Aleksandra

She never wrote to you. But there it was in perfect script: Lord Cregan Stark. 

Not to you. But your husband.

You pushed the door open and it creaked loudly to announce your presence. "A letter."

Cregan's head snapped up. His attention was abandoned from the various pages and scrolls around him. If you were delivering it, it was serious. "Who sent it?"

Your mouth opened, but you couldn't find yourself able to answer. Your panic was obvious and Cregan quickly moved to your aid.

His eyes darted to the letter once, but he didn't let it linger. Instead, his hands rested on your biceps. "It's going to be alright, my girl. Do you want to read it to me?"

You shook your head as your bottom lip began to quiver. 

Cregan shushed you softly and pulled the letter from your fingers. 

He knew you needed a moment to compose yourself, so he took it to the window to read in the light.

He broke the seal. His eyes skimmed each line carefully. Then that letter crumpled in his hand.

He stood there for a long while with nothing to say. His jaw clenched and unclenched.

It only made you cry harder because you knew deep down that Jace was dead.

Your poor Baela. Your poor Cregan. 

"Cregan, are—"

He was already crossing the room with a new hurry and heaviness to his step. And he left without a word. 

You couldn't help but crumple into a heap on the floor. 

A devastating blow for the war efforts. 

But a more devastating blow for the Targaryens.

…

Cregan had shut down. You tried to move on, tried to brush past it. Even tried to address it. But nothing. 

He wouldn't speak of his feelings. He wouldn't acknowledge Jace's existence even happened. 

Cregan was a cold man. He only really knew duty and what was expected of him. The rest didn't matter to him. He didn't care for what he wanted, or the things he felt. Especially love or heartache.

You were breaking slowly inside. 

You made the mistake of confiding in your handmaiden, who told you of a witch outside the city that could help.

You weren't confident in your decision to visit, but your love for your husband overrode it.

"I once asked her for a luck potion. Next day, I found a gold dragon outside the castle walls— just sitting there! I tell you, milady, whatever you need, she can do." The handmaiden grinned widely and pulled you into the small cabin.

It was dark inside, a bit too dark considering it was light outside and there were many windows. Every table was covered in goblets and vials or things you didn't understand. Every shelf held cauldrons and other equipment you didn't want to ask about. Especially the collection of bones that you did your best not to stare at. Was that a bird skull—

"Oh, you again!" A sudden voice had broken out. An elderly woman stepped out from the other room. Her face dropped. "You've brought a friend."

"Yes," your handmaiden chirped. "This is the Lady Stark—"

"I know who she is." Her eyes darted between the two of you. "What does she want?"

"It is matters of the heart," the handmaiden explains. "For she and her husband."

"I don't dabble in affairs of the marital bed when it comes to conceiving." She tried to wave off. 

"No, nothing of that sort. It is only—"

"I want to hear it from her." The old woman points a thin finger at you.

Your teeth clench. You're sure that if Cregan knew you were here, he would never let you out of Winterfell again. 

You brush out your skirt nervously, trying to will yourself to speak. "I… my husband. I… We have just had a devastating loss."

"Yes, I knew of your… brother's death."

"You knew?" Your interest is now peaked, and you step around the table to her. "How?"

"I have my ways." She goes further back into her home and you find yourself following with more questions than answers.

"It is only Cregan does not speak to me. Not with close affairs of the heart. He is a stoic man, and I do love him as he is, but…"

She eyes you. "But you wish he would be honest with you?"

"Yes," you breathe. "More than anything."

"More than anything, hm. I might have something for that." She sees the hope in your eyes. "For a price."

"What price? Name it plainly."

She took her time, mulling over just what she wanted to ask of the Lady of the North. "It is a new interest of mine, what I am to give you. I have only given it to one other. They claim that it works."

"Another? Just one? How do I know it is safe?"

"Because I am giving it to you," the old woman waved off like it was self explanatory. She huffed around the cabin, gathering a few things in her arms. 

When she turned back to you, her eyes caught the glimmer of your Targaryen pendant. It was one of the few things from home that you had anymore. Your father had given it to you not long after you reached womanhood. "I'll take that as payment." Her bony finger reached out towards it.

You instantly flinch away, your hand coming up to guard it. "You want my pendant? Why? So you can masquerade as a royal?"

Your handmaiden looked back at you in warning. 

The old woman began to chuckle. "My child, I would never want to be you."

You wanted to take offense to that, but some part of you couldn't. 

She holds out a vial. It's small. The liquid inside is an odd color, not yellow, nor cream, but a strange gold that shimmers. 

You reach out to take it, but she pulls it away and looks down to your pendant. 

You were a Stark now. Perhaps you could let this go.

For Cregan, you could.

"What does it do? What are the effects?"

"Well, he will be truthful with you. You need only to put it into a tea or ale. He drinks, you have what you want. Deal?"

Perhaps this is an invasion of Cregan's autonomy. You believe that you should be more ashamed for even being here in the first place. 

You refuse to look as you hand her the pendant. 

Your handmaiden takes the vial for you, stowing it away.

"One last thing before you go," the woman adds. "Be careful what you wish for. There is no reversal for this. However, it only lasts a few days, so it seems."

A few days. You can work with a few days.

Guilt ate at you the moment you left the cabin. 

"How could I do such a thing? I could never put such a thing in my husband's cup. I was foolish to even entertain it."

"Do not be so hard on yourself, my lady. Women must do strange things to connect to their love. Women have done these things for centuries."

"But witchcraft? What would Cregan think to know I even spoke to a witch, much less took something?"

"You fret so heavily. It is unbecoming."

You stop. "Look what I am doing!" It echoes through the trees. "How could I?"

Your handmaiden sighs. "If it distresses you so terribly, I will put it into his cups without your knowledge."

You wave off the idea and continue down the trail. 

But as the silence sits on, you ponder. 

That wouldn't be a terrible idea. 

She could put it in. You would be none the wiser to when or how. Cregan would be honest. You would get what you wanted without having to do it. Was it a coward's way out? Perhaps. 

"That just might do."

…

You began to notice every cup in Cregan's hand. 

Did he always drink so much?

Teas, ales, wines, all of it put you on edge. 

You sat across the long supper table, your eyes on the way he ran his finger over the rim of his goblet in thought.

Every time your lips parted to say something, you immediately closed them again.

