Fruit of the Poisonous Tree
Pairing • Valarr Targaryen x female reader
Tags • established marriage, TW pregnancy losses, angst and comfort, grief/mourning, guilt & self-loathing, betrayal & unrequited love (Aerion), hopeful ending
Wordcount • 3,835
Despite your harmonious marriage, Valarr and you seem to be cursed with the repeated losses of your pregnancies. Until one day, the most heinous betrayal is discovered.
Valarr Masterlist
Night was heavy and thick over the Red Keep, the darkness seeping into your rooms until the dying hearth was no longer sufficient. Apart from the crackling of the cooling embers and Valarr’s even breaths at your side, there was silence, and for a moment you could not understand what had pulled you from slumber—there was no lingering dream at the forefront of your mind, and no movement in the room except for the gentle dance of the curtains in the summer breeze.
For a moment you blinked into the dark, assessing, until the reason why you had been brought back to awakeness made itself known—a cramp, deep inside your belly, pulling on either side of your hips. The permeating ache made you want to whimper, but you swallowed it down, unwilling to wake your sleeping husband.
Without a sound, you rose from the bed and took your night robe from the nearby settee. As carefully and quietly as you could, you lowered yourself to the ground near the window, the stones cold against your heated skin. Nausea rose in your throat, or perhaps it was heartbreak suffocating you.
It was a pain you had felt twice already, and it did not take proof for you to know what was occurring once more. Soon your nightgown would be tainted crimson and you would apologize to your husband for your failings.
Whispered prayers fell from your lips but you knew them to be useless. The Gods were deaf to your desperate pleas.
“My love?” came a gentle call from the bed, and Valarr sat up suddenly when he heard only a harsh, shaky breath for answer. “Are you unwell?” he pressed.
No words came, and he was quick on his feet, coming to your side and reaching for you. He gasped as he saw crimson on white. “We should call for the Maester.”
“There is nothing to be done!” you cried out. “All we can do is let it run its course.”
Valarr sat at your side in the cool breeze and held you through the night as you sobbed quietly, hiding his own silent tears.
The next time your breasts grew tight again, and your days were disturbed by bouts of nausea, you kept the news a secret, forcing yourself to appear at court as though nothing was wrong. If it was meant to end in a loss, then you would rather suffer it in secret—however as weeks went by and your body fell into an ease you had never known before, you could no longer hide from your husband.
Valarr was as understanding as you could have expected. He praised you for your strength and only lamented that nature was such that he could not relieve you from the burden of childbearing.
This time you also waited to announce to the king until the quickening was felt, hiding your frame under looser gowns. The Maester was confident that all would be well this time, and both you and your husband truly believe your tragedies were over.
However, it all came to a heartbreaking end one afternoon, when Valarr was at council. It had merely been a few days since he had proudly announced to his father and grandfather that their line would continue through him, and all had met the news with joyful prayers.
Baelor was grooming him to take on his role one day, serving him as Hand when he would himself be king, and to start such a tradition, of having heirs being Hand to their fathers, made Valarr proud of his heritage. He could now hope to do the same one day.
“What say you, Valarr?” Baelor asked, always eager to hear his side, but before he could answer, one of your maids came running, interrupting the discussion. She curtsied hurriedly, a look of panic upon her face.
“My apologies for the interruption, my lords,” she cried out, then turned to Valarr. “You must come, my prince, your wife is calling for you.”
Valarr did not wait for his grandsire to dismiss him. He pushed his chair back, dragging it against the stones, nearly toppling his cup when he set it down. “The baby—” the maid tried, but could not finish.
Valarr was already in the hallway, running towards the royal quarters, the young woman on his heels. As he rounded a corner, he nearly tumbled into another maid, who held a soiled sheet in her arms. The linen was tainted with bright red, and it turned Valarr’s stomach.
Before he could reach your chambers, a great, piercing wail cut through the air, and Valarr knew of the tragedy that had befell you. For a moment he froze in the middle of the hallway, a sob tearing through him, but he could not think of his own grief—he allowed the agony of this loss to breathe in him for a second, then swallowed it, and ran to you.
The walls of the Red Keep had seen many babes born too soon over the centuries, and such a loss was acutely felt each time. Since that day, you had been in a slumber, your eyes staring into a void only a grieving mother knew.
Setting his own grief aside, Valarr made a decision then, when after three moons, the Maester declared the loss to have passed and your body to have healed enough for another pregnancy.
One morning after breaking his fast he walked up to the Hand’s tower, where his father was writing in a ledger—the man set his quill and ink down and gave him a small smile, gentle and welcoming.
