when the sun shines we shine together

You can call me Dy. Mostly write for ASIOF, Bridgerton (not posted yet), and my own stuff that will never see the light of day, it seems.

Daeron x Vaera (Baelor's daughter)

His Dragon in Silk

Of Threads and Little Dragons

Of Doomed Devotion and Other Insults

In the future, I will write for Maekar.

Requests are always open.

Chapters: 7/? Fandom: A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms (TV), A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), House of the Dragon (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Daeron Targaryen (Son of Maekar I)/Original Female Character(s), Daeron Targaryen (Son of Maekar I)/You, Dyanna Dayne/Maekar I Targaryen, Jena Dondarrion/Baelor "Breakspear" Targaryen Characters: Daeron Targaryen (Son of Maekar I), Aerion Targaryen (Son of Maekar I), Maekar I Targaryen, Baelor "Breakspear" Targaryen, Jena Dondarrion, Dyanna Dayne, Daeron II Targaryen, Myriah Martell, Rhaegel Targaryen (Son of Daeron II), Aerys I Targaryen, Aegon V "Egg" Targaryen, Valarr Targaryen, Matarys Targaryen, Maester Aemon Targaryen, Daella Targaryen (Daughter of Maekar I), Rhae Targaryen (Daughter of Maekar I), Aelora Targaryen, Aelor Targaryen, Alys Arryn Targaryen, Aelinor Penrose, Brynden "Bloodraven" Rivers, Shiera Seastar, Daemon I Blackfyre Additional Tags: Targcest | Targaryen Incest (A Song of Ice and Fire) Series: Part 1 of His Dragon in Silk | Daeron x Vaera Summary:

Pairing: Daeron Targaryen/ OC (Baelor's daughter)

Chapter 1: Between Silk Threads and Baby Teeth

Chapter 2: No Good Comes from Falling Stars, Just the Truth | Part One

Chapter 3: No Good Comes from Falling Stars, just the Truth | Part Two

Chapter 4: No Good Comes from Falling Stars, just the Truth | Part Three

Chapter 5: No Good Comes from Falling Starts, just the Truth | Part Four

Chapter 6: No Good Comes from Falling Starts, just the Truth | Part Five

The soaps that the laundresses are using are making my life impossible,” Daeron said to Valarr as he scratched his thigh once again. It had been three times now that Vaera had managed to infect his small clothes. Three times she had gotten away with it. And that night, she intended it to be the fourth after deciding to alternate it, “I haven’t bathed this much in the last few years. I am bathing twice every day. My mother would be proud. Vaera would be amused.”

“Are you and Vaera still at odds?” Valarr asked.

“Are you still not at odds with your sister?” Daeron asked, making his cousin shake his head.

“Believe it or not, she said sorry to Matarys and me.”

“Oh, so your sister apologizes to you and not to me?” Daeron asked.

“You did throw her slipper into the fire, Daeron,” Valarr said, dropping down in the chair.

“Your sister threw it at my head first.”

“My sister says you kissed her without her saying yes, and that you were disgustingly drunk, and that you called her a spoiled child who loves no one but herself, in that order and in that tone she has when she has decided she is the wronged party in something and has no shadow of intention of revisiting the matter.” Valarr reached for the wine, too pleased to be reciting his sister’s and cousin’s romantic grievances, “I am only telling you what she told me.”

“Did she share that she kissed me hard and good?”

“I have no need to know that.” Valarr said, holding up a hand, “And I would like, if it is at all possible, to forget I know it.”

Daeron scratched his thigh again, scowling at nothing in particular, and said nothing further on the matter, which Valarr took, correctly, as confirmation that there was considerably more to the story than either of them intended to discuss over food.

***

It was two days later that Baelor decided his nephew had grown intolerably soft.

“You have done nothing but sulk, drink and complain about the laundresses, and take cold baths for a fortnight now,” Baelor said, arms crossed, watching Daeron pick at his food with all the enthusiasm Daeron was known to have when being lectured. “Come on, Daeron, you’ll spar with Valarr this afternoon. Properly. I’ll not have you wasting away into some lovesick idiot while your father left you in my charge.”

“Uncle, I really would rather—”

“Midafternoon,” Baelor said, “It's decided.

“Uncle Baelor… everything but that. It is hot, and when I sweat, the itching gets worse.”

“Have you ever considered that you might think you are allergic to sweat?”

“I suffer from the same afflictions that your Uncle Aerys and Rhaegel suffer from,” Daeron said.

“Apathy for swords and sweat?”

Daeron nodded. “I’ll find my own way to serve the realm.”

“Serve the realm by amusing me this afternoon. I’ll be waiting for you there!”

“Uncle—”

“Midafternoon, Daeron!”

It was, unfortunately, one of the hottest days the Red Keep had seen that month. The training yard shimmered with radiating heat. Daeron swore he could feel the heat through his boots, and in just fifteen minutes, his shirt was soaked through and sticking to his broad shoulders and back.

“What’s the matter with you today?” Valarr asked Daeron in one of the breaks.

“The truth is, I'd rather be in my bed reading a gossip column,” Daeron started, “than this shit!”

“You’ve gotta admit this is fun,” Valarr said to Daeron, whose eyes and frown looked at him with disgust, insult, and wonder about what the fuck his father, uncle Baelor, and his brothers Aerion, Egg, and Valarr had that they liked hot metal, the sound of clashing blades, and having bruises afterwards.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, and where the fuck do you find the fun in this?”Daeron asked him.

