What Losing You Has Done to Us
This was a request from @itsnotsonat07 in which it's:
Valarr x wife!reader and the reader dies in childbirth after giving birth to a daughter following Valarr's death from the Great Spring Sickness (I have changed some of the Fire and Ice lore to suite the story so sorry if I did it wrong or changed something that doesn't work or misrepresented characters. I tried my best.)
TW: the reader dies, Valarr dies, Maeker dies.
“You are to be married,” your father said, his tone formal, regretful. It was not the fate that you had dreamt of, but it was the fate that you made for. The only daughter of Maeker Targaryen. The daughter who would never take the throne, never hold a place in the court aside from that as a wife. Your father had never intended to marry you off, preferring to let you exist as yourself, but even he sometimes had to obey higher powers.
“To whom, Father?” you asked, your jaw tightening, fingers gripping your skirts, crown now heavy on your head. It was a circlet of iron, the Targaryen crest embedded in the centre, a sign of your status.
“Valarr,” he said and it was a wave of relief that crashed through you, the boy who was your friend, your companion, the one who taught you to wield a sword, to be a knight without the honour granted officially. But you sensed some hidden worry in your father’s voice.
“Is there something else within this order that I should know, Father?” you asked and you saw his eyes shadow for a moment, fear sending a shock to your heart, limbs growing cold. You were close with your father, his only daughter and the spot of softness in the family. The gentle nature of your soul, a balm to the politics of the House of Targaryen.
“It was Valarr’s choice,” he said and you felt a tenseness in your body, wanting to run to Valarr, to yell at him, to wipe his smile from his face. He had chosen to tie you to a fate you never wanted. Something you had raged against.
“I see,” you said, curtseying low before your father, blood pumping. “If you will excuse me, Father.” He nodded and you turned, walking as regally as you could manage until you were out of the throne room and then you were running, your skirts gathered in your hands, feet making sharp smacking noises that echoed off the cold, cruel stone walls. The politics of these halls now tethering you to something you did not want, but could do nothing to fight against.
You ran until you found him, until you saw his blond head gleaming outside in the sun, his armour on. You were both young, perhaps too young, but it did not matter for Baelor wanted his son perfect. As perfect as perfect can be.
The heir to end all heirs.
So, why in the hell would he tie himself to you? Especially since there were others, more powerful alliances that could be made. Marriages that did not involve a woman known for her sharp tongue, formed from the lack of discipline from her father’s hand.
“Valarr!” you yelled and you watched him turn to you, his face splitting in a grin at the sight before freezing, seeing the anger writ upon yours.
“Y/N! What are you doing here?” he called out, running to you, armour clanging with every step and echoing the fast beat of your heart as he approached.
“You want to marry me? Why in the hell are you doing this?! Why did you choose this?” Your hands drifted up to your long, braided hair, fingers twining through the strands and pulling, the pain clearing the rage from your vision, the red. “You know I’ve never wanted this! And yet you do this to me anyways! How could you?!” While you’ve been speaking, his face has darkened and shadowed, become angry.
“I didn’t do this to spite you,” he said, his words thick with rage and sadness. “I did this because I wanted to.”
“Wanted to?! You’ve never expressed a want to marry and certainly not me! Did Baelor make you do this? A way to correct me?”
“Why must everything be about you?” he cried, throwing his sword down, the tip landing dangerously near your foot. “This is about me! About us!”
“Us? There is no us! There never has been!” You took a step back from him, anger still tainting your sight so you were unable to truly see and comprehend the way his face crumpled at your words, but then he stepped forwards, his metal gloved hands coming to rest on your shoulders.
“I love you,” he whispered and you froze, giving him the opportunity to lean in and press his lips against yours, a kiss that tasted of blood and iron and sweat and despair and love. Through it all, a thread of love passed between his lips and yours and so you kissed him back. You kissed him with all that you had, the anger still burning inside of you, but burning for a different reason now. A similar one, but no less hurt.
“And you couldn’t have told me that before?” you demanded when he pulled back, leaning his forehead against yours.
“I’ve tried,” he said and you rolled your eyes at him, pulling away and crossing your arms over your chest, refusing to believe him. “No, really! I have. All the flowers and the compliments. I thought you knew what was in my heart, what I felt. I thought…I thought you’d like to my wife.” His words were so sad and depressed that you felt a twinge in your heart and then you were there, your hands closing over his.