“You wished to see me, my son?” he asked. Valarr took a deep breath, and faced his father’s gaze unwaveringly.
He knew what his stance had to be, no matter the disappointment he might face. “I cannot put her through this again, father,” Valarr announced, forcing his voice not to break. “I am sorry, but the heir to the throne will not come from me, and your line will end, were Matarys to fail as well.”
Baelor frowned, setting the parchment he had been holding down. “Do you believe this information is a disappointment to me, that it requires an apology?” he inquired.
“Does it not?” Valarr retorted. “I am your eldest, your heir, and I cannot give you the third in line to the throne.”
“The fault is not with you, my son, nor is it with your wife,” Baelor said, hurrying to reach the end of his sentence when Valarr frowned. “What would be a disappointment to me, would be if you would try continuously at the peril of your wife’s life.”
Valarr’s shoulder dropped, his breath leaving his lungs. “Oh,” he said, and at that Baelor gave him another one of his small, benevolent smiles. The kindness in his eyes soothed Valarr rather, and it made him want to reach out like a small child, seeking comfort in his father.
“I would not think you so cruel as to risk her life over and over again, even for the sake of the crown. Matarys will marry, and even if he does not, you have cousins. Your heir could come from Daeron, or even Aegon, further down the line,” Baelor explained as though it was already acted.
Valarr nodded. “He would have to be named by royal decree.”
“There is still time, Valarr. Trust that the Gods know of your fate,” Baelor said, wise as usual, then nodded towards the door. “For now, be with your wife, and comfort her. She needs you now more than the realm does.”
With a last parting smile, Valarr obeyed, walking to your chambers feeling much lighter than he had felt in weeks. Grief was still holding his heart in its crushing grip, but the future seemed less grim now than he had had his father’s reassurance.
He found you resting in a warm bath near the hearth, lounging in milky water from the soothing soap the midwife had recommended. He knelt aside the copper tub, picking one of your hands up and pressing a greeting kiss to it.
“Where have you been?” you asked, out of sheer interest. You were held in such care in here, encouraged to rest and heal for as long as you needed, but you longed to know what was happening outside of the walls of your chambers.
“I went to see my father,” he replied, and you knew from his tone that there was more coming. “I have told him of my decision to stop our endeavors, of trying for an heir.”
“Valarr,” you protested, although rather weakly, but your husband did not let you finish.
“I cannot call myself a good man and continue to inflict this suffering upon you,” he defended. “I will not risk your life.”
Tears welled in your eyes, and he knew then there was nothing he could say to ease your pain. Instead he sat and held your hand, pressing the back of it to his cheek, and breathed in time with you. “I know I have failed you in this, and I am sorry,” you finally said, voice thick with sorrow. The hollow space inside of you throbbed, dull and sharp at the same time. “I will pray for forgiveness for all the remaining days of my life.”
Valarr dipped his head and hid his eyes from your gaze. “Then I shall pray alongside you, for if you are in need of forgiveness then so am I,” he said as fervently as he could, then pushed himself up on his knees, and kissed your temple, where a loose strand of hair fell.
No matter Valarr’s attempts and his kind understanding, there was an emptiness in your breast, at the pit of your stomach, and you could see the same grief in his eyes, no matter the grace with which he bore it. In his mind, he could not grieve, for you were the one suffering in your flesh. Sometimes you saw tears in his eyes when he thought you were not looking, and you were unsure how to reach out for him.
To have him cry in your arms would bring you comfort, you thought, knowing you were not alone to carry this burden. Bringing those thoughts to prayer with you, you spent afternoons kneeling in front of the Weirwood tree in the gardens of the Red Keep.
The smell of the earth and the firm pillow under your knees grounded you—or it usually did, up until one afternoon when footsteps came behind you. No one dared interrupt your time of quiet contemplation, and you could only guess who would. You smelled his peculiar scent before you saw him appear at your side, with a red doublet of velvet and light, short-cropped hair.
“Aerion,” you said, but it was a dismissal more than a welcome. Still, he stood at your side, uncaring.
“No need for hostility, my good sister. I simply wanted to offer my condolences,” he said with a rehearsed tone. “What hell must it be to endure.”
“Now that you have, would you please be so kind as to leave me alone,” you retorted, but instead of taking his leave, he sat at your side, leaning against the solid trunk of the tree.
Closing your eyes again, you tried to cling to your prayers and to ignore his eyes boring into you, until he spoke. “Has it never crossed your mind that perhaps the fault is not in you, but in the seed?” he suddenly murmured, his breath hot on the side of your face.
