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─ summary: The night your daughter is born is the best and worst night of Maekar's life.

─ pairing: Maekar Targaryen x reader

─ word count: 4.5k

─ a/n: I started writing this series because I just loved Maekar so so much and felt like he deserved all the happiness in the world, which he obviously does not get canonically. And here we are now, five fics later at the end. Thank you for your continued support along the way. Much love. As always, thank you for your likes, comments, reblogs, and requests. 🖤

The light in the solar was failing, the day's last gold fingers clawing at the leaded glass of the window. Maekar sat behind the desk, a quill suspended over a parchment that detailed the grain stores for the coming winter. It was mundane work, the sort of arithmetic that usually grounded him, but the figures swam slightly before his eyes. He had been checking the same column for ten minutes.

Then a frantic knock shattered the quiet before the door opened. A young maid stood in the threshold, her apron askew and her face drained of all color.

"My prince," she gasped, the breath hitching in her throat. "It is time. The princess asks for you."

Maekar was on his feet before she finished the sentence. The chair he vacated scraped violently against the stone floor, toppling backward with a crash that he did not hear. He did not remember crossing the room or passing the maid. He was simply moving, his long stride eating up the corridor, his boots striking the flagstones with a rhythm that was more like a run than a walk.

He reached the door to the chambers and paused only for the fraction of a second needed to compose his face before pushing the door open and stepping inside.

The room was stiflingly warm, the hearth built up to a roaring blaze that chased away the evening chill. The air smelled of lavender oil and the copper tang of blood, faint but present. In the center of the room was the bed where you lay.

You were propped up against a mound of pillows, your hair plastered to your forehead in dark, sweat-soaked strands.

You turned your head at the sound of the door. Your eyes, usually bright with laughter, were glazed with pain and exhaustion, but when they found him, locking onto his face across the room, the tension in your shoulders dropped. You let out a breath that shuddered through your entire frame, your hand reaching out, grasping at the empty air beside you.

"You are here," you whispered. Your voice was thin, worn down by exertion.

Maekar took your damp, trembling hand and brought your knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss against the heated skin.

"I am here." His voice was a low rumble, meant only for you. "I am not going anywhere."

Maester Darron cleared his throat, a delicate, professional sound that held an edge of hesitation. He did not look up from the basin of water he was wringing a cloth into. "My prince. Perhaps it would be best if you waited outside. This is… it is a difficult business. It might be easier for her if—"

"Do not finish that thought."

Maekar did not look at the maester; his eyes were on your face, watching the way a small, tired smile touched the corner of your mouth at his words. Darron did not speak again; he simply nodded, a short, sharp jerk of his chin, and returned to his preparations.

The hours that followed bled into one another, marked only by the shifting of the firelight on the walls and the increasing intensity of your pain. At first, you bore it with a stoic silence, gritting your teeth, squeezing his hand until the bones ground together. But as the night deepened outside the windows, the silence fractured.

A contraction took you, seizing your body like a violent cramp. You cried out, your back arching off the pillows, your head thrown back. Maekar stood, leaning over you, one hand supporting your neck, the other gripping your fingers.

"Breathe," he commanded, though his voice was gentle. "Look at me. Just look at me."

You gasped, your eyes flying open, darting around the room before finding his. "I can't," you choked out, tears spilling over and tracking through the sweat on your temples. "Maekar, I can't! It hurts too much; something is wrong."

"Nothing is wrong," he said, wiping your face with a cool cloth Darron had left on the table. "You are doing it."

"Please, make it stop."

The fear in your voice was a physical thing, a blade twisting in his gut. Maekar set his jaw, forcing his own face to remain a mask of calm certainty. He could not stop the pain, and the helplessness of it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"You are doing so well," he said, his voice low and steady, cutting through the sound of your ragged breathing.

You let out a wet, breathless laugh that was half a sob. "You are a terrible liar."

"I do not lie," he said, kissing your forehead, tasting the salt of your sweat. "Now, hold on to me."

He held your leg as Darron directed, his large hands supporting your weight, steadying you when the waves of pain threatened to pull you under. He wiped the sweat from your brow, murmured encouragement against your hair, and kept your gaze focused on his when the terror threatened to drag you away.

