. The water felt heavy, like it was pressing down on your chest, and your breathing grew shallow.
“I’m a failure,” you whispered to yourself, tears slipping down your cheeks.
The thoughts came faster now, cruel and relentless. You weren’t good enough. You’d never be good enough. What use was a dragon’s blood if you couldn’t live up to it? The overwhelming despair pushed you to the edge, and before you could stop yourself, you reached for the blade you’d hidden earlier—a small, sharp dagger that once belonged to Daemon.
As you pressed the blade to your skin, the brief sting was almost a relief. But you miscalculated the depth of the cut, and as crimson spread across the water, your vision began to blur. Panic set in too late, and the last thing you heard before everything went dark was the sound of the blade slipping from your grasp.
Rhaenyra had been growing uneasy all evening. When you didn’t show for dinner, she went to your chambers, only to find them empty. Her worry deepened when she heard faint noises from the bathroom—the sound of water sloshing, muffled sobs.
The sun was setting over the Red Keep, its golden rays casting long shadows through the corridors. The once-vibrant warmth of the day felt distant to Rhaenyra as she wandered through the halls, her mind preoccupied. You had been quiet all day, retreating to your chambers without much explanation. At first, she thought you simply needed space, but the eerie silence gnawed at her instincts. When she heard the faint sound of crying from your bathroom as she passed by, her steps faltered.
Rhaenyra paused, pressing her ear to the door. “Sweetheart?” she called gently, her voice laced with concern. “Are you all right in there?”
The sound of soft sobbing continued, muffled but unmistakable. Her heart clenched. “Y/N?” she tried again, louder this time.
Still, no response. A knot of unease tightened in her chest. She knocked firmly, hoping you would answer. When silence followed, her worry turned to panic. She was about to call for help when she heard it—a sudden, heavy thud from inside.
“Y/N!” she shouted, pounding on the door. “Open this door right now!” The doorknob refused to budge; it was locked. Her hands trembled as she tried again. “Please, answer me!”
Realizing she couldn’t break the door down alone, Rhaenyra spun on her heel and ran. She knew only one person who could help her in time.
Daemon was in the council chambers, seated on the edge of the long table, bored out of his mind as Otto Hightower droned on about taxes. His gaze flicked to the window, longing for any excuse to leave, when the door suddenly burst open. Rhaenyra stormed in, her face pale and stricken with panic.
“Daemon! It’s Y/N—she’s in the bathroom, and something’s wrong!”
He was on his feet in an instant, already moving toward her. “What happened?” he demanded, his usual arrogance replaced with raw urgency.
“She’s not answering, and I heard a thud,” Rhaenyra said, her voice trembling. “The door is locked, and I can’t get to her.”
Daemon didn’t waste another second. Together, they sprinted through the halls, servants and guards stepping aside in confusion as they passed.
When they reached the bathroom door, Daemon didn’t hesitate. “Move back,” he ordered, his voice sharp and commanding.
Rhaenyra stepped aside, watching as he slammed his shoulder against the door. Once, twice—the wood groaned but held. On the third attempt, the door splintered, swinging open with a deafening crash.
The scene inside froze them both.
You were draped over the edge of the bathtub, your body limp, the water around you tinged with red. A razor blade lay discarded on the floor, a cruel testament to your pain.
Rhaenyra gasped, rushing forward with a cry of anguish. “No! Gods, no!”
Daemon followed, his breath hitching as he crouched to scoop you into his arms. Your head lolled against his chest, your skin pale and cold. He could feel your shallow breaths, but the sight of the deep cut on your arm sent a chill through him.
“She’s bleeding badly,” Rhaenyra said, her voice shaking as she pressed a towel against your wound. Blood seeped through the fabric, staining her hands. “Daemon, we need the maesters now!”
Daemon nodded, his jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. He carried you carefully, cradling you like a fragile doll as they rushed through the corridors. Rhaenyra ran beside him, calling out for help as they passed startled servants and guards.
“Clear the way!” Daemon barked, his voice thunderous with desperation.
In the infirmary, the maesters worked swiftly. They cleaned and stitched your wound, carefully monitoring your breathing as they administered tonics to stabilize you. Daemon and Rhaenyra stood nearby, their hands entwined tightly as they watched, helpless.
“She’s lost a significant amount of blood,” one of the maesters said gravely. “But she will recover, physically.”
The unspoken weight of his words hung in the air. Physically. What about the rest?
Hours passed before you finally stirred, your eyelids fluttering open. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a nearby lantern. Your body felt heavy, and your arm throbbed beneath its bandages. You turned your head slightly and saw your parents sitting nearby.
Rhaenyra was the first to notice. She shot to her feet, her face a mix of relief and heartbreak. “Sweetheart,” she whispered, rushing to your bedside.
Daemon followed, his normally stoic demeanor cracked by the raw emotion in his eyes. “You’re awake,” he said softly, kneeling beside you. “Thank the gods.”
Tears welled in your eyes. “I... I’m sorry,” you choked out, your voice hoarse.
“No,” Rhaenyra said firmly, her hand brushing your hair back. “You don’t have to apologize, my love. Just talk to us. Please.”
You hesitated, your gaze dropping to your bandaged arm. “I didn’t want to bother you,” you murmured, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I didn’t want to be a burden anymore.”
Daemon’s expression hardened—not with anger at you, but at the thought that you had ever felt that way. He reached out, taking your hand in his. “Y/N, listen to me,” he said, his voice trembling with intensity. “You are not a burden. You are my daughter, my blood. Whatever darkness you’re facing, we will face it together. Do you hear me? You are never alone.”
Rhaenyra leaned in, her lips brushing your forehead as she spoke softly. “We love you, more than anything in this world. Promise us you’ll let us help you, darling. Promise.”
Through trembling lips, you nodded. “I... I promise,” you whispered.
Daemon exhaled shakily, his thumb brushing against your hand. “Good,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Because we’re not going anywhere. Not now, not ever.”
That night, neither of them left your side. Daemon stayed awake, keeping watch like a sentinel, while Rhaenyra hummed soothing lullabies to ease your restless dreams. It was a long road ahead, but together, they vowed to help you heal—with love, patience, and unwavering support.