Nausea rolled in your stomach like a tidal wave and your eyes shot open. “What are you…” you murmured, horrified.
“Perhaps another seed would succeed in giving you the child you want,” he grinned.
Rising in a hurry, you loomed over him for a moment. He looked up at you, sun in his eyes, and his angular face looked gaunter for it. “This is a heinous suggestion,” you protested, feeling like you might be sick.
Aerion rose in turn, coming face to face with you. “I’m sure I would succeed,” he promised, and before you could react, he continued, freezing you in place. “Think of Valarr, he is second in line to the throne, he needs an heir. He might still seek an annulment and be in his right.”
“No,” you shook your head. “He would not. He is a better man than you.”
Aerion’s grin grew sharper, uglier. “Are you so certain? He may feel this way now, but it could change, years down the line, when he’s Prince of Dragonstone?” he pressed. “And what of the king or the hand’s orders?”
A flicker of doubt crossed your face, and Aerion relished in it. “It would ruin your name, but I would take you as you are, you need not worry about prospects,” he offered, one of his hands reaching for your arm.
Unable to stand his presence and his words, you fled without answering, the mere ghost of his touch haunting you. For a moment you contemplated clinging to your doubt, but in the end your instincts carried you all the way towards your husband’s chambers.
Valarr could not get the words you had reported to him out of his head. It was in Aerion’s nature to be cruel, but something in his bragging sounded false. He would not care about the line of succession, about Valarr’s legacy, and in his endeavors to boast about his own great blood in the past, he had never been so vicious.
For an entire day and night, Valarr wondered—your last pregnancy had held farther than the others, and the only thing you had done differently was wait to announce it. For weeks you had held your breath and no tragedy came, only did it strike like when the announcement was made, like the Gods were laughing at your attempts to counter fate, or as if an evil ear in the Red Keep was waiting in the shadows, ready to spring.
Such a thought was beyond horrendous, just as much as it was treason, however as soon as it was planted in Valarr’s head it grew like a seed, like a weed, and thorns cutting him up from the inside.
There was only one way he would ever know, and so Valarr sought out his cousin, finding him easily in one of the Keep’s halls. Taking a deep breath and reasoning with his heart’s desire for justice, he stopped himself from requesting they speak in private—he had enough self-knowledge to perceive he could not trust himself in private with Aerion.
“What have you done, Aerion?” Valarr accused without a greeting, and Aerion sneered.
“Cousin, you’re going to have to be more precise than this,” he replied, popping a nut or a seed of some kind into his mouth, then turning to the table once more. He reached for a cup and a pitcher.
“What have you done to my wife?” Valarr continued, knocking the cup out of his hand.
Aerion turned to him with a flourish and an annoyed expression. “I simply told her, that should you wish for an annulment after this fourth loss, I would be graceful and take her as she is,” he said with a melodic tilt to his voice, as though this was laughing matter.
For a second, Valarr could only hear his own breath, disbelief a veil over his eyes, and then the quiet ended and the rush of his own blood in his ears deafened him. The coldest, most cruel feeling of betrayal slammed into him and horror spread over his face. “It is you, isn’t it? You are behind these losses.”
Aerion laughed and made a dismissive gesture, attempting to walk away. “Do not be ridiculous, even I cannot control the laws of nature.”
Valarr said to his back. “My guards are searching your rooms as we speak.”
Stopping in his tracks, Aerion’s shoulders lost their nonchalant roll and stilled into one line, and when he looked over his shoulder, the look on his face told Valarr everything he needed to know.
“Why, Aerion? Why would you stoop so low?” Valarr meant to simply ask, but his voice rose without his consent. His cries resonated under the high arches.
Aerion turned to face him once more and his offended look morphed into outrage. “She deserves better than you,” Aerion sneered, vaguely gesturing to his head—was it his face, his hair, his heritage? Was it his character that was under attack? “She deserves a true dragon.”
Valarr could not bring himself to care about the insult; there was nothing left in his chest but devastation. “Four babes, Aerion! Four children you have taken from me!” he howled, the sheer agony of it scraping his voice raw.
Guards around started to gather, coming from the adjacent hallways. Aerion squared his shoulders and curled his hands into fists—Valarr had not even realized he had done it as well. His ears were ringing like he had taken a hit while wearing his jousting helmet, his whole body prickling with hot and cold at the same time.