In the lulls between the pain, his mind wandered, unbidden, to the months that had led to this night. He remembered the way you had glowed, your skin taking on a luminous quality that had made it hard for him to keep his hands off you. He remembered Egg pressing his ear against the swell of your stomach, delivering his daily reports on the baby's movements. He is kicking today, Father. He is very strong.

He remembered Rhae, sitting beside you on the settee, reading aloud from a storybook or narrating the events of her day in a whisper, as if the child inside could already understand the complexities of court life.

The intensity of the labor peaked as the night wore on. Your grip on his hand was crushing, your nails digging into his skin, but he welcomed the pain. It was nothing compared to what you were enduring.

"Push, my lady," Darron urged, his voice tight with strain. "Now. One more."

You screamed, a raw, primal sound that seemed to tear itself from your soul, and then the tension broke.

The sound that filled the room was not a scream, but a cry. Indignant, furious, and loud.

Maekar pulled back just as Darron straightened up, holding a small, writhing bundle. The maester worked quickly and efficiently, clearing the mouth and nose, rubbing the small back with a cloth.

"A girl," Darron said, his voice breathless with relief. "A healthy daughter, my prince."

Maekar did not wait for an invitation. He reached out, his hands moving with a delicacy that belied their size, and took the child. He did not care about the blood, the vernix, the mess of it; he pulled her against his chest.

She was small, impossibly so. A fragile, squirming thing with a furious face screwed tight against the light. He looked down at her and saw a shock of pale hair, like his own, plastered to her tiny scalp.

The love hit him instantly. He looked at this small, angry creature, and he knew he would burn the world to ash before he let a single hair on her head be harmed. He looked up at you, meaning to show you, to share this moment that was yours together.

You reached out, your hands trembling, face exhausted but radiant. You laughed, a soft, breathless sound of pure relief. "Let me see."

Maekar shifted the baby, turning her so you could see. Your daughter chose that moment to open her eyes, blinking against the dim light. Maekar smiled, the expression feeling foreign on his face, stretching muscles that had grown stiff with disuse. For one heartbeat, the world was perfect. The fire was warm, the baby was fussing, and you were smiling.

Then Maekar looked up and saw Maester Darron's face.

He was looking back at the bed, at the sheets beneath your legs. The color had drained from the maester's face, leaving him ashen, a roadmap of anxieties etched into his features.

"Maester?"

Darron didn't answer. He was muttering to himself, a string of jargon that meant nothing to Maekar, but the tone meant everything.

"Maester." Maekar's voice sharpened. He stood up and thrust the child toward the maid who was hovering near the wall, her eyes wide. "Take her."

"What is happening?" he demanded. He reached the side of the bed and took your hand.

Darron looked up, his eyes darting to Maekar and then quickly away. "There is bleeding, my prince. We must… I am trying to locate the source."

"How much?" He looked at the sheets and saw so much red.

Darron didn't answer. The maester's face, pale and slick with sweat, was answer enough.

Maekar turned back to you. Your head was falling back against the pillows, lolling to the side. Your eyes were losing focus, the pupils dilating. "Look at me," he commanded, squeezing your hand. "Look at me. Do not close your eyes."

"Maekar." Your voice was slurring, thick and clumsy.

"You are going to be fine."

You said his name again, a mere whisper of sound. Your eyes slid shut. Your chest rose, fell, and then went still for a terrifying second before rising again in a shallow, ragged hitch. You did not respond to his voice.

He was back in the worst moment of his life.

He knew these sounds. He knew the wet, sucking sound of breath fighting to fill lungs that were failing. He knew the smell of iron, the particular quality of light that filtered through a window when hope was dying. He had stood in a room like this one a long time ago, holding the hand of another woman, and he had come out the other side with a hollowness in his chest that never entirely healed.

He had spent years after that day making himself into a man who could not be touched, and then you had come into his life, smiling at his gruffness, laughing at his thunder, and you had undone all of it. Stone by stone, you had dismantled him and he had begun to believe that he deserved this happiness.

Now the gods, who had always had a particular sense of humor where Maekar was concerned, were showing him exactly how foolish that was.