The mindless repetition of sword movement irritated him. He was not meant for that life. He was meant for a life of leisure; no itch, Vaera’s mouth running wild with insults and sweet words in equal measure,  while maybe two or three of his brats, birthed by Vaera, ran around like wild little pigglets or chickens entirely unruly with messy hair and mischievous laughter. He thought, while he attacked forward with his sword, his cousin, the fact that he wanted nothing more than Vaera’s mouth running wild. But the heat wore on, and the sweat did not let up. Somewhere in the second hour, he could not interrupt or distract his thoughts. The itch had become sharper than it had been in days, and he stopped.

“I yield!” He said, throwing the sword to the dirt and throwing his helmet to the feet of his squire, and then bolting to his chambers. Prince Baelor rolled his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose before he reached for his sword and continued with his son.

Queen Myriah could listen to the cursing. She could hear Daeron’s incessant cursing from her rooms, and it irritated her.

“Fucking soaps. Fucking laundress… they are adding too much lye!” He cursed as he made his way to his rooms.

“Daeron Targaryen!”

“Fuck me!” Daeron sighed before turning around to face the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, his grandmother. “Lady Grandmother?”

“Inside. Now!”

Daeron rolled his eyes, annoyed.  “I want to take a bath!”

“Inside, now!”

Daeron dragged his feet, cursing under his breath, before he entered his grandmother's chambers.

“What?” He asked once she had dismissed her ladies, “Tell me what you want.” Daeron said to his grandmother. “I need to bathe… this itch is driving me insane, and the sweating just makes it worse.”

Queen Myriah forgot what she had been planning to say to him about his unnecessary use of foul language, not under her hall.

“Itch?”

“I have been telling you all that I do not know what it is, maybe it started when we went to the sept a week ago . . . the ants . . . and I bet the laundresses changed the fucking soap—”

“Daeron, your language.”

“I am sorry.” He said, “But my skin itches . . . I have bumps and scratches, and the only thing that soothes them is the cold baths, the mint oil and the powder rose lotion I stole from Vaera months ago, from when the bee stung her.”

“Where does it itch? Is it your underarms? Darling? Remember that you have always had delicate skin. Just like your father.”

“I no longer get that . . . I don’t know that morning at the sept, ants got up my legs, and they settled in my . . . you know . . . and they decided that it was a good idea to feast there. That is why I wanted to leave. Now, every day,  my skin . . . I have blisters—”

Myriah didn’t let him finish. “Stand up.”

“What?” He asked.

“Let me see.”

“What do you want to see?” Daeron asked.

“Daeron . . . you are complaining about an itch; a few nights past you said you were running a fever… You are saying you have blisters!”

“The ants, and I am sure that the laundresses changed the bloody soap because my skin—”

“Let me see.”

“No!” He gasped, “I am a grown man. I am not a little kid.”

“I do not care if you are thirty with six children, and Lord of your own Hall,” Queen Myriah said, in the flat, as a matter-of-fact tone that over the course of several decades she had mastered by using it with her four sons, and twelve grandchildren her sons had given her in total that ended every argument her 12 grandchildren and four sons brought to her, “I have seen each and everyone of you naked as babes, sick with fever, diapers soiled . . . your dignity is the least of my concerns. Your health is. You complain of an itch and blisters in your groin, blame it on my laundresses, who are all Dornish by the way and are loyal to me and every single one of your backsides, and you also blame inoffensive ants… when not two weeks ago your cousin ratted you and her brothers out due to her concern over your whoring ways. Now stand up, and let me see, or I will call your father, who just arrived at Summerhall, to deal with your younger brother and sister.”

“He would not—”

“Or do you want me to call your grandfather and your uncle Baelor?”

“Is that supposed to make me afraid?” He asked her.

“Daeron, I am going to count to five.”

“Okay fine!” He said, as his grandmother raised his brow, and Daeron, weighing the real possibility of having to deal with a pinched ear from his grandmother and the itch, just stood there, his jaw tight, feeling the humiliation radiate from him almost like waves.

He asked her to lock the doors, and then he started to unlace his breeches, with no grace, to the point that he just pushed them off along with his smallclothes and set his eyes on a portrait that made him curse since it was a portrait of Vaera.

"Must she always be around?" He said, looking to the other side. "She's everywhere?"

Myriah’s face did not change at first. She looked, with such grace, calm, and a queenlike attention of a woman who had, in fact, been surrounded by so many men from childhood (her brothers, cousins, her sons), and now her grandchildren. She had seen all the ailments.

Then her expression changed. There were patches of raw skin, with the marks of days or weeks of constant scratching. Some of them scabbed over; others clearly reopened more than once; some blistered red; others turned into an unhealthy shade of red that had nothing to do with soap or sweat.

This was not the doing of scheming laundresses or ants.

Daeron had always had delicate skin, like his father, but this… this was something else.

“Oh, my boy!” Myriah said quietly.

“It is only irritation. I have been using Vaera’s mint oil and the ointment Vaera was given when the bees stung her, and it reduces the itch, but thins soon as I put on my small clothes in the morning, it itches, but then, when I bathe again, I am fine.”

“It is not irritation.”

“It is!” Daeron said; his own voice sounded a little more uncertain now.”

“Does Vaera know about this? Why did she not call—”

“Of course she doesn’t. Do you think I would have told Vaera about this?”

“My boy! It is okay… cover yourself now. I am sending for the maester now, and you are going to tell us how long—”

“Grandmother, don’t—”