“You shall never approach her again, or I swear to all seven gods, you will die from my hand!” he roared, and he must have done more than that, because soon his knuckles were throbbing and there were hands holding him back, stern voices calling his name.
In the end, it was unclear who struck the first, but it took three guards to separate them, and two to hold Valarr down. Aerion laid sprawled on the floor in a puddle of his own blood, crimson tainting his clothes and splattered in his hair, but it was not nearly enough for all you had bled and suffered.
Valarr could not stand to stay in the capital a day more, and risk more harm to your person, therefore he wasted no time to whisk you away. He barely waited for the king’s order that Aerion should be exiled for his crimes against his cousin and against you, and ordered his household to pack and make way for Dragonstone.
The fortress was always magnificent, but as you crossed its threshold once more, it brought you a sense of safety and security you had lost in the Red Keep. While the capital had been your home for years now, you and Valarr had been allowed to stay on the island for a month after your wedding day, and you supposed your husband hoped that you would find the same peace and contentment that you had back then.
“Everything has been readied for us,” Valarr informed you as you settled into the main living quarters.
It had surprised you that he had not led you into the guests quarters, even though Baelor had never claimed those rooms who were his by right, instead choosing to remain in King’s Landing, serving as hand. They were bare of any personal possessions, and now they would be yours for the stay.
“Are you glad I brought you here?” your husband asked, and in his questions you heard all the words he could not bright himself to say.
A deep sigh left your chest, your shoulders losing some of their tension. “Yes, thank you. How long shall we stay?” you inquired.
“I have asked a favor from father,” Valarr explained, coming to you and taking your cloak from your shoulders, gentler than what was needed. “Dragonstone is ours, until matters are settled.”
“Matters?” you asked quietly, your hand finding its home in the crook of his.
Valarr eyes bore into yours then, bright blue and warm brown, and there was as much love as a gaze could hold in both. “The Maester confirmed the poison retrieved from my cousin’s chambers to have caused it all. He believes there should be no impediment now,” he said, kissing the back of your hand.
No smile came to your lips at his words, despite the reassurance you knew to be true. You still daren’t let hope into your heart, no matter Valarr’s own trust that you would prevail.
For days you lived in this strange fog, reading between the lines of Valarr’s careful questions and gentle assurances. Most of your time was spent in your quarters, and you savored the presence of your husband at your side. There was no council to take him from you, no other preoccupation than looking after one another, and it lifted a weight from your shoulders you thought had been grief.
The fourth night on Dragonstone found you sitting on the rug in front of the hearth, bent over a work of embroidery while Valarr watched you, a forgotten book on his lap—his gaze admired your profile in the soft glow, and you felt so close and yet so far, he wanted to weep.
“What are you making?” he asked quietly, almost afraid of spooking you.
Valarr saw the way your gaze flickered from your work to him, then to the fire, and he held onto your every breath, his chest cracking open, ready to receive your answer.
“A swaddle,” you finally replied, and that word was enough to send hope galloping in Valarr’s chest. You had made one for each of your babes, even if they had all served as shrouds.
“I would not ask this of you, not before you are ready,” Valarr said carefully, his voice barely a whisper.
For a moment he thought you would fall back into silence, and he would have to wait until you reached out for him, touched him, or sought him out. However he would not have to wait so long, for you turned to him, setting your embroidery aside.
“Is that why you have not shared my bed since we lost our last babe?” you asked, and the longing in your eyes mirrored the one in his heart.
Valarr sighed, not from tiredness but from the breath he had been holding, nearly choking himself with it. “I would rather die than to hurt you,” he replied, his voice thick, wavering.
Tears clouded your eyes in turn. “I have died every night you have not touched me,” you whispered.
Valarr threw his book aside and fell to his knees on the rug, taking your face between his hands. His kiss tasted of salt, of his tears and yours, and he nearly sobbed when your hands burrowed under his light evening shirt, finding his skin. Your palms were cool and yet they felt hot, like a brand on his ribs.
“Then I shall come back to you tonight, and never leave your side, whatever may come,” he vowed.
“Whatever may come,” you echoed—I am yours and you are mine, whatever may come—those were the vows you had spoken on your wedding day, sealing them into your very soul and flesh, and on that night you felt them live through you, feeding the small seed of hope you could feel settling into your womb.
Dividers by @/saradika. Not beta read. Based on this request.
A/N: Would anyone be interested in a sequel? Something fluffy and smutty where Valarr dotes on his pregnant wife, and then later on his newborn baby.
PLEASE REBLOG AND/OR COMMENT TO SHOW SUPPORT ♡
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