Cregan had a way of filling spaces of silence with something comfortable. But as of late, the comfortable feeling was masked over with a sort of suffocation. You hated his silences now. 

"I have decided to hunt tomorrow. I need to get my mind off of this war."

Your eyes catch his grey ones. "Now, of all times? Winter is only now ending. You have only been back from the Wall for a few weeks. Please—"

"It is done. I will go at dawn."

You sigh to yourself, twirling your fork in your hand. "When will you return?"

"A week's time, if all goes well."

"A week? Cregan, I wish you would talk to me."

"I am," he huffs. "I… I am trying. It is difficult."

"To talk to me? Am I so difficult of a wife to you that you will not even look upon me anymore?"

That makes him pause. "You know that is not what I meant."

"Every time you look at me, you think of Jacaerys. I understand." You stand, not caring for his approval of your leave. "Goodnight, Lord Stark."

As you leave, your handmaiden stands in the other doorway with the vial in hand. It glimmers in its confined glass as she tips it back and forth. 

What a stubborn bunch you two are. No matter, she will fix it.

…

You forced yourself to see Cregan off the next morning. 

He kissed your temple, even as you glared. He pretended not to notice. "I will return anew. Time in the woods will do me well."

You watched him mount his horse. Even angry, you had to admit he was handsome. 

He is barely gone before you're running back to your room to seemingly rot until his return.

…

You've written to Rhaenyra. You wrote to your father. 

But every letter you start to write to Baela, you scratch out just as quickly. 

The words don't come as easily as they used to. And what do you say to your sister who has lost her betrothed?

No number of sorrys would make up for her devastation.

You try to read. 

Then you try to stitch.

You even try to paint, though you've always been poor at it. 

All you can think of is how horribly you've treated your husband, and how reserved he is.

You've both lost a brother in Jacaerys. And his death should not be what tears your marriage apart.

Cregan will soon leave to fight a war. You know that somewhere deep inside. He'll march south with his wolves to reclaim your mother's rightful throne. And he may die in the attempt.

So why are you making his life more difficult? 

The week gives you time to reflect. The long hours of listening to nothing but silence without him makes you realize how much you adored the silence with him.

You should apologize.

Perhaps a nice supper when he returns. A warm bath. Yes, you could do that. 

No need for truth potions from old witches.

You were better than that.

…

Cregan does return in a better mood. He rides in on his horse, seemingly lighter than before. 

And when he sees you, he even smiles. Well, as much of a smile as northerners do.

"My pretty wife." He pulls you against his chest. "Let us be mad at one another, but let us not do it alone. Hm?"

"I was unfair in my ways as well, Cregan. I have arranged for a warm supper in our chambers, if you would accept my company."

His gloved hand moves over your cheek but doesn't touch the skin. "I'll accept. Let me wash, and I—"

"I have arranged a warm bath for you as well."

Something twinkles in his eyes. "You have thought of every thing, haven't you?"

…

Cregan is a bit more chatty as he lays in the copper tub in your chamber. 

He tells you in minimal detail about the hunt. The skin of their dead animals are currently with the furrier to make clothes. He tells you you'll have a new cloak before the week is out.

But he doesn't talk about his feelings. He doesn't discuss what he thought about while he was out there. 

And though he's talking, it still feels as if nothing is said between the two of you.

You finally flop onto your bed and he chuckles. "And I thought you would have missed me."

"I promise you, I have."

His head lulls over. Your cheek is squished against the furs of the bed, making him smile. "You have made a whole dinner plan for me. So, I suppose I am inclined to believe you."

Soon after his bath, you have supper brought to your room. No need for a long table where it's hard to hear one another. Not when you plan to finally try to connect with him.

The two of you sit in your chambers, quietly eating. For the first time in a long time, the silence is almost comfortable. 

You tell him about your time here while he was gone. How you got little done. 

"I did not think you would miss me as much as you have," he admits. "Not with the glare you sent me away with."

"I should not have done such a thing. I realize that now."

He shrugs. "Let us be done with it."

"No." You sit up straighter. "I want to talk. Truly talk." You take a sip of your tea. "I miss that about us. We have not done so in so long. Not since…"

Your voice trails off.

"Yes, I understand," Cregan finishes for you, thinking you are still too hurt to talk about Jace's death.

But that's not why you stopped. 

You stare down into your tea, which has a slightly gold glimmer to it that you recognize. 

Your free hand comes up to your lips. The taste of the honey in it still settles against your tongue. 

She didn't.

She wouldn't.

"Is something amiss, love?" Cregan lays a gentle hand onto your shoulder. "You've gone pale."

"It's nothing," you whisper. Your eyes still haven't strayed.

"Don't like the tea then?"

"Something like that."

He takes it from you, peering down at the warm liquid. "'S the matter with it? You usually like it before bed."

When you don't answer, he sighs and reaches over for his own cup of ale. He places it into your hands. "Here. This'll put you to bed well enough. Usually does."

You don't want to look down into it, but you do.

It glimmers a shiny gold as well. 

"Let us be done with dinner." You stand, taking both cups and setting them far out of reach. "I am… tired. Perhaps we should go to bed."

Cregan watches you panic and struggle. He knows you far too well. He doesn't move, only patiently waits until you've looked at him in expectation.

His voice is soothing, calm in a way you'd missed so dearly. "I thought you wanted to talk."

"I do, just…" not when we're drugged "not tonight, really. In the morning, or… evening. The day after perhaps? Or next week?"

"Come here." It's quick, firm. A command of the Warden, the calmness of a husband. 

You obey. 

When you get close enough, he takes your hands and pulls you into his lap. His face is close enough to feel his breath upon your neck. His voice is low. "You're burning up m'love. Have a fever?"

"Yes, yes, a fever. That is it." You squirm in his hold. "I don't want to give it to you. Perhaps we should sleep separate tonight."

He holds your hips in place. "What is this, really? Tell me."

"Nothing." You hesitate. Damn, truth potion. "Well, not nothing. But let us speak of it in the morning."

"I have been waiting a week to see my pretty wife and she is suddenly trying to evade me. And after she wanted to talk. Bit unfair, sweet girl."

You tuck yourself into his neck. "Do not make me do this."

"And what's that?" His voice rumbles lowly.

"Tell you the truth."