The fury had to go somewhere. It bubbled up in his chest, hot and violent, seeking an outlet. From the corner, he heard the baby crying. That healthy, furious wail. It was the sound of life, of vitality, and in this room, filled with the scent of dying, it sounded like an accusation. This child was the cause of your suffering and his.

"Get her out!" Maekar roared, turning toward the doorway. The maid standing there flinched as if he had struck her. She fled, the sound of crying fading with her. Maekar turned back to the bed. He did not ask after the child again.

He looked at Maester Darron. The man was fumbling, his hands shaking as he tried to pack the bleeding with linen. The incompetence of it made Maekar's blood boil.

He spoke to you without stopping. He needed to fill the silence, to drown out the memories that were crashing against him. "I am here," he whispered, leaning close to your ear. "I am right here. You are not alone." He paused, his throat tightening. "You promised me… you said we would grow old. You gave me your word."

He looked at your face, so pale it was almost grey. The memory of Dyanna pressed in on him. He remembered the silence that had followed her last breath. He remembered the way the light had left the room, leaving him alone in the dark, and he knew, with absolute certainty, that he could not survive it a second time.

Time lost its meaning. Then, the maester made a sound. A sharp intake of breath, followed by a curse that was uncharacteristic of a man of the Citadel.

"What?" Maekar demanded, his head snapping up.

Darron's voice changed. The panic was still there, but it was suddenly overlaid with a different kind of focus. "I have it," he said, his hands moving faster, more surely. "A tear. Hidden behind the... I have it. Press here." He directed one of the assistants.

Darron worked for another five minutes, though to Maekar it felt like an eternity. Finally, he stepped back, his shoulders slumping with exhaustion.

"The bleeding is stopped," Darron said softly. "She lost a great deal of blood, a dangerous amount, but it has stopped."

"Will she live?"

"She needs rest," Darron said, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm. "If she holds through the night, if the fever does not take her... she will live."

He gestured to the maids hovering in the shadows. "We must change the linens and her."

The maids moved forward, their eyes averted, carrying fresh sheets and basins of warm water. They reached for the bed, intending to shift you to strip the mattress.

"Do not touch her," Maekar said.

He leaned over the bed and slid one arm beneath your shoulders and the other under your knees, lifting you easily.

He held you there, cradling you against his body, while the maids stripped the blood-soaked sheets and replaced them with fresh, clean linen. He used the damp cloth to clean you as they worked. When the bed was made and you were changed, he lay you down gently, arranging your limbs with care.

Maester Darron paused at the door. "My prince, you should rest. She is stable for now."

"Go," He did not turn from the bed. "Close the door."

Maekar pulled the chair closer, so close his knees brushed the mattress, and took your hand again. It was still cold, but not as cold as before. He sat there as the night wore on, watching the play of shadows on the wall.

Morning came, a pale, gray light seeping through the large windows. The fire had died down to embers. Maekar did not move to stoke it.

Sometime around mid-morning, food was brought. Maekar ignored it. He had no appetite; the thought of food made his stomach turn.

Maester Darron came in around noon. He checked your pulse, lifted an eyelid, and felt your forehead. Maekar watched him like a hawk, ready to strike if the man's expression faltered.

"She is holding," Darron said quietly. "Her pulse is weak, but steady. She is a strong woman, my prince."

Hours passed, the room grew dark again as evening descended, but Maekar remained fixed in place. He had not slept, had not eaten, had barely moved. The exhaustion was a heavy, dragging at his limbs, clouding his thoughts.

Maekar leaned forward, resting his forehead on the edge of the mattress, right next to your clasped hands. He closed his eyes. Just for a moment, he told himself. Just to rest his eyes.

The adrenaline that had sustained him through the night and the day finally began to ebb. His body, pushed beyond its limits, began to shut down. The fear was still there, a cold knot in his stomach, but the sheer physical weight of his fatigue dragged him down.

His grip on your hand loosened slightly, but he did not let go. He held on, his fingers threaded through yours, as the darkness of sleep pulled him under.

When he surfaced, it was not gradual; it was a sharp, jarring intrusion as pressure tightened around his fingers.

Maekar jerked, his neck stiff, a groan catching in his throat as he tried to sit up. The room was dim with the deep, bruising purple of early evening. Shadows stretched long across the stone floor, and the air had cooled, carrying the scent of dying embers and the lingering, sharp odor of blood and wine.

