I'm addicted with how well you wrote Yandere Valarr Targaryen 😍 any chance you good write one where reader's like Ser Duncan the tall's friend whom adored the knight?Like Yandere Valarr trying to deal with a reader who's not just a commoner but also inlove with someone else.
For more drama, Valarr's married to his canon wife, Kiera. (For drama😝).
Anyways, thank you ❤️❤️
Hi! Thank you so much for the request and I tried my best, but this came out way darker and crazier and longer than I thought so I hope it's what you wanted. I will say it's definitely more of the negative, dark side than my other works so...warning. I hope you do like it though! I tried my best!
To Heal a Heart as Twisted As Mine
Yandere!Valarr x healer!lowborn!fem!reader—n which, he falls for her, hires her as is healer and she loves Ser Duncan. Ensue the chaos of his annulment with Keira, threatening Duncan, all to get her in his arms.
TW: 18+ MDNI! Possessive, obsessive, violence, threatening, coercion. IT'S DARK. Non-consensual kissing. The reader kind of becomes resigned to her fate.
Valarr fell in love with you when he was twelve years old, arm split open from his own sword the result of a foolish maneuver in which he had attempted to prove to his cousin that he was a good swordsman, strong and better than him, but he failed.
He fell in love with you because his father had not wanted the royal maester to treat him, to whisper of Valarr’s failed composure so he took him to your father—the healer he trusted the most, served with during the Blackfyre Rebellions.
Valarr fell in love with you because you were the one who healed him. The one who strode into the room while his father spoke to yours, whispering of egos and failure and training. The one who smiled at him, cleansed his wound and stitched the skin back together. You were the one who put him back together, made him whole again. You were the one who whispered calming things to him while handing him the leather strap, telling him to bite down when it hurt. You were the one who helped put it between his teeth and you were the one who never asked for a reward. You’d simply smiled and told him that helping the royal prince was enough of a reward.
Valarr fell in love with you so early, so quickly that he knew he would never love another. That he could never love another for his heart was yours, and yours would be his. He knew this because he knew that you were made for him, formed as one half of his soul by the gods. For that was the only reason for what he felt for you.
For what he would always feel, the twisting and the turning and the silence and the stillness. The peace. The peace he found when you spoke with him, when you smiled at him, when you said his name in that teasing, light tone you have, the one of affection.
He felt the spark of his soul connecting with its match—you.
And he would have you.
No matter what.
***
He has visited you for every ailment of his from the years since the first time, visited you for every papercut and scraped knee, sore stomach and illness. Visited you for every ailment that afflicts him for only one truly does—the absence of you.
He has listened to laugh while recounting some story to him, the way you tell of the births you assist with at the whorehouses, the way you speak of some knight’s squire, your friend from childhood, the one who sends you gifts, letters written in someone else’s hand. He listens to the way you speak of him, the way you tell him of how you may marry this Dunk one day.
He listens and he rages. Every time he hears you speak of him, he wants to take your face in his hands and crush his lips to yours, push you down beneath him on the treatment table and have his way, forcing himself inside of you, your maidenhead smeared upon his cock, the sign that you are his. Every time he imagines filling you with his seed so completely that you take with child, the ultimate way to ensure you remain his. The only way his father will not argue against marriage to a lowborn girl.
But he doesn’t.
He waits and he plots and he plans.
Hence, his travelling tonight, riding through the city streets to you and your family’s apothecary shop, cut on his finger, contract in his pocket—a way to take you to his home, safe from the squire you speak of until he can devise a way to make you his.
“My prince?! What is it?” you ask, opening the door to the shop just wide enough that he can see your face glimmering, the curve of your neck…and that’s all he permits himself to look at, too tired to maintain composure.
“I am cut,” he answers, stepping forwards, his horse left in the stables, gold coin passed from his hands to the stable boy for protection on the mare.
“You came all this way for a cut, Valarr?” you ask as you guide him inside the shop, shutting the door and closing the iron bolt behind you, your hand a beacon as it rests upon his back, his skin growing fevered at the contact. You touching him so easily must mean that you love him and not that oafish squire, right?