He hums, letting the silence settle for a moment. "What if I go first?"

Guilt immediately churns your gut. He has no idea about the potion. It feels awful to let him share his heart when he is none the wiser. 

"No, that is alright. Let us just enjoy one another's company."

He gives in, pulling you closer and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. 

It's nice to be this close. To not be fighting for once. 

"I thought about you," he admits softly. "I thought about your hair. Your eyes." A hand trails up your back and makes you shiver. "Your pretty skin."

"Cregan, stop—"

"I've only begun," he murmurs, tracing his lips over your temple. "I thought about how I must've hurt you. By suffering to myself. Thought I was helping you by keeping you away, but I wasn't."

Your lips part, but he beats you to it.

"The prince's death hurt me. That much is true. I fear I am becoming an angry man. And I know that you don't deserve an angry man as a husband. Look at me."

He forces your chin up to look at him.

"It feels good to tell the truth," he whispers.

You try to hide the tears welling up in your eyes, but he knows you better than that. He keeps your chin up so you can't escape.

"Would you like to be truthful now, as well?"

You shake your head, terrified of what you'd say if you used your voice. 

He kindly smiles and catches your lips against his. It's soft and warm, and makes something in you whimper. 

"Tell me," he tries again. "Tell me what is so heavy on your heart."

You try, you really do, but it all comes blurting out. "There was a cabin, and an old woman, and I told her, and she gave me a potion. Oh, but I didn't give it to you, I swear it but you drank it just now and I'm so sorry."

You slump against his shoulder in tears. 

He lets you cry for a moment before his massive arms hold you even closer. "You made that harder than it needed to be."

"Oh, I'm horrid to you! Please forgive me," you cry. 

"You did not give me the potion, m'love. Your conscience won out. That is what is important. I'd rather you come to be next time. To be truthful from the beginning."

You wipe at your eyes. "I tried, I did. You didn't want to talk—"

"Ah, I see."

He brushes your hair from your face and pulls you away just enough to get a good look at you. "My poor girl. I have been keeping a secret myself, you know."

You sniffle. "What?"

"Mhm. A big one." He brushes your hair back again. "I knew all of that."

"You… you knew?"

"Well, I'll admit I did not know why exactly you went to the woods that day. But your handmaiden came to me not long after. She told me the whole story. Even surrendered this to me."

He holds up the vial.

But that's strange. 

The golden liquid is still inside. 

Cregan watched you process all of it slowly, and finds it all amusing. "There is not a drop of it in your tea, nor my ale."

You sit up straight. "Then what… how…"

"The mineral mica has a fascinating shimmer to it. Completely harmless if used correctly. I added it to our cups tonight."

"Then you said all of that." Your hand rests against his chest. "You said all of that of your own accord? How you missed me, how you were scared?"

"All of it." His hand covers yours. "Because I am tired of lying."

"I am as well."

"Then let us stop, m'love. No more of this foolishness. This war comes closer by the day, and I refuse to spend my time in Winterfell with you not at my side."

"Then I will be there. No more hiding. Either of us."

He pulls you close, letting your bodies acclimate to the lack of tension in the room.

"We will always be angry for Jace's death, but let it not be in vain. We will use it against the spineless green and their Hightowers."

Your hand traces over the lapels of his coat. "Let us be true northerners then: honest, but stubborn and strong. What is a Hightower to Wolves?"

"I made a vow to the Prince, as my father did to the Queen when she was only a girl. And the North remembers." His hand traces down your jawline. "Winter is over, and it is the Hour of the Wolf."

He kisses you again, but it's anything but gentle this time. And you feel his promise sealed in it. 

He would kill them all, and he would return home to you.

..............................................................................................

Today was one of the few days you did not wake up with Baelor at your side. It was tradition for a wife to live in separate chambers from her husband when she became with child. You decided to follow tradition, mostly in hopes of letting your husband get sleep. But when you had done so, Baelor simply followed you. And now your small room held both of you in it most nights. 

But last night, Baelor had been up late. And when he'd finished his work, he knew you would be asleep already. Rather than disturbing you, he spent the night in his own chambers. 

And as you sat on the chair he insisted was taken to your balcony for you to rest in, you saw a perfect view of the courtyard. 

Baelor did not spar very often. He was an older man now, with no need to prove himself amongst the others. He'd done enough of that. But today, somehow, Valarr had managed to persuade the crown prince from his royal duties for just a few hours. 

It was an odd yet heartwarming sight, seeing the two spar. Valarr, though far the younger, was still well trained. His moves were quick and agile, form maintained perfectly and his steps counted. 

Baelor, however, was still the superior. The elder prince moved with precision as if habit. Each step was well suited to defend himself, but it seemed as if he was hardly trying. 

His voice was raised, uncommonly so, just enough for Valarr to hear him. "Keep your sword up. I'm not your father on the field, remember that." Valarr swung again, and Baelor's pride grew. "Good. Again."

And you watched contently, hand resting naturally over the swell of your womb. 

Watching him now, you realized just how well suited Baelor was to be a father. It came to him so naturally. Valarr was a perfect copy of his father in all ways— brave, empathetic, compassionate and wise. Matarys was becoming that way as well. And the next child will surely be just the same. 

If Baelor asked you to give him a small army of his carbon copies, you fear you'd do so without batting an eye. 

But the pregnancy was far from easy. And with it, came the fears that whispered into your ear late at night when you were finally trying to rest. 

The ones that told you that you couldn't do it. 

Your mother had troubling pregnancies. It was a miracle that you had come. And your father was greedy enough to want another child— a boy. But upon your mother's second pregnancy, she was lost and the child as well.

You didn't mention it often. Baelor knew the broad strokes, but not the truth— that your father had chosen an unborn child and a hope for a son over the woman he had promised to protect and love. 

And your Baelor was a good man. He wouldn't make the same choices. 

Those thoughts had plagued you for nearly two moons now. But you kept them to yourself. There was no need to worry Baelor. They were all for naught. And voicing them would only bring cause more issues. 

Instead, you let yourself enjoy this time. Each moment that you had with your Baelor before another voice would join your family. 

Valarr muttered something lowly to his father, the way the two always communicated. And soon, Baelor turned and look right up at you. It was hard to tell from such a distance, but you were fairly certain that he smiled. 

You gave a small wave, warmth rushing up your cheeks at the thought of disrupting them. 