“I will be a good wife,” you said and his face brightened with the lightness you loved. “But I want my freedom still. Not all that I have now, but some.” He placed a gloved hand upon your cheek and nodded.
“You can have all the freedom you want as long as you are mine.”
***
The wedding was elaborate; stone walls hung with ceremony and tapestries woven just for the event. Your gown was white, swept with gold, your hair adorned by a crown of gold, flared to be like the sun, your Targaryen white hair, braided and bound to the crown.
Valarr was as handsome as ever, his cloak and finery new, things he had created just to your liking, although you didn’t know that. He preferred to do things for you, that you didn’t know. He believed that his actions stood for more than his words as he was not eloquent, always blunt. He spoke what he felt to you, rather than the pretty words some had to woo their lovers.
Not that he truly needed those words, for you were happy with him as he was.
“How does it feel, Y/N Targaryen, to be married? As dreadful as you always believed?” Valarr smiled at you and you shook your head, looking down at the floor, at the cracking stone to hide the blush that spread across your face.
“No,” you whispered and you had no idea how his heart lightened to hear those words. It was the reason he picked you up and spun you around, your toes just grazing the stone floor.
“I will make you the happiest in the world, I promise you!” he declared, pressing kisses to your lips in a fevered pace.
“I have no doubt.”
***
“I am with child, Valarr,” you spoke, the words slow and cautious. You tread lightly for fear of his reaction. You know not what this child will be, you know not if it will be a daughter or a son and you do not know if Valarr will feel ready.
“You are what?” he asked, his eyes widening with shock, gaze dropping to your stomach, to the small swell of it signalling the growth happening within. “This is fantastic! Do you know how I’ve wanted this? You will be a perfect mother, I assure you. I have long since wanted to see you as a mother.” He came to hold you, his arms folding around you, fitting you to him perfectly like he was formed to hold you.
You had enjoyed your freedom with Valarr, accompanying him always, nights never lonely, always full of him and his lips and his love. And now, you had the product of that growing within you, a small child soon to join the world. Soon to be yours, someone you can teach and train no matter how they may be.
This marriage was not wanted at the beginning, but it is the most fulfilling anything as ever been. And now it will be more so.
You’re sure of it, for nothing could ruin this.
Or so you believe.
***
The people are dying, the royals are dying and no one can do anything. A man may be healthy in the morning and then be dead by the evening and you are so close to giving birth. You are swollen and you have been confined to your bed by the midwife who fears that this birth is trouble. She has said that it’s a risky one, one of the worst she’s seen yet.
But you are not worried.
This child has Targaryen blood true in her veins; she will be strong enough to withstand what will happen when you give birth. You know it.
You want your husband, want his gentle hand upon your forehead, his beautiful eyes meeting yours, that smile on his lips while he listens to you curse and complain. You want the warmth and tenderness of him and the way he holds you, the way he cups the child from behind you when you must move, lifting and evening the weight, giving you relief. You want the way he always makes everything easier for you, even when he doesn’t have too. Even when no other man would.
“My darling,” calls your father’s voice, “may I come in?”
“Yes, Father,” you call, your voice tired and weary, body sweltering in the heat of your stone chamber, body covered in blankets unnecessarily. You watch your father walk into the room, his face downcast and weary, eyes hinting at news. Not good news.
“Darling…” he pauses, sitting down on the edge of your bed, his hands taking yours, holding close to them. He swallows as if trying to dislodge something in his throat, something preventing him from speaking.
“What is it, Father? What’s wrong?” When he won’t answer, a shock of worry slams into you, Valarr flashing before you. “Is it Valarr? Is he hurt?”
“Valarr is…” Maeker draws in a shuddering breath, unsure how to tell you what has happened, unsure what it will do to you. He remembers you fuming about the marriage, but the change of heart you had when you learned that it was for love. That is the image he will always remember, for he followed you from the throne room. The image of Valarr holding your hands to his heart, foreheads together. It was love and now you will be alone.
Now, he has to tell you that he’s gone.
“Valarr is what, Father?” you ask and when Maeker lifts his head, eyes locking onto yours, you know. You know in the shadows of grief twisting through your father’s eyes. You know that you have lost Valarr, but you need to hear him say it.
“Valarr was struck with the plague. He’s…gone, darling. He’s gone.” Your body starts to shudder with the sobs, the tears falling quickly and your father moves to hold you, but the first rip of labour starts, the stickiness freeing itself and you scream.