You’re touching him after all.
Your hand is on his back.
Your voice is speaking his name.
“You are the best,” he answers, looking over his shoulder, taking notice of the looseness of your hair, the loose cotton clothes upon your form, a shirt and…trousers? “Do you often sleep in breeches, my lady?”
“I need the movement, my prince, in case we are attacked. People are desperate these days and our medications fetch fine prices. Best to be able to get away, not tangled in skirts and raped,” you tell him and he can feel his chest constrict, vision growing red at the idea of someone else taking what is his, what the gods made for him.
“I have a solution to that issue for you, my darling,” he says and he can feel you tense behind him, your hand drifting from his back, the treatment table where he’s imagined taking you so many times sitting before him, just in sight.
“I am not a lady nor your darling, my prince. I am a healer and…I would hope your friend but I am no lady and I am not yours.” Valarr can feel a twinge within his heart at your words, at the careful way you remove yourself from him. The way you cannot yet see what the gods have intended, what they have created the two of you for. Who they have created you for.
“The solution makes you mine,” he says, withdrawing from his doublet the contract of which binds you to his household, to him as his personal healer, there for his every whim. Where he can make you his in a way no court, no council, no father could deny.
“I would be a royal healer?” you ask him, voice soft, unsteady, disbelieving in a way and Valarr feels even more endearment to you in this moment, in the way you bite your lip to suppress the smile that threatens to grow at the seal on the parchment, the safety it affords. He would much rather be the one to bite your lip.
“If you choose to accept,” he whispers, voice going soft as you lift your gaze to him, delight reflecting back at him and you smile in a way that he has never seen before but he always wants to. He wants to see you smile at him like that always, for the rest of his days.
As the Seven intended.
“I do, Valarr! I do, oh thank you,” you cry and then your arms are around him and he can think no longer with the way you feel pressed against him, chest to his chest, arms holding him tight, cheek to his shoulder. It’s too much for him to bear, this contact without all of you. He wants to take you now, to prove to you how much you are his, how much the gods have intended.
How they have designed the two of you for each other, for only each other.
But as you pull away to lead him upstairs to your home, rambling about how you cannot send him away in the dark, it’s dangerous, that your mother would have your head for letting him leave, he realizes he can wait.
He can wait because he has all the time in the world to make you see the truth.
You are his.
***
Valarr left with you in the morning, holding tight to your body, placing you before him on the horse, reins held loosely, his chest pressed to your back, not a whisper of space between you, but you do not pull away and he knows it is because you understand what he knows.
You understand that you are his, formed for him by the Gods themselves, formed to hold him and love him and bare his children. You are formed to be his wife—you are his other half.
He believes you understand now.
And if you do not yet, he will make you.
***
It starts small, the gifts, the attentions beyond healing. It starts with your chambers—large airy ones with too many rooms for you to properly understand what one does with so much space.
“Valarr! I need not this much room. I need a place to sleep and a place to heal. Preferably in the servant’s corridors…these are rooms befitting a lady and I am not one,” you told him and he had merely scoffed, his eyes tracing your figure, the way you looked in the extravagant rooms. He wanted you in his but this would do for now while he figured out how to get your hand, make you a princess.
His.
“It is for my comfort more than yours, my…healer,” he said, tone teasing, endearment something you could not negate nor remove yourself from and he was rewarded when you turned around, eyes gleaming with mirth, your hand coming to his shoulder and pushing him away in jest.
“Fool,” you muttered, your tone soft and affectionate, smile curving up your lips before you stepped deeper into the rooms, your body tense and stiff. He thought it was because you felt what he did when you touched him, that spark of electricity, that desire. The feeling that led to him almost taking you here and now, propriety be damned.
(He didn’t understand that you were uncomfortable with the wealth, the elegance. That all you wanted was your bedroom in the apothecary shop, your simple cotton clothes and the warmth of home filled with love, not wealth)
It evolved to gifts, necklaces of dragons with rubies the size of your thumbnail, jewels that had no place on you but he didn’t see it like that. You were his in his mind, created for him by the gods and he would not have you belittled or mocked. He wanted you to look like the princess you were. Would be.