But they soon turned away again, continuing as they were before. 

"Is she not due soon, father?" Valarr asked, swinging his sword with a little less gusto. 

Baelor blocked it. "Within the week, the maester believes. But the little one is restless. I'd wager the next few days."

"Are you nervous?"

The question stunned Baelor, making him almost forget to block Valarr's next swing. "I suppose so. Childbirth is no easy matter."

"You're not worried it'll be a girl?"

To that, Baelor began to laugh. "I am blessed with anything the gods grant me. For I already have you and Matarys. A third now, I'm just being greedy."

"It will be nice," Valarr remarked. "Having a younger voice in the Keep again. I'm sure you've missed it."

"You've no idea."

…

Baelor sought you out the moment his last meeting ended. He'd stepped into your room, letting out a soft sigh that signified all the burdens he shed in the doorway. "What a sight for my weariness," he smiled, eyes set upon you.

You sat in bed, your stitching in hand, well— more resting on your shelf of a stomach. You had been working on embroidering the babe's blanket, and you were nearly finished. 

He began to shed his clothes, unbuttoning his surcoat with rough fingers. He saw you begin to get up, and he holds a hand out to stop you. "Don't move on my account, my love. The sentiment is sweet. But I would rather keep you from being jostled."

You huff. "I am perfectly capable of standing."

He gave you a knowing look, his head tipping to the side. "Humor me. I'd rather you rest."

You gave in, resting against the headboard once more. 

You watched as he pulled off his surcoat, setting it aside. Then went his tunic. He stretched, and you let yourself admire his bare chest— sprinkled with greying hairs and firm from years of using a sword. 

He catches your eye and smiles. "Does my lady require something of me?"

You only hum. 

His gaze heats up as he rounds the bed to your side. He leans over you and tilts your chin up. His mouth brush over yours. "I've missed you. All day, you plagued my thoughts. You always do." And following it, he presses a searing kiss to your lips. 

You reach up, trying to pull him down. But Baelor is a wall of iron, not giving into your unspoken whims. He pulls away, moving back to the  wardrobe to finish readying himself for bed. 

Your stomach jolts, the babe clearly gleeful to hear their father's voice. 

He notices the displeased look on your face. "Is everything alright?"

But it's more than a jolt. It's a pinch. A pain. You try to ignore it. "Just a bit uncomfortable."

He crosses back over to you quickly, adjusting the pillows behind you in hopes it fixes the problem. It doesn't, but you give him a grateful smile anyway. 

He rushes now, pulling his boots off and tucking them away (he was always extra careful not to leave tripping hazards out for you, the considerate man), and joining you in bed. 

You're grateful for his steady touch. His hand rests over the babe you've grown, warm and stable. 

But this pinching feeling. Nothing quite helps it. 

And with it, comes those hazardous thoughts. The ones that damned you. 

He watched closely. "Tired?" He tries to guess.

You nod, not having the energy or effort to explain it to him. Not tonight. Perhaps after it passes, you will. 

So he helps you lay down, poking and prodding the pillows until you're satisfied. And he holds you close. His breath tickles your neck, but comforts you all the same. 

"I love you," he breathes, barely heard. 

Your eyes close, and you're soon asleep. 

Baelor lets out a content sigh, following suit knowing you're safe.

…

You wake up in a whimper. 

Your thighs ache. It feels as if waves are running through your lower back muscles. Everything hurts, like a heavy menstrual cramp. 

You curl up in pain, trying to let it pass. Baelor's sleepy form naturally pulls you closer. 

It lasts longer than you liked. 

But finally, it stops, leaving behind a dull ache. The relief is phenomenal. Only thinking it's a cramp that needs stretched, you try to wiggle out of bed. 

But it's a hard task, considering (1) your husband's arm is wrapped around you and (2) you're massive with child. 

You pick up his arm by the wrist and manage to get free. Your movements are slow and steady. Well, as steady as you can be. Your arms feel a bit shaky. 

But you manage to sit up on the edge of the bed when the cramps came back. And just as easily, the panic returns as well. 

You stand up in a rush, trying to walk it off. You right your shift, straightening the fabric over your stomach. Your legs shake as you quietly pace the room in the dark. You silently thanked Baelor for not setting his boots out on the floor. 

You tried to reach down past your stomach, and that's when you realized the bottom half of your shift was wet.

Your hand paused there. Your water broke in your sleep. 

Your hands shake violently. You're not ready. You can't do this. You weren't prepared. 

Your hand clasped over your mouth, holding in a small cry. And there, your legs gave out. You fell at the foot of the bed, resting your back there. The floor was cold and firm, but was enough to ground you. 

You weren't sure how long you sat there. But two more of these waves of pain had passed and they were growing nearer in time.

Baelor shifted. His hand came up to his eyes, rubbing the sleep from them. He shivered. And when he moved the covers, he realized they were wet, cold from the air. And you weren't there. 

He sat up quickly, throwing the furs and sheets to the side. For such a calm man, he was utterly panicked. He stood, swaying from the lack of muscle coordination at such a late time in the night. His eyes were adjusted enough to see the path to the door. 

But a sniffle stopped him.

He froze, looking down to the foot of the bed, where his wife sat in a heap. 

He was relieved to see her, but the panic was far from over. He quickly knelt to her side. "Gods. What hurts? Speak to me, my girl. Tell me."

You only cried harder. 

He tried to get you to look at him. His hand ran down your back, still nothing. "You must look at me. Please."

A full sob broke from your lips, hot tears following in rapid succession. 

Baelor had finally had gathered his thoughts. He grabbed your jaw, forcing you to look up at him. His heart broke at the your puffy eyes. "Your body is ready to have the baby, my love." It wasn't a question, but a statement. He felt the need to convince you so. 

You grasped at his wrist. "Please don't make me."

He sat on the ground next to you, pressing himself close. "You know that's not possible. Your body is ready for it. Let me help you to the bed."

"Baelor, please!" You wail. 

He pauses, realizing this is more than just the pain. His grip softened. 

"I… I'm not ready," you admit through sporadic breaths. "I can't. I…"

"You're scared," he finishes, soft and warm. "Let's get you on the bed, and we'll talk this over."

You don't have any fight in you when he holds you up by your biceps and guides you to the bed. In fact, the soft mattress is rather welcoming, even if it's wet like the rest of you. 

