Ok so can you do a fic with all the characters of AKotSK and its basically where their wife has had a bunch of kids with them (I’m talking 10+) and they have all been boys that look just like their dad and on their final try they finally get a girl that looks just like their mom pleaseeeee
✵ ℜ𝔢𝔭𝔩𝔦𝔠𝔞
✷ Summary: After giving your husband several sons, you finally give birth to a daughter who is an exact replica of you. ✷ CWs: Referenced/described childbirth, implied sexual content, drinking for Lyonel's and Daeron's sections, and past/referenced stillborns in Valarr's section. ✷ Content: Wife!Reader, girl dads, a gaggle of sons, lots of brothers with one sister, babies, drinking, father and daughter bonds, innuendos between reader and hubby, fempov, use of she/her pronouns, reader's house is unspecified, reader's appearance is unspecified except for long hair, use of alcohol, first marriages for Baelor and Maekar so reader IS the Maekarlings and Baelorings mother, referenced/descriptions of childbirth ✷ Pairings: Wife!Reader x Husband!Baelor, Maekar, Dunk, Lyonel, Aerion, Daeron, Valarr, Raymun (all separate scenarios) ✷ Word Count: ~4k total
✷ AN: This is my first time doing a request (that also happens to be my first request ever), so I hope it lives up to your standards, anon!! Enjoy!
Baelor Breakspear
You'd given birth to your little girl during a quiet dusk on Dragonstone, the gold-violet-pink of the sky a comely backdrop to your efforts.
You hadn't expected a girl at all. From the moment you first gave birth, every child that'd you carried and bore was a son.
It wasn't that you were disappointed per se. Each one of your boys was noble and pleasant like their sire, Baelor, whether it be in manners or in appearance. It could be the strength of the Valyrian blood that caused them to mirror your husband's looks, but every single one was blatantly a Targaryen.
They were a great source of pride for you. Not only had you provided the heir of the Iron Throne plenty of young men to take up the mantle if need be, but each one was exemplary in some form.
You were content with the grand family you had built. Still, when the midwife had handed you a swaddled child and revealed that it was a daughter, your heart skipped a beat. All exhaustion gave way to a low simmer as something akin to disbelief, then excitement, took hold.
That feeling—a spark of joy—stayed as moon after moon passed with your Vaenelle. Your sons were busy with their lessons and peers, but they seemed keen on spoiling their sister rotten, especially your eldest two, Valarr and Matarys. They came to her nursery and your apartments with little tokens of affection, gifts bought with their own coin, and trinkets that were being passed down through kin.
Your husband was similarly generous. Baelor took more time than allowed as his father's Hand to shower little Vaenelle in affection, commenting on her loveliness more and more after six turnings of the moon passed.
"She's a perfect image of you, my love," he said one morrow after a council meeting he was required to attend. He had sought you out as soon as it had finished, it seemed, ink still in his nailbeds.
The sunlight streamed through the window, highlighting your daughter's hair, which matched yours in shade and texture nearly exactly.
"A blessing from the Mother."
"A blessing?" You laughed faintly. It was high praise, and your eyes were warm puddles from where you sat across from him.
"What else is a child that carries the memory of her mother in every inch of her face?" Baelor queried back, waxing poetic like a boy encountering a maiden for the first time as Vaenelle took great interest in the Hand pin stuck on his doublet's breast. Her little palm patted at it, and her father's hand patted at her back.
You bit down a wide smile.
Perhaps it was girlish, slightly childish, but if feigning ignorance of your daughter's commonalities resulted in your handsome fawning over you from time to time, who could blame you?
Maekar Targaryen
The morning you'd finished your labors, the midwife had announced that a daughter had been born.
Your mind briefly broke out of its weary haze to allow you enough alertness to ask her to repeat herself, because surely she was wrong. Each child that you'd carried for Maekar had come out a boy. It was the expected outcome, the natural way of things, like the moon's phases waxing and waning repeatedly.
So many boys were bound to create a hectic environment without much respite. A few prime examples were your eldest becoming a drunk, your second eldest deluding himself into believing he was a dragon in human form, and one of your youngest running away at every possible opportunity.
Maekar kept grumbling that the two of you should stop at the number you were at. He started saying that years ago, but it never stopped him from finding relief in your arms, nor the babes from coming.