You scream Valarr’s name, his whole name and you continue to scream as the midwives rush in, preparing you, coaching you. You scream his name, the grief the only thing propelling you forwards because you are angry. You are angry that he has left you. Left you alone to raise his child, your child.
You scream his name in rage and grief and sadness and love. You scream it as the contractions rip through your body. You scream his name in anger as well as plea. You scream it as plea for the gods. Bring him back to me, it seems to say. Let him be with me.
You scream and you scream as the contractions rip through body, sweat beading and falling on your body, your father there with you, his hands still holding yours and he soothes you, doing his best to calm you, but there is no calming you for you are now alone. The person you loved most is gone and you now have to learn to live without him.
You scream his name even as the contractions begin to lessen, the pains and the pushing almost there, the midwives pulling the baby free, a girl, they say. A beautiful baby girl.
And that’s when you see him, Valarr, beside you. You see him smiling as the midwives place your daughter in your arms, her hands reaching for you, cries almost as loud as yours ripping from her still young lungs.
But when you look away from the perfect little girl in your arms to look at Valarr, you see his face fall in sadness, his lips pursing and hand reaching for you and you know. You know from the weakness in your body, the slackening in your limbs that you will not raise your daughter, for you are too weak. The loss of Valarr, the birth of your daughter, but you have enough power to whisper a name. Your daughter’s name.
“Daenerys,” you whisper to Valarr and he smiles at you and then you take his hand, stepping free from the bed, from your body, joining him in the ether. The after. “Goodbye, my daughter,” you whisper and then you are gone. Gone for whatever awaits you now.
***
“NO!” Maeker cries, throwing himself upon his daughter’s body, tears falling down his face. So many sons, but only one daughter, only Y/N. She was the point of softness in his life, the one who never yelled or boasted. Who was kind and stern and quiet. Who would sit with him at the fire, listening to his tales of the House of Targaryen.
Who was now dead.
“Sire,” one of the midwives says, holding the babe in her arms, the only child of his daughter. The only child of Valarr. A new daughter of Targaryen. Daenerys Targaryen. “Who will care for the child?”
“I will,” he says, drawing in breaths that are ragged and broken but regal despite it all. “I will raise Daenerys.” And so, he takes the blue-eyed babe from the midwife’s arms, holding her in his, another point of softness and sadness and he turns to go, to tell his wife and sons that Y/N is gone and he shall raise her child himself, but he stops. He turns back, turns to the corpse of what was his daughter and slips her ring from her finger, sliding it onto his hand. The last thing of her that he will carry.
“Goodbye, my darling,” he whispers and then he is gone, carrying more news of death and loss within him. But a hope as well. A hope residing in the blue-eyed babe before him.
A hope made of his daughter.
Of you.
***
It has been years, Daenerys now tall and strong and all her own, hair as white as her mother’s was said to be, eyes as pure as her father’s, pure Targaryen in her veins and raised by the King himself, King Maeker. Her grandfather.
Her dying grandfather.
That is where is now, watching him draw in his final breaths, blood pooling in the corners of his mouth, eyes drifting to the window where the curtains blow with a slight breeze. “Y/N,” he breathes, coughs rattling his frail body, “you…have…come.”
Daenerys watches as her grandfather whispers to the woman who isn’t there, the woman who birthed her, said to have joined her husband in the ether having given birth to a saviour. A prophecy spoken over Daenerys, that she was a warrior who through her blood, may help bring the dragons back.
But right now, she is young and she watches her grandfather, indeed her father in action, die, his hand outstretched to someone who is not there.
Right now, she mourns what she has lost not thinking of tomorrow.
Right now, she’s allowed to break.
And so, she does.
***
“And from the death of Valarr and Y/N Targaryen, grew a warrior, Daenerys. From the death of famed king, Maeker, rose a queen of most renown, Daenerys. She fought to save Westrose all her life, protecting the kingdom in her mother’s name. She fought to save it and though she did not bring the dragons back, her name carried on throughout history, carried to a distant Targaryen, another Daenerys. The one who returned the dragons to us,” the king says, the history more of a myth now, so many years later, but still one told. Told over and over and over.
And another young princess listens closely, eager to hear of those who shared her name. Eager to hear how to change the world.
All because of Y/N Targaryen.