The next contraction hit, and you gasp. 

Baelor's there, sitting at your side. He holds your hand and runs the other one over your forehead. "Breathe deeply. I have you, sweet girl."

You try. Gods, you try. But the ripple of pain truly takes your breath straight from your lungs. 

He waits for it to pass. Ever the quiet prince. Patient and assuring. 

Finally, when he sees your glaze of your eyes pass, he speaks again. "Tell me your fears. The pain?"

You shake your head, letting him wipe the last of your tears from your cheek. 

"Then what?"

"It… It's complicated."

He smiles sweetly. "Everything seems to be these days. But I assure you, I will follow along."

And you finally tell him of the unfortunate circumstances of your mother's death. You rush it out, parts a bit unexplained and confusing, but you only want it out before the next contractions comes. 

He listens diligently, carefully, hanging on every word and nodding every time you became unsure of yourself. 

When the next contraction comes, Baelor stews on all of it. You never stated 'I'm worried you'd choose the child over me,' but he comes to the conclusion all the same. 

Finally, he leans over you and kisses your cheek. He stops there, speaking lowly in your ear. A promise. "I chose you as my wife. In every lifetime, I would do so again. You'll live today, my brave wife. Strong, and beautiful all the same."

His words wash over you like cool water, refreshing. 

And you gained just enough strength. "Get the maester."

… 

Baelor doesn't stray from you when the labors begin. He'd seen the fear in your eyes when the maester suggested he wait outside. How you worried they'd overlook you when he was away. 

Thus, he stayed. 

He held your hand tightly, helped shift you when you were uncomfortable, and whispered sweet words into your ear when you were losing strength. 

Each contraction was painful, and you loudly said so. 

But his voice never raised and never wavered. He stayed steadfast to your side, watching each move of the maester and midwives because he knew you couldn't. 

All births have complications, but this one was one of the easiest, according to the maester. 

You were spent, body worn and limp. Your eyes were glazed over and tired. And sweat made your hair cling to your forehead. Baelor smiled, kissing your hand.

"A girl, your grace."

You let out a surprised chirp, squeezing Baelor's hand tightly with the little strength you had. 

"A girl," he mused. "You've given me a sweet, baby girl. How perfect."

When you were cleaned enough, you insisted he lay by your side. And then, the child was brought to you. 

She was tiny, with lungs far too powerful for such a little thing. She wailed loudly, despite your insistent cooing. 

You were growing frustrated, unsure what to do with her, when Baelor reached for her. Upon settling in his arms, his hand cradling her small head, she calmed. He chuckled at that. "There we are. Seems my girls just need reassurances of my love, is all."

The maester and midwives take their leave, letting the two of you, now three, rest. Baelor is attentive, as he always is, holding the babe so you may perfectly see her scrunched up face. 

"Her hair is dark," he says, looking over it. "Her eyes. Shall we guess before she opens them?"

You rest your head against his arm. "I just hope they work."

"Of course they'll work. You made them."

He says it so casually. So sure. It makes your head spin. "But what if I messed something up?"

"You've yet to ruin a thing," came his steady answer. He gives you his full attention now. "You're not capable of ruining things, my love. You could try and still fail."

The two of you wait in silence until finally, her eyes open. Mismatched, just like her father.

"She doesn't even look like me," you huff. "They'll doubt I even had a hand in making her."

"What they think does not matter. I am aware of just how much sacrifice you've given for her. That matters more than anything else."

And for once, you finally believe it.

...................................................................................

❊ AN: As angst without a happy ending hurts my soul, I might write a continuation of this where you finally get your baby, but we'll have to see LMAO. Anyways, love Valarr and his ten seconds of screentime per episode. Someone get him vaccinated asap, thank you, much love.

You should have known better than to get excited.

This had not been your first time being with child. In fact, you had lost count of how many times a maester had confirmed your condition. Conversely, maybe your mind decided it was better to forget each mark of failure on your behalf.

It was an endless cycle. You'd discover you were carrying, and before the quickening could even think of coming, the pains would begin. Pains meant for labor, for welcomed babes, for moons down the line, took hold.

You knew what it meant after a while.

You knew to expect blood to be trickling down your legs. Clots would escape, and the red would stain everything within reach.

Noblewomen lost children all the time. It did not make you special, different, or more important than any of them. It was just the way of the world. No medicine or procedure could be followed to prevent such an event except for exceptional rest and care.

Still, it saddened you. These had been your creations, things that would have grown into beings with the right amount of time, and your body had killed them. Annihilated their existence before you could begin to show.

Your womb just wouldn't hold. It was a fragile villain that you were forced to house, and it tortured you, taking offense at every gentle attempt to sow seed there. No matter how cautious you were, none of them ever lasted.

These ruins weighed on you. There was a secret part of your heart that was sorrowful, raw with wounds that you couldn't name. If you thought about them too much, your head would stuff with cotton and the need to cry, so you tried not to remember any of it. To tuck the memories away somewhere in the back of your mind to collect fine dust.

You never fully forgot, but the despair lifted when you came to be with child and stayed with child.

Your body grew, shifted, changed with the beautifully hard symptoms of pregnancy. You never spoke aloud your wonder at the developments, and neither did Valarr, but you shared ideas for names with the softness of sunlight. Your husband perpetually gazed at you with something warm, and it filled you with pride.

This was your purpose. You'd been selected to marry Prince Baelor's eldest son, to provide heirs to the primary line of succession, and you were doing it. There was no early spotting in your smallclothes or cramps crawling up from your lower stomach to take root in every nook of your joints.

There was only bliss, rest, and a blossoming joy you did not ever want to rid yourself of.

This was your reward, your proper apology to the realm. You would be a mother to a child with kind Valarr's blood who would cry, and their weeping would be music.

You promised your swollen belly to never yell, to never be cruel, to love them in any form they would take. You'd cherish a son or a daughter equally; health would be optimal but you wouldn't forsake them for any disfigurement or simplemindedness. You'd love them purely for breathing.

Yet, when you pushed the babe out of you with the encouragement of the wet nurses, there had been nothing. There was no weeping, screaming, or relieved laughter from the women surrounding you. It was just the rhythm of your heartbeat in your ears.

The midwife had wrapped the tiny figure in white linen with a pitying look that told you what you feared. What you knew.