Though as much as he complained about his children's behavior, you knew your husband cared. It wasn't expressed through flowery words, explicit gestures, or personal gifts, but you could see it in the way he was stern with them. The way he was quick to defend them whenever someone other than the two of you complained about their characters and actions.
Therefore, while you found your sons to be stressful, you were ultimately prepared for the mayhem that another boy would bring forth. Thus, when the woman presented the wailing bundle to you with the same declaration, you could hardly believe it.
A girl was so different from what you were used to. Even as moons passed, your Aemira stayed tranquil and lovely like a blossom in the Reach, matching your eyes and smile whenever you peered down at her.
Your sons were fascinated by her existence. They either tried to get her to do something "interesting", played with her as one would play with a fragile dog, or teased her enough until she was squawking and squabbling with offense.
Maekar was, surprisingly, far gentler. He didn't seem to know what to do with himself with a daughter. He double-guessed how he held her, how he sat with her, and how he talked around her. Your husband's gruffness scraped away to reveal a soft center that you hadn't seen displayed so openly in a very long time.
"It's odd," he said one evening, breaking the silence he'd fallen into while watching you adjust a sleepy Aemira in your lap.
"What is?"
Maekar elaborated, "All our sons mirror me, but she reflects your loveliness completely."
"Loveliness?" Your brows rose as a cheeky grin crossed your face, an impishness expanding against your lungs at his rare flattery, "Goodness, husband. Are you trying to get something from me?"
He deadpanned with a stiff curl of his upper lip, but there was fondness behind the narrowness of his eyes.
Dunk
As a woman of lowborn origin, your head was filled with fantasies of grandeur from a young age.
The songs of handsome princes and the histories of noble affairs were intoxicating to your youthful soul. You pictured the boys of your village performing romantic gestures, only to be greatly disappointed when they tugged at your hair and chased you around instead. Consequently, you resorted to daydreams to fulfill your desires.
Of course, you outgrew these figments of imagination as you flowered into womanhood. The cost of eggs was more prevalent than raunchy visions, after all.
Although the moment you met Ser Duncan the Tall in a dimly lit tavern, massive figure hunched over his pint of ale and eyes as blue as the sea, all those make-believe notions came flooding back.
He'd stolen your heart quickly, your romance a fluttery thing.
However, Dunk had simply been passing through with his squire, Egg, and was hesitant to continue on his way in fear of leaving you. The solution to such a problem was, undoubtedly, to marry him and join him on his travels. Many had called it a mistake made out of lust, a whirlwind that would pass over time.
It hadn't been a mistake, nor had it passed.
When you'd come to be with your first child, Dunk had agreed to the idea of returning to your hometown and sending the older Egg back to his father at Summerhall (with the pledge for constant communication via raven).
That was how it started, but one son turned into two, and then three, and then four. In due course, you had an abundance of boys running amok, all sandy blonde and oceanic eyes.
Dunk occasionally went on trips when an urgent matter arose or his presence was specifically requested. When he was home, though, he got your force of sons to get hard work done efficiently.
All were good-hearted, lacking wits in an awkward sort of way that was more enchanting than frustrating. While they drove you crazy (especially with how much they fucking ate), you wouldn't trade any of your boys for the world.
That being said, when your youngest child came out as a daughter, you almost cried with relief.
As moons passed, Hazel only stuck to being wonderful. She was your island of refuge, sharing your exact coloring and countenance.
Her brothers enjoyed involving her in their unruly activities, as well as sharing snacks with her. Dunk, on the other hand, was dotingly skittish. She was minuscule compared to him, and he treated her like stained glass.
"I can't believe how pretty she is," Dunk proclaimed one early night, balancing the little girl on a massive thigh from where he sat on the bed as you prepared for sleep.
"She is, isn't she?" you enthused tiredly.
"Suppose it's natural," your husband continued a bit shyly, holding Hazel close, "Given you're her mother."
You smiled widely, looking over your shoulder fast enough to catch the flush that crossed your husband's face.
Classic Dunk.
Lyonel Baratheon
Lyonel was certainly a beast of a man.