He looked down. Your hand was in his, and your fingers had curled around his.

Your eyes were open. They were glassy, unfocused, moving sluggishly around the ceiling before drifting lower, scanning the tapestries, the heavy furniture, the shadows in the corners. They looked past him, then returned, locking onto his face.

He sat forward. "You're awake," he rasped. His voice was ruined, sounding like gravel grinding together.

You blinked slowly, your lashes fluttering against sunken cheeks. You tried to wet your lips but failed. Your throat moved, a dry, clicking swallow.

Maekar moved without thought, reaching for the pitcher and basin on the side table. The water was tepid, but he didn't care. He poured a cup, his hand steadying only by sheer force of will, and then he was sliding one arm behind your shoulders, lifting you with infinite care. You were light, terribly, frighteningly light. Your head lolled against his chest, your hair a tangled, wild halo of knots and curls spilling over his arm.

"Drink," he murmured, bringing the cup to your mouth.

You sipped, choking slightly, then drank deeper, your hands coming up to grip his wrist. The water spilled, a single drop tracking down your chin, but you swallowed greedily until he pulled the cup away, and you collapsed back against the pillows. Your eyes tracked over him, taking in the tunic he hadn't changed, the dark circles he knew must be bruising the skin beneath his eyes.

"Maekar," you whispered. Your voice was a wisp of sound, barely there.

"I'm here," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

You shifted, trying to push yourself up higher, wincing as the movement pulled at you. "The baby," you breathed. "Where is she?"

"You need to rest," the instinct to protect you, to shield you from any exertion, overriding everything else. "The Maester said—"

"No." The word was stronger this time, a flash of the iron will he knew so well. Your fingers dug into his hand, your gaze hardening. "I want her. Now."

He looked at you, seeing the determination flaring in the depths of your eyes. He could deny you many things for your own good, but not this. Not the sight of your child.

He let go of your hand and stood, his knees cracking in the quiet room. He crossed to the door, yanking it open. A guard snapped to attention in the hallway.

"Send for the child," Maekar commanded, "and fetch Maester Darron."

Minutes stretched, taut and silent. Then, the door opened.

A maid entered first, carrying a bundle of white wool in her arms. Maester Darron followed, his expression unreadable.

Maekar stepped aside, his eyes fixed on the bundle.

The nurse approached the bed, lowering the child gently into your waiting arms.

Maekar watched the transformation happen. As soon as the weight of the baby settled against you, the fear, the pain, the confusion, it all vanished from your face. Your eyes softened, melting into a look of such raw, unguarded adoration that it made his chest ache.

You pulled the blanket back. The baby was asleep, a small thing with a shock of white hair and a scrunched-up nose. You stared down, your index finger tracing the delicate curve of a cheek, the tiny fist.

"Look at her," you whispered, the words catching on a sob. "Maekar, look!"

He stepped closer, compelled against the sudden knot of guilt tightening his throat. "I see her."

"She's perfect," you cooed, leaning down to breathe in the scent of the infant's scalp. "She has your ears! And your hair." You looked up at him, your eyes swimming with tears, a brilliant smile breaking through the exhaustion. "We made her my love. She's perfect."

Maester Darron moved to the side of the bed, his professional demeanor masking whatever relief he felt. He checked the sheets, felt your forehead, asked questions about your vision, your pain, your strength. You answered distractedly, your attention never truly leaving the child's face.

"The bleeding has stopped," the Maester said. "Your pulse is steady." He gave a stiff bow. "Rest is the only prescription now, my lady."

He packed his tools into his bag, gave Maekar a respectful nod, and saw himself out. The nurse lingered for a moment, but you waved her away with a dismissive, gentle authority. You wanted no one else here.

You looked up from the baby, your eyes finding him where he stood rooted near the bedpost. You shifted, wincing slightly, and scooted over, pressing your back against the far side of the mattress.

"Come here," you said softly.

Maekar hesitated. He felt too large, too dirty, too stained with the memory of the last hours to intrude on this sanctum. But you patted the space beside you, your eyes leaving no room for refusal.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, the frame dipping under his weight. He kicked off his boots, the leather thudding dully against the rug, and swung his legs up, lying back stiffly, the tension in his shoulders a solid wall.