“I cannot accept this, Valarr,” you said once, your hands holding a gold necklace formed into a dragon, meant to coil around your neck, marking you as the dragon’s dear. “I am but a healer. Please stop with the gifts. Please.” Valarr believes that you only protest because you do not have the title of his wife yet. That you feel uncomfortable showing what will be before it is.
“You deserve them and the world. You deserve it all, my darling,” he replied, hand coming out to push a strand of hair behind your ear, his body languid on the couch in your healing room. “And soon the world will understand why you have them so early, my heart. Soon.”
It evolved to finery, dresses made of the finest silks and satins, set with brocade of gold. Dresses befitting a princess. They filled your closets, edging out your simple shifts and loose aprons.
“Why do you not wear them, my love?” he asked you, heart in his throat, irritation stiffening his hands, coiling them into fists.
“I deal with blood and bile, Valarr. I have no need of silks and gold and…whatever else you see fit to give me. Honestly, I wish I’d never…” you shook your head, biting off your sentence, a hand running through your hair violently, hand straying to a simple necklace around your neck, a petal set in resin hooked onto a leather cord.
“Where did you get that?!” he demanded, standing from the settee, eyes focused on the necklace, simple and stupid and oafish. Only one person would have given you a gift so ugly and worthless. Only one person would dare to mark what was the dragon’s.
“Dunk sent it,” you whispered, voice quavering, something in your tone and eyes that Valarr did not understand…it almost looked like fear. Like you were scared of him and how silly is that? You being scared of your gods-created love. You must be scared of that oafish squire, what he might do with his giant body if you didn’t accept his gifts. Yes. That must be it.
“And you wear it? Why? Did he threaten you if you did not?” You shook your head fingers curling around the pendant tightly, knuckles turning white.
“It was a promise,” you whispered and your back hit the wall, Valarr’s body bracketing you in against it, his arms resting on either side of you. “It’s a promise that we will be wed. It’s why I wear it.”
Valarr saw red, everything was red around him, except for you. You were still beautiful and golden and haloed, angelic. You were cajoled, threatened, beguiled. Any number of things must have happened for you to reject what you know to be true. That you are Valarr’s. Only his.
And he lifted one hand to grip your chin, fingers digging in, you let out a sharp squeal at the pressure of his fingers, the touch of his skin to yours and then he pulled you closer to him.
“You. Are. Mine.” Every word was bit out with rage haunting every syllable. “You are mine. Only mine. You will be my wife and I will run that squire to the ground. Because you are mine.” And then he crushed his lips to your yours, his teeth dragging your bottom lip into his mouth, biting down just enough that the metallic taste of blood lingered on his tongue and he swallowed it, binding your blood to his.
He pulled back, biting his own lip until blood welled, moving forwards and pressing his lips to yours again, forcing the blood into your mouth, making you swallow and he was growing hard at the feeling of your soft lips against him, the taste of your sweet blood on his tongue, the way you clawed at his back, pleasure growing in you as well, but he forced himself backwards, breathing heavily, eyes pupil blown while yours were constricted with something he didn’t know. Maybe your desire was different than his.
“You are mine,” he whispered. “A bond of blood beats a promise every time.”
And then he is gone, his heart still beating rapidly, blood still pumping, desire strong, the memory of your lips against his lingering for the rest of the day.
Forever.
***
It is shortly after that kiss that he is called to his father’s office, the sight of his calm, composed father seated behind his desk, irritation wrinkling his brow causing a burst of fear to shoot through Valarr’s chest.
“Father? Father, what is wrong?” he asks, hands clasped behind his back, noting a frame on his father’s desk of a pressed flower—something so typical of you. He does not feel rage, rather relief, the knowing that his father views you as a daughter given physical proof here and now. Proof that perhaps he will be allowed to take you as his wife without fight.