His moods could be unpredictable, and every opinion was expressed loudly and theatrically. He danced wildly like a deranged bird, drank more in one night than some men would drink in a week, and preferred the pleasures of his title rather than the duties.
He was the sort of man who rejoiced each time you came to be with child, and held rowdy feasts each time the babe was revealed to be a son. Which was every time. Nonetheless, his excitement never dulled, and neither did the festivities.
You were prone to thinking in a fondly exasperated mindset that you'd given the realm more Baratheons than were certainly necessary. It didn't help that each one of your many boys took after their sire—headstrong and raucous.
Your husband would have whole days where he took all of them out to spend time together. They hawked, hunted, and sailed around Storm's End with echoing cackles and minor wounds seemingly materializing out of nowhere.
It was never a dull day in your household.
There was always some squabble, wrestling match, and broken furniture or decoration going on to keep you worried and alert. Your husband would step in sternly when you gave him a pointed look, but without your influence, you knew full well he encouraged the frenzy. While it maddened you, it never lessened your love.
Despite that, when the midwife had wrapped up your latest babe with the whisper that it was a girl, you'd almost fainted in jubilation.
Darling Eirwen, an innocent display of your presence, was the calm in the storm. Even as moons came and went, her poise remained intact. She was still very young, but in the face of her brothers' disruptiveness, you thought she contained impeccable finesse.
In the calamity of everything, she had your face and a peaceful air, which made her feel more like a balm instead of a babe.
When her brothers weren't busy trying to annoy one another to death, they took the time to get to know their little sister. Multiple of them tried to sneak her off to join them on their outings, and you had to lecture your sons on why it was a bad idea.
Shockingly, Lyonel was just as boastful as he had been with his sons as he was with Eirwen. She was practically the princess of House Baratheon, her father showing her off and bringing her up constantly in conversation.
"Our girl is rather elegant," your husband gloated one afternoon, his breath tinged with whatever fermented drink he had gotten into that morning. He patted at Eirwen's side, hoisting her into a more comfortable position against his chest.
"Must get that from her mama, huh?"
"You think me elegant?" You questioned lightly in retort, manipulating your needlework carefully.
"I can show you everything I think about you tonight," Lyonel leered, and you made a tsk-like noise in appallment. If he were closer, you'd stomp on his foot.
Aerion Brightflame
For a man like Aerion, sons seemed to suit him best.
He was revoltingly arrogant at the worst of times, and off-puttingly mean at the best of times. You'd been arranged to marry him due to your house's wealth and family name, even after expressing your concerns to your father and mother regarding the rumors you had heard about your betrothed's nature.
That's all to say that this wasn't a love match of any sort, no matter the packaging or how advantageous the deal was on your behalf.
Many young ladies and women would scheme, betray, and lie to become a princess. Here, it was being handed to you on a silver platter.
You tried to be grateful for that, but Aerion was challenging if nothing else. He bullied his way into everything, surmising such outrageous conclusions that it made you wonder if he was wholly sane.
At least he was handsome. That's what made the first few beddings tolerable.
The sons you produced for him fostered that delicate care that had begun to grow between the two of you, being nursed to something greater with every child you carried.
They were Valyrian kin. All your sons—you had a great few—possessed silver-gold locks and distinctive features from their father, making their interactions feel as though you were perpetually seeing double.
Though Aerion was blatantly foul, your children were glad boys. Many had quite a fondness for fishing. A couple of Kingsguard would escort you and your sons to the nearest river or lake, and they would each try their damndest to see who would capture the best few.
The ones who weren't as keen on nature or underwater creatures relied on education for entertainment, finding triumph amongst training with longswords, or the histories of their ancestors.
All in all, Aerion made strangely docile and friendly offspring. It served to unnerve you in a bemused way if you thought about it for too long.
Still, when your body had essentially torn itself apart in an effort to deliver yet another babe, you were thoroughly taken aback when the midwife settled the bundle into your arms with the statement that you now had a daughter. You. A daughter!
Visenya had started out as a weak and snuffly thing, as some of your sons had been, but she grew with time. By six moons, hair had covered her head in an identical fashion to yours, eyes growing more vivid by the day.
Her brothers seemed perplexed to have a sister. You supposed it made sense, given they had only existed amongst young men and boys for so long, but you could tell they were trying by the expressions that crossed their faces.