Still, you'd elected to hold the child. Perchance your acceptance stemmed from muting shock or a desperate hope that when you'd cradle them, they'd wake up with a shriek, and you'd finally done it.

Of course, that's not what happened.

Your son—a boy with the faintest nest of wet hair—looked to be asleep. His lips were a plummy shade, but his skin was pale. You thought to pretend for an instance. However, your eyes were pooling with tears, and your vision danced until you could barely see his face at all.

The funeral had been a solemn affair.

He'd been burned under the eyes of his kin like all Targaryens were.

You'd worried you'd panic at the sight of the fire. Perhaps vomit all over the hem of your skirts, or collapse down into the grassy ground. You didn't. You just stood there, unable to feel the tips of your fingers or toes as the smoke filled the air and your lungs.

Baelor had taken the time to express his condolences. His face had been kind, his voice low and steady, but all you felt was shame. That was his grandson, the continuation of his line, and you'd thrown it away. You'd only been able to nod with a close-lipped smile in the face of his amenability.

Following the burial, you scarcely saw your husband.

Whether he was avoiding you, you were avoiding him, or it was something in between, you couldn't quite say.

Isolation suited you nicely. You took meals that tasted like sand in the solitude of your personal apartments, and dismissed handmaidens to wash yourself during your baths. You practically lived in your separate chambers. Sleep eluded you frequently, heaviness weighing down on your limbs while your mind stayed restless.

You were content to wallow away in solitude. Your ladies-in-waiting, on the other hand, tried to convince you with deferential faces to distract yourself with something substantial. Even so, embroidery didn't appeal to you, nor did reading or instruments.

You didn't want to do anything.

You just wanted to... well, you wanted to do absolutely nothing.

Nonetheless, after much benign insistence from the women of your court, you'd elected to take a walk in the garden. It was a sculpted, lush sight to behold, with clean air carrying pollen like floral perfume. The bright tranquility made your chest feel tight.

The black of your gown contrasted the vibrant petals and greenery lining the stone path. It was painfully peaceful, and after a long stroll, you sat on a bench surrounded by silver sage and wild roses. It didn't clear your mind, but it lightened the fog so that you could breathe easier.

No one was around to disturb you. Thus, when footfall approached and increased in volume, you noticed it immediately.

Valarr came around the corner. He was put together, like he typically was, hair being brushed by the serene breeze cutting through the leaves and over the bushes. His mismatched eyes fell upon yours, and while you were surprised, it was clear he had expected to see you here.

It well may be he was even looking for you. The thought made your stomach vaguely churn.

"Hello," you greeted quietly.

"Hello," he replied. His voice matched your volume, like a soothing hum, a hand gesturing to the empty space beside you, "May I sit?"

As if you could refuse him anything. Your husband had been far too generous and understanding of each of your bodily disasters for you to shun him away, let alone regarding such a dull request.

Valarr sat down next to you with straight posture. There was a small space left between you, and there was a woodsy scent that clung to his skin like a layer of fragrance.

"I have not seen you in some time," the prince stated.

There was no point in lying. You just agreed, "Yes. I've been taking time to heal."

The word was numb in your mouth. You hadn't moved on from that summer's night, and if you were still for long enough, you swore you could feel the weight of your son in your arms. You picked at your nailbeds to counteract it, ankles recrossing.

"Have you?" Valarr queried, "Healed?"

You spared him a glance; the silver streak in his hair made you feel a bit dizzy. The answer was obvious. Truthfully, you thought he'd ask why won't you come to our chambers or have you been eating enough. He possibly did, just packaged subtly, laced in the three words he chose to speak.

Briefly, you had the urge to lie, but his soft-spoken manner convinced you better of it.

"Barely. I find myself chasing after slumber, although it is faster, and it leaves me desolate," you admitted gingerly.

Valarr huffed, "I'm the same."

His mouth opened as if to continue, but you beat him to it. Your nail dug into a cuticle hard enough to nearly draw blood.

"I'm sorry. My greatest service to the realm is to provide you with children, yet it never comes to fruition. I do– I cannot tell you why,” you elaborate. It sounds somewhat like begging, a plea for forgiveness.

Some whispered it was divine intervention that stole your son’s air and rid the rest before formation. Others blamed you, some physical limitation that prevented a living child.

None said it to your face, but you heard it. Gossip was insidious, the court swimming with self-interest that yipped at the chance to slander another, and a princess was no exception. Whispers ran through the walls like rats.

Valarr’s face contorted, “My love–“

“I should have already given you children. We keep trying, and it’s interrupted by my shortcomings. I wish he’d lived, I do–“

Your husband’s hand moved to grasp yours. It prevented more bumbling justification from leaking over your teeth, and your gaze met his. His face was serious with its rigidity, similar to the expression one made when head pain was piercing at their temples.

“Enough of that,” he said, strict and unyielding like a dagger. It made you feel small; Valarr invariably spoke in a measured way, never raising his voice to the point of sharpness.

“Listen to me: you have done nothing wrong. You may not believe it, but I do. I do,” he gripped your hand tighter, looking into your eyes with such earnestness it threatened to terrify you, “Our son’s death was not the consequence of any sin, mistake, or carelessness of yours. I do not know why it happened, but these losses are no fault of yours.”

His unbridled sincerity made you choke up, blinking rapidly to try and gather your senses, “We… the realm…”

Valarr cut you off firmly, “We will have children one day, when the time is right. I know it.”

"But how do you know?" you asked. Tearfulness grasped the edges, fearfully holding taut.

Your husband grew quiescent, staring at you with something of a fractured expression. It caused him to look older, woefully uncertain in a way that made you feel unusually seen.

"... I don't," he eventually confessed, and his voice frayed at the end, "I just pray it does."

You were frankly surprised at the discovery. Valarr never mentioned praying to the Seven about your pregnancies. How long he’d done so, or when he first began, you could not begin to imagine.

Just the epiphany moved your very soul.

Your husband's hand stayed as an anchor to reality. It was oddly comforting to have the knowledge that he was as lost and unbalanced as you when it came to this matter, to this grief that threatened to sink beneath your feet and swallow you both whole.

You squeezed his palm weakly, voice wet, “I'd like to join you the next time you go to the sept."

Valarr's smile was a crescent that painted him handsomely.