“You are to tour the Free Cities,” Baelor says, voice stern and composed, something unidentifiable lingering under the surface, like rushing water underneath a thin sheet of ice.
“I shall inform her then that we are to embark on a journey,” he answers, the feeling of knowing between his father making it unnecessary to speak your name. There is already that linkage here, this proof of Baelor’s affections for you as his daughter. Why should he have to announce your name when his father knows that you are his already?
“No,” Baelor says, voice carrying through the room like a clap of thunder. “You are to leave alone and she will visit her family. She misses them terribly, misses home and you must find a bride while you are gone. One among the Free Nobility, remind them that they are not so free as they believe.”
“No!” Valarr cries, his voice frantic and panicked and terrified. But most of all angry. “No, I will not take a bride other than her. She is mine. The Seven made her for me, why would I take any other? Why sully myself for nothing when my other half is here, so close?”
“SHE DOES NOT LOVE YOU, BOY!” Baelor yells, losing himself, hand slamming down on his desk as he rises. “She loves another and I will not have you take her when she does not want you. I did not raise a monster, my son.” Valarr steps backwards, stumbling over his feet, heart shattering at the words does not love you.
Of course you love him. You smile at him and laugh and call him by his name. You tease him and touch him and heal him. You call him your friend, your closest companion. You let him in your rooms no matter the time. You kissed him back! He knows you did.
He knows you love him. You must.
You will.
“I will give you two years, Father! If whoever I marry does not produce an heir in two years, I will annul the marriage and marry her. You know she is fruitful, the only daughter in a line of eight children. Two years is all I will give you.” His voice echoes through the chambers and he watches his father flinch from the force of his yelling.
“Fine,” his father says, tone somber and quiet, eyes downcast. “I find I am wrong. I did raise a monster.”
But Valarr pays no attention to those words. All he knows is that he has gotten his way. All he has to do is wait two years.
Two years is nothing when he would forever to have you in his arms.
Because you are his.
***
He chose Lady Keira of Tyrosh, a famed beauty with hair as pink as your favourite variety of roses. He chose her because he knew her line struggled with fertility and her hair reminded him of the pressed pink rose you had given him for his birthday. The sign that you loved him as he loved you—and he now he betrayed you.
When they came back, greeted with fanfare and a ceremony, wedding fast and bedding even faster, his mind on you, only you. The only reason he came at all, envisioning your form over hers, a palimpsest—past rewriting over present.
When they came back, he left her in his bed, the blood on the sheets the sign and he ran to you, crying. He went to you, banging on the door with his fist, frenzied and pained. You answered the door, dressed as always in breeches and a shirt, hair mussed with sleep, eyes bleary, still awaiting the attacks that never came.
Until now.
Because now, when you opened the door, he crashed his lips to yours, muffling your surprise with his lips, forcing his way inside the room, tears still slipping from his cheeks, his hands shoving the door closed.
You pushed him from you, stepping back, putting distance in-between the two of you, but he could see in your eyes that your resolve of propriety was beginning to waver. To waver in the perfection between the two of you, given by the Seven.
“What is wrong with you? You are a married man and I am a married woman, Your Grace! Please for the love of the Seven, leave me alone.” He barely heard your words, only heard the married, the fact that you were someone else’s.
That you had been given to someone that wasn’t him.
And that was when he lost it.
“WHO?! WHO HAVE YOU MARRIED?” he cried, his hand coming out, knocking the displays of gifts Dunk had sent you to the floor, the trinkets shattering, your hand coming to your mouth, stifling your cry.
“I have married my love, Dunk,” you cried, tears flowing like a waterfall over your cheeks, skin red and tear-burnt. “But…but I will not see him for years and nor did we have time to consummate before he left, not that it is any of your business. Your obsession has gone on long enough! Go to your wife and leave me alone!”
He went to you, his hands cupping your face, his mismatched eyes peering into yours with an intensity you had never seen and he had never had. He placed his forehead to yours, breathing in the air that you expelled like it was what he lived for.