Aerion, on the other hand, complained as easily as he breathed. He seemed to make a show out of it, perking up like a starved mutt whenever someone with ears to hear was forced to listen to his grousing.
"You have tarnished my bloodline with that—" your husband gestured out a hand to your daughter, who was frankly minding her own business, "that fraud! She scarcely looks like a proper Targaryen."
You stared over at him, relatively unfazed. This was the second time today he'd sulked, and you'd managed to build an immunity over the years, "Husband, you chose to name her Visenya. Who, if I recall, was one of the key conquerors. Why gift her such a name if she is a farce?"
Aerion sniffed vaguely in response, taking a moment to no doubt stew in being caught in a contradiction once again.
"… She is not entirely ugly. I suppose I can thank you for that much."
Daeron the Drunken
With a drunk as a husband, many thought Daeron wouldn't even acknowledge your existence.
It was true that before your marriage, he had the habit of visiting brothels or paying a local Sally for a night of pleasure. He didn't just find himself in one's cups; he drowned in them. Perpetually wine-nosed, it was a miracle he even managed to dress himself most days, let alone put in the effort to be a noblewoman's honorable lord husband.
Yet somehow, to the awe of many courts, you swelled with child numerous times.
Even with Daeron's terrible faults, he never shied away from gracing your bed, and the evidence of his visits was obvious. You gained a plethora of princes, all with a likeness to their sire.
It was droll, in a sense. Daeron couldn't hold a quill, could barely keep track of his itinerary, and disappeared from Summerhall like a self-effacing ghost, but he was clearly capable of keeping the Targaryen line healthy and fruitful.
His children were the picture of purity, despite your husband's participation in their creation. Many of your boys were quiet individuals who preferred the arts and books to conversation, while the others craved attention like fools, presenting learned tricks and good-natured japes.
Even with the differences in their natures, all of your sons had dirty blonde hair and green-blue eyes that grew distant when lost in thought.
Whether Daeron was aware of the commonality or not, you couldn't quite say. He seemed to teeter between teasing endearment and muddled smothering (the latter typically due to his binges or dreams, which were a frequent occurrence).
You had grown used to that life: your many sons with pieces of their father, holding court with other ladies, and trying to keep your husband in line the best you could.
Accordingly, giving birth to a daughter as dawn broke over the land was a change of pace.
Vaella was a talkative, agreeable critter who gurgled and shrieked in delight whenever the mood struck her. She was intrinsically inconsistent with the pattern your boys had planted. Even many moons later, she favored you in face more than she favored anybody else.
Your reserved sons read to her and shared their favorite instruments, songs, and dances. Your loud sons snuck in digestible treats for her to consume, flowers with the roots attached from the garden, and overheard gossip that they really shouldn't have been repeating.
All the while, Daeron was exceptionally lively with Vaella. He seemed peculiarly relieved at the fact that she was nothing like him, cradling her in his arms and calling her terms of affection that left his lips easily.
"She's your lookalike, through and through. I have no doubt they'll confuse the two of you when she's matured," he said one night, far past a reasonable hour.
Vaella had been fussy, so you'd been reluctantly awake to try to soothe her to slumber. Eventually, your husband stumbled in, reeking of wine, sweeping your child from your lap.
"You seem pleased with that, my dear," you'd replied.
Daeron's grin was crooked with something unknown, "It's for the best."
Valarr Targaryen
You'd lost your first two sons.
They'd been stillborn, never breathing a gulp of air or seeing the world around them. Understandably, it'd taken a harsh toll on you. Valarr had comforted you in those dark hours both times, whispering promises of how you would be a mother one day with all the children you could want.
At the time, you'd taken it as empty assurances, meant to make you feel better than actually happening.
You couldn't be more wrong.
Your womb seemed to be overcome with guilt, and in an effort to earn your forgiveness, provided healthy babe after healthy babe without qualm. Every boy that left your belly made the grief lift like fog, sunshine poking through the haze to grant you some form of acceptance.
It was an even sweeter apology, given your sons took after Valarr to an abnormal degree. It was as if he'd made them himself without any external assistance, cutting himself open to dig them out without an extra pair of hands.