Silence overtook the conversation. It was comfortable, like the wind after a violent storm, caressing the length of your spine with a featherlight weight.

Today was one of the few days you did not wake up with Baelor at your side. It was tradition for a wife to live in separate chambers from her husband when she became with child. You decided to follow tradition, mostly in hopes of letting your husband get sleep. But when you had done so, Baelor simply followed you. And now your small room held both of you in it most nights. 

But last night, Baelor had been up late. And when he'd finished his work, he knew you would be asleep already. Rather than disturbing you, he spent the night in his own chambers. 

And as you sat on the chair he insisted was taken to your balcony for you to rest in, you saw a perfect view of the courtyard. 

Baelor did not spar very often. He was an older man now, with no need to prove himself amongst the others. He'd done enough of that. But today, somehow, Valarr had managed to persuade the crown prince from his royal duties for just a few hours. 

It was an odd yet heartwarming sight, seeing the two spar. Valarr, though far the younger, was still well trained. His moves were quick and agile, form maintained perfectly and his steps counted. 

Baelor, however, was still the superior. The elder prince moved with precision as if habit. Each step was well suited to defend himself, but it seemed as if he was hardly trying. 

His voice was raised, uncommonly so, just enough for Valarr to hear him. "Keep your sword up. I'm not your father on the field, remember that." Valarr swung again, and Baelor's pride grew. "Good. Again."

And you watched contently, hand resting naturally over the swell of your womb. 

Watching him now, you realized just how well suited Baelor was to be a father. It came to him so naturally. Valarr was a perfect copy of his father in all ways— brave, empathetic, compassionate and wise. Matarys was becoming that way as well. And the next child will surely be just the same. 

If Baelor asked you to give him a small army of his carbon copies, you fear you'd do so without batting an eye. 

But the pregnancy was far from easy. And with it, came the fears that whispered into your ear late at night when you were finally trying to rest. 

The ones that told you that you couldn't do it. 

Your mother had troubling pregnancies. It was a miracle that you had come. And your father was greedy enough to want another child— a boy. But upon your mother's second pregnancy, she was lost and the child as well.

You didn't mention it often. Baelor knew the broad strokes, but not the truth— that your father had chosen an unborn child and a hope for a son over the woman he had promised to protect and love. 

And your Baelor was a good man. He wouldn't make the same choices. 

Those thoughts had plagued you for nearly two moons now. But you kept them to yourself. There was no need to worry Baelor. They were all for naught. And voicing them would only bring cause more issues. 

Instead, you let yourself enjoy this time. Each moment that you had with your Baelor before another voice would join your family. 

Valarr muttered something lowly to his father, the way the two always communicated. And soon, Baelor turned and look right up at you. It was hard to tell from such a distance, but you were fairly certain that he smiled. 

You gave a small wave, warmth rushing up your cheeks at the thought of disrupting them. 

But they soon turned away again, continuing as they were before. 

"Is she not due soon, father?" Valarr asked, swinging his sword with a little less gusto. 

Baelor blocked it. "Within the week, the maester believes. But the little one is restless. I'd wager the next few days."

"Are you nervous?"

The question stunned Baelor, making him almost forget to block Valarr's next swing. "I suppose so. Childbirth is no easy matter."

"You're not worried it'll be a girl?"

To that, Baelor began to laugh. "I am blessed with anything the gods grant me. For I already have you and Matarys. A third now, I'm just being greedy."

"It will be nice," Valarr remarked. "Having a younger voice in the Keep again. I'm sure you've missed it."

"You've no idea."

…

Baelor sought you out the moment his last meeting ended. He'd stepped into your room, letting out a soft sigh that signified all the burdens he shed in the doorway. "What a sight for my weariness," he smiled, eyes set upon you.

You sat in bed, your stitching in hand, well— more resting on your shelf of a stomach. You had been working on embroidering the babe's blanket, and you were nearly finished. 

He began to shed his clothes, unbuttoning his surcoat with rough fingers. He saw you begin to get up, and he holds a hand out to stop you. "Don't move on my account, my love. The sentiment is sweet. But I would rather keep you from being jostled."

You huff. "I am perfectly capable of standing."

He gave you a knowing look, his head tipping to the side. "Humor me. I'd rather you rest."

You gave in, resting against the headboard once more. 

You watched as he pulled off his surcoat, setting it aside. Then went his tunic. He stretched, and you let yourself admire his bare chest— sprinkled with greying hairs and firm from years of using a sword. 

He catches your eye and smiles. "Does my lady require something of me?"

You only hum. 

His gaze heats up as he rounds the bed to your side. He leans over you and tilts your chin up. His mouth brush over yours. "I've missed you. All day, you plagued my thoughts. You always do." And following it, he presses a searing kiss to your lips. 

You reach up, trying to pull him down. But Baelor is a wall of iron, not giving into your unspoken whims. He pulls away, moving back to the  wardrobe to finish readying himself for bed. 

Your stomach jolts, the babe clearly gleeful to hear their father's voice. 

He notices the displeased look on your face. "Is everything alright?"

But it's more than a jolt. It's a pinch. A pain. You try to ignore it. "Just a bit uncomfortable."

He crosses back over to you quickly, adjusting the pillows behind you in hopes it fixes the problem. It doesn't, but you give him a grateful smile anyway. 

He rushes now, pulling his boots off and tucking them away (he was always extra careful not to leave tripping hazards out for you, the considerate man), and joining you in bed. 

You're grateful for his steady touch. His hand rests over the babe you've grown, warm and stable. 

But this pinching feeling. Nothing quite helps it. 

And with it, comes those hazardous thoughts. The ones that damned you. 

He watched closely. "Tired?" He tries to guess.

You nod, not having the energy or effort to explain it to him. Not tonight. Perhaps after it passes, you will. 

So he helps you lay down, poking and prodding the pillows until you're satisfied. And he holds you close. His breath tickles your neck, but comforts you all the same. 

"I love you," he breathes, barely heard. 

Your eyes close, and you're soon asleep. 

Baelor lets out a content sigh, following suit knowing you're safe.

…

You wake up in a whimper. 

Your thighs ache. It feels as if waves are running through your lower back muscles. Everything hurts, like a heavy menstrual cramp. 

You curl up in pain, trying to let it pass. Baelor's sleepy form naturally pulls you closer. 