“In two years,” he whispered, voice low and soft and all the more menacing, “you will be mine and your squirewill be nothing but a memory. A terrible, horrible memory because you will realize that we were tied by the gods. I will wait two years and not a day more.”
And then he was gone after pressing a final, frenzied kiss to your lips.
***
Two years went by far too fast for you because you had to heal Lady Keira after her two stillbirths and two miscarriages, the annulment Valarr so badly wanted a wise idea to the rest of the court, whispers following the pink-haired maiden while Valarr spent all his time with you.
And neither of you spoke of his threats—you out of fear and he out of respect for the terms he set forth.
The two of you acted like nothing had changed. That you were still friends and gradually you came to accept your fate, that it would not truly be so bad to be his. It may be a love borne of fear but a love of any kind is stronger than hate. At least pretending it was love gave you more hope of your safety, of Dunk’s.
And you did care for the mad prince. You did like talking with him and teasing and caring except you had never wanted more than a friend, someone who would listen to your ramblings about healing and plants and would return in kind.
You simply loved Dunk in a way you could never love Valarr because Dunk was your saviour, saving you when you were young from a man who attempted to harm you. It was what got him the squire ship with Ser Arlan. His honor and protection of you. And you were besotted with him from then on, the boy who saved you when he did not need to.
But Valarr was here and he wanted you and everyone bends to the whim of powerful men.
***
The tourney to Ashford arrived just after Valarr annulled his marriage, Keira sent back to Tyrosh a maiden no more, wanted no more and Valarr was free. He was free to annul your marriage and take you himself. His father had consented with a grave expression and a murmured word to you of how he’d always viewed you as his daughter and perhaps it will not be so awful with you now truly his daughter.
Valarr had your marriage annulled by the High Septon and married you in a simple ceremony before setting off with you as his wife, his light as the Seven had intended. And you wore finery and jewels, a docile smile on your face as he paraded you around to the nobles, men who watched you with desire, the want disappearing every time Valarr flashed his dagger, made some comment about how eyes were very fragile things, so yielding to a blade.
And now, he let you wander, his eye on you while you ran to your brothers—six of them here as knights now, married and happy. He watched as they swept you up in hugs, exclaiming over your status, the jewels. Teasing you about the strangeness.
He remained behind as you had bidden him, asked him only for these last few moments as the girl you were once, the one of an apothecary shop with dirt underneath her nails and blood drying on her skirts. And he agreed because that was the version of you whom he had met, had fallen for when he realized you were his god created love.
He watches you now as one of your sisters-in-law step forwards, a chubby babe resting on her hip, hands tangled in her knotted hair.
“Take her! She’s your niece, you should hold her,” your sister-in-law says and you take the babe with a laugh, setting her on your hip as if she belongs there, as if she is yours and Valarr can feel that stirring of desire, that want to see you holding his child one borne of you both.
“Imagine when that will be one of ours,” calls a deep voice, a tall man—too tall, if you ask Valarr—stepping forwards, his hand going to rest on the small of your back. Valarr sees red and takes a step forwards, you still gleaming like a beacon.
But what you do stops him in his tracks for you stiffen at the touch of the hedge knight—Ser Duncan—and step away.
“I am not yours, Dunk. I no longer am your wife,” you whisper, but your voice carries through the stillness. Valarr cannot hear the sadness and resignation in your tone, he only hears the fact that you acknowledge you are his. Only his. Not this fools. “I am the wife of Prince Valarr as of a few days ago.”
“What?” Ser Duncan asks, his body tense and rigid, confused. He sounds like quite the idiot to Valarr and he steps forwards, steps into the crush of your family, to you, his wife.
“She is my wife. My unfruitful marriage was annulled and yours was never consummated. You would do well to remove your hands from my wife or else I will remove them for you,” he says and watches as Duncan’s eyes widen, hurt filling them, the gaze flicking between you and Valarr.
“Truly?’ he asks, the tone beseeching, but you remain a stone, unmoving as you nod, your attention turning to the babe on your hip whose chubby hands fiddle with the extravagant necklace round your neck.