You leaned into him, your head finding the hollow of his shoulder.

The baby was so small. A fragile, breathing thing that fit entirely within the span of his hand. Then the guilt hit him, crashing over him like a tidal wave, cold and suffocating.

He had blamed this child. In the darkest, most terrified moments of the hemorrhage, when he thought he was watching you die, he had looked at this baby and seen an executioner. He had felt a spike of hatred toward the innocent life that had torn you open. The shame was overwhelming.

"Maekar." Your voice vibrated against his chest. He didn't answer.

You shifted, turning your face up to look at him.

"You are trembling, my love. What is it?"

He looked at you and the love you offered so freely. He didn't deserve it.

"I thought..." He stopped, his throat closing up. "When the bleeding started, I thought I was going to lose you."

He felt you stiffen slightly, but you didn't look away.

"I was terrified," he confessed, the volume of his voice dropping to a bare whisper. "I stood there, and I watched the life draining out of you, and I couldn't stop it. I was helpless."

He took a shuddering breath. "And I was angry, so angry. At the Maesters, at the situation, at..." He couldn't say it. He looked down at the baby sleeping in your arms.

"At her," you finished for him.

"Yes," he breathed, the admission tearing him apart. "I looked at her, and I hated her for what she did to you." He turned his face into your palm, closing his eyes. "I am ashamed of myself."

"You were scared."

"That is no excuse."

You pulled him closer, guiding his head down until your foreheads touched. The baby stirred between you, making a small, snuffling noise, but settled back into sleep.

"You are everything to me. Everything. If I were to lose you..." He couldn't finish the sentence. The thought was a void he could not look into.

"You won't lose me."

He pulled back just enough to look at you. The intensity of his gaze pinned you. "I cannot bear this again. I cannot go through this a second time." He shook his head. "No."

He looked down at the baby again, but the resentment was gone, replaced only by a desperate, protective fear. This child was perfect, yes. She was a miracle. But the price of her had been nearly too high to pay.

"No more children," he said. The words were flat, absolute.

You looked at him, your eyes searching his. "Maekar..."

He cut in, his voice low and rough. "This girl — she is more than enough. I am begging you, no more."

He reached out, his hand hovering over the baby's head, trembling. "I will not survive if I lose you. And if we do this again... I cannot take that risk."

He saw the tears well up in your eyes again, spilling over to track down your cheeks.

"Okay," you whispered.

You nodded, your hand moving to cover his where it hovered over your daughter. "No more."

The relief that crashed through him was so powerful it left him lightheaded. He slumped, exhaling a breath he felt he had been holding for a lifetime. "Thank you," he breathed.

You smiled then, a soft, watery thing, and pulled him down. "Hold her."

"I do not want to wake her," he protested weakly.

"Hold your daughter, Maekar."

He shifted carefully, angling his body as you guided the infant into the crook of his arm. He went rigid, terrified of his own strength, but the baby fit perfectly against his chest, her head resting over his heart.

He looked down at her small face. The guilt was still there, a shadow in the back of his mind, but it was smaller now, dwarfed by the rising tide of affection. He bent his head, his beard brushing the soft fuzz of her forehead, and pressed a kiss to her skin. It was the first time he had kissed her since those frantic seconds in the birthing chamber.

The baby stirred, her dark eyes opening briefly. They focused on him, unseeing, yet holding a weight that knocked the breath from his lungs. She didn't cry, she just looked at him, then yawned, her tiny mouth opening wide, and closed her eyes again.

"I am sorry," he whispered to her, the words for her alone. "I am sorry I wasn't there. But I am here now, and I will love you forever."

He leaned over the baby, careful not to disturb the child, and captured your lips with his. It was a slow, deep kiss, a sealing of vows spoken and unspoken. He poured everything he had into it, his gratitude, his fear, his overwhelming, desperate love for you.

When he pulled back, the room was quiet. The shadows had deepened into night, but the darkness no longer felt like a threat. He was exhausted, his body aching, his soul weary, but for the first time in days, the knot in his chest had loosened.

He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly, and let the world finally fall away.

All was right.

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