They were wholesome creatures. Each boy was soft-spoken, intelligent, with a knack for learning that helped them excel in their studies in such a way that made your chest feel heavy with pride. Some even carried thick, white streaks in their hair, serving as permanent reminders of your dutiful and gentle husband.
Even so, after a difficult labor that lasted for just about an entire day, you felt overwhelmed at the discovery that the newest addition to your brood was a girl. A tiny, squirmy girl whose irises were the same shade as your own.
Any child to continue Valarr's line, and Prince Baelor's—the future king's—by extension, was a favor by the Seven. In spite of that, Daelia felt extra special.
She didn't resemble her father or brothers in the least. Where they held Targaryen components, whether it be the silver-gold in their hair or the eyes of their grandsire, Daelia was all you (a fact that became progressively apparent with every turning of the moon). It made you dizzy if you thought about it for too long.
As your sons were calm in every condition, they had been tranquil and welcoming, petting at the tuft of her hair on their sister's head and settling her on their laps to offer you a small break. It made the unspoken pain of the fate your first two boys met fizzle out, drifting away like dandelion seeds.
It would never disappear. It just dissipated, becoming a shadow instead of a stormcloud hanging over you.
Valarr was passionate about the two of you. He would kiss your head, then Daelia's, hands steady and soft. He waited on you hand and foot with the dedication a hound would have for its hunter.
Presently, one of his hands was brushing your hair out of your face, fingertips caressing your shoulder and neck. His palm fell to ruffle at your daughter's, who cooed in response to the touch.
"She's the second-most charming thing I've ever seen," Valarr said, his knee nudging into yours as the gleam of sunset slipped past the curtains of your apartment.
You raised a brow, "Second-most?"
His mismatched eyes rose to yours, holding a rare spark of teasing, "You're the first-most, clearly."
Warmth coated your nape, and you forced down the beam that threatened to spill over your face as you repeated dryly, "Clearly."
Raymun Fossoway
Raymun Fossoway was a lover.
From the moment you met him officially as his betrothed, you could tell he was different from other noblemen.
He spoke in a lighthearted, sometimes blunt, way that made you feel like he took an interest in every little aspect of your life. He had a generous character; Raymun remembered things you liked and provided you with them tenfold.
His warmhearted nature only became more apparent after your wedding. Specifically, during the bedding. For a man who seemed to be lacking experience when it came to marital manners, he certainly surprised you amongst the sheets.
However, following that line of thought, you weren't as surprised when you came to be with child time and time again.
Providing multiple sons to the green-apple Fossoways was more beneficial and substantial than anything else anyone could do. It was a new branch just beginning to develop, and giving several heirs and capable lords to continue on its line was priceless. You were well aware of this fact and felt not an ounce of disappointment when the midwife declared time and time again that a son had arrived.
Raymun was grateful for all you did. He'd shower you in kisses, verbalizing his appreciation for all the dark-haired and dark-eyed boys running around with his blood coursing through them. His own love for you further solidified your affection for your sons.
Nevertheless, when you managed to push out a girl in the darkness of night, you were nothing but thrilled.
You'd named her Elinor, and she increasingly felt like a precious gem you'd crushed into formation with every moon that passed. The lay of her locks, the shape of her features, and the curve of her nose were a miniature version of your own.
Again, you loved your sons, but this felt different. She was the only one who inherited your mien, and she was the only daughter of the Fossoways of New Barrel. Both details made Elinor a favorite, no doubt.
Her brothers were fond of her. Raymun had taken the time to introduce every single one of his boys to her, instructing them attentively to be careful with their little sister, and they'd been visiting you and your babe whenever they had the freedom to since.
Your husband was equally as interested. He complimented the two of you ardently whenever he was around, referring to you both as "my girls" with that boyish smile you'd come to recognize with safety, eyes squinting with mirth.
"She's gotten bigger," Raymun proclaimed one afternoon, holding Elinor out and up as he examined her. She babbled excitedly at being lifted into the air, and your husband's eyes flitted toward you.
"And twice as pretty. Must get that from her mother."
"Am I always your reasoning?" You questioned back, tea cup resting against your bottom lip before you took a small sip. The herbs blossomed over your tongue.
Raymun's smirk grew, "Only for the good things."