“I am a Targaryen by marriage now,” you say and for the first time, you lean back into Valarr, seeking comfort in his touch—or at least that is what he believes and Duncan disappears, walking away after nodding, after accepting the loss of you, the only woman he has ever loved.
Meanwhile, Valarr stands with you, cooing at the babe in your arms, laughing with your brothers, complimenting your sisters-in-law, inviting them to the palace. Calling them family. He runs around with your older nieces and nephews, regales them with stories of dragons and Targaryens and magic. He immerses himself in what your life once was, what it could have been and he finds that he loves it, this simplicity. The carefree attitude you have while you play and speak and sing and tease.
He sees you, the girl in the blood-stained dress who stitched him up when he was twelve, the girl the gods made for him. He sees the you, you used to be and the you, you are now—both versions his, gifted to him by the gods.
And he has never felt so lucky, never felt so happy, unable to see the fact that you did not lean into him for comfort but as warning, as distance.
But a part of him knows, and he resolves to make you find comfort in him. Always.
***
It takes time, but Valarr is nothing if not patient. He is patient while you adjust to the move of your chambers, he is patient when you learn how to dress as a princess. He is patient while you grow used to his affections, he is patient, but patience can only stand for so long.
And sometimes it must crack.
***
“Where were you?” he asks you as you step into the chambers, blood on the sleeves of your gown, hair coming loose from the braid he insists on. “I have been waiting and I nearly tore the room apart in my impatience.”
“I was with Prince Aeg—” you begin but he cuts you off.
“Have I not been patient with your adjustment to royal life? Have I not been patient, never taking what you do not want to give?”
“Yes,” you answer, stepping towards him, brow furrowing in confusion. “You have been. Valarr, what is this about? I have married you like you wanted, let you annul my marriage and come into the world of royalty because you wanted me. Why do you anger now?”
“Because you continue to deny me what I want!” he cries, stepping towards you, his hands coming to rest on your hips, his fingers closing tightly around you.
“What is it you want?”
“A child. I want a child with you, not an heir but a child. I want everyone to see you and know you are mine, that you carry my child, that you were filled with my seed, yet your womb continues to deny me!” he says, his hands tightening more on your hips and your eyes widen, lips parting. He takes it as an invitation, pressing his lips to yours, forcing his tongue into your mouth, sucking yours into his, every lash of his against yours, sending desire through him and he lifts you, cock already hard.
He lifts you and throws you on the bed, peeling his doublet off, watching you with pupil blown eyes. “I have been patient long enough,” he says and then rips your dress from your body, the fabric tearing like paper, exposing your body underneath, nipples stiffening from the cold air.
“I will take what is mine and give you what we need,” he says, breeches undone, falling to the floor as he crawls over you, bracketing your body with his, your eyes filled with a confusing mix of desire and hatred. “And I will fuck you hard enough that you forget the name of that stupid hedge knight who tried to stand in our way. Stand in the Seven’s way.”
And then he pushes inside you, without ceremony, forcing his way in, groaning at the feel of your walls around him, the tightness of you. He moans it into your skin, thrusting in and out so hard that he has you crying out in ways you never have before, your nails digging into the skin of his back, legs hooked around his waist.
For once he sees desire in your eyes and as he speeds up, your mewls and moans spurring him on, he sees that you understand what he does.
When your walls clench around him, release flowing from you, he feels his own around the corner and he lets go with one last cry, his seed spilling into you, filling you so completely that you must take with child.
And if you don’t, you will simply have to try again and again and again.
But even if you don’t, as he pulls out from you, one hand coming to rest on your lower belly as if the child is already there, he knows that you know.
You were created by the gods for him.
And only him.
Always.
***
It does not take long for you to give birth to a child—a daughter. A beautiful girl with your eyes and his hair and he resolves to give you as many as you want for when you hold her, he sees you come alive.
He sees what he has never seen before.
Happiness.
Peace.
And it’s because of him.
Isn’t it?