It lasts longer than you liked. 

But finally, it stops, leaving behind a dull ache. The relief is phenomenal. Only thinking it's a cramp that needs stretched, you try to wiggle out of bed. 

But it's a hard task, considering (1) your husband's arm is wrapped around you and (2) you're massive with child. 

You pick up his arm by the wrist and manage to get free. Your movements are slow and steady. Well, as steady as you can be. Your arms feel a bit shaky. 

But you manage to sit up on the edge of the bed when the cramps came back. And just as easily, the panic returns as well. 

You stand up in a rush, trying to walk it off. You right your shift, straightening the fabric over your stomach. Your legs shake as you quietly pace the room in the dark. You silently thanked Baelor for not setting his boots out on the floor. 

You tried to reach down past your stomach, and that's when you realized the bottom half of your shift was wet.

Your hand paused there. Your water broke in your sleep. 

Your hands shake violently. You're not ready. You can't do this. You weren't prepared. 

Your hand clasped over your mouth, holding in a small cry. And there, your legs gave out. You fell at the foot of the bed, resting your back there. The floor was cold and firm, but was enough to ground you. 

You weren't sure how long you sat there. But two more of these waves of pain had passed and they were growing nearer in time.

Baelor shifted. His hand came up to his eyes, rubbing the sleep from them. He shivered. And when he moved the covers, he realized they were wet, cold from the air. And you weren't there. 

He sat up quickly, throwing the furs and sheets to the side. For such a calm man, he was utterly panicked. He stood, swaying from the lack of muscle coordination at such a late time in the night. His eyes were adjusted enough to see the path to the door. 

But a sniffle stopped him.

He froze, looking down to the foot of the bed, where his wife sat in a heap. 

He was relieved to see her, but the panic was far from over. He quickly knelt to her side. "Gods. What hurts? Speak to me, my girl. Tell me."

You only cried harder. 

He tried to get you to look at him. His hand ran down your back, still nothing. "You must look at me. Please."

A full sob broke from your lips, hot tears following in rapid succession. 

Baelor had finally had gathered his thoughts. He grabbed your jaw, forcing you to look up at him. His heart broke at the your puffy eyes. "Your body is ready to have the baby, my love." It wasn't a question, but a statement. He felt the need to convince you so. 

You grasped at his wrist. "Please don't make me."

He sat on the ground next to you, pressing himself close. "You know that's not possible. Your body is ready for it. Let me help you to the bed."

"Baelor, please!" You wail. 

He pauses, realizing this is more than just the pain. His grip softened. 

"I… I'm not ready," you admit through sporadic breaths. "I can't. I…"

"You're scared," he finishes, soft and warm. "Let's get you on the bed, and we'll talk this over."

You don't have any fight in you when he holds you up by your biceps and guides you to the bed. In fact, the soft mattress is rather welcoming, even if it's wet like the rest of you. 

The next contraction hit, and you gasp. 

Baelor's there, sitting at your side. He holds your hand and runs the other one over your forehead. "Breathe deeply. I have you, sweet girl."

You try. Gods, you try. But the ripple of pain truly takes your breath straight from your lungs. 

He waits for it to pass. Ever the quiet prince. Patient and assuring. 

Finally, when he sees your glaze of your eyes pass, he speaks again. "Tell me your fears. The pain?"

You shake your head, letting him wipe the last of your tears from your cheek. 

"Then what?"

"It… It's complicated."

He smiles sweetly. "Everything seems to be these days. But I assure you, I will follow along."

And you finally tell him of the unfortunate circumstances of your mother's death. You rush it out, parts a bit unexplained and confusing, but you only want it out before the next contractions comes. 

He listens diligently, carefully, hanging on every word and nodding every time you became unsure of yourself. 

When the next contraction comes, Baelor stews on all of it. You never stated 'I'm worried you'd choose the child over me,' but he comes to the conclusion all the same. 

Finally, he leans over you and kisses your cheek. He stops there, speaking lowly in your ear. A promise. "I chose you as my wife. In every lifetime, I would do so again. You'll live today, my brave wife. Strong, and beautiful all the same."

His words wash over you like cool water, refreshing. 

And you gained just enough strength. "Get the maester."

… 

Baelor doesn't stray from you when the labors begin. He'd seen the fear in your eyes when the maester suggested he wait outside. How you worried they'd overlook you when he was away. 

Thus, he stayed. 

He held your hand tightly, helped shift you when you were uncomfortable, and whispered sweet words into your ear when you were losing strength. 

Each contraction was painful, and you loudly said so. 

But his voice never raised and never wavered. He stayed steadfast to your side, watching each move of the maester and midwives because he knew you couldn't. 

All births have complications, but this one was one of the easiest, according to the maester. 

You were spent, body worn and limp. Your eyes were glazed over and tired. And sweat made your hair cling to your forehead. Baelor smiled, kissing your hand.

"A girl, your grace."

You let out a surprised chirp, squeezing Baelor's hand tightly with the little strength you had. 

"A girl," he mused. "You've given me a sweet, baby girl. How perfect."

When you were cleaned enough, you insisted he lay by your side. And then, the child was brought to you. 

She was tiny, with lungs far too powerful for such a little thing. She wailed loudly, despite your insistent cooing. 

You were growing frustrated, unsure what to do with her, when Baelor reached for her. Upon settling in his arms, his hand cradling her small head, she calmed. He chuckled at that. "There we are. Seems my girls just need reassurances of my love, is all."

The maester and midwives take their leave, letting the two of you, now three, rest. Baelor is attentive, as he always is, holding the babe so you may perfectly see her scrunched up face. 

"Her hair is dark," he says, looking over it. "Her eyes. Shall we guess before she opens them?"

You rest your head against his arm. "I just hope they work."

"Of course they'll work. You made them."

He says it so casually. So sure. It makes your head spin. "But what if I messed something up?"

"You've yet to ruin a thing," came his steady answer. He gives you his full attention now. "You're not capable of ruining things, my love. You could try and still fail."

The two of you wait in silence until finally, her eyes open. Mismatched, just like her father.

"She doesn't even look like me," you huff. "They'll doubt I even had a hand in making her."

"What they think does not matter. I am aware of just how much sacrifice you've given for her. That matters more than anything else."

And for once, you finally believe it.

...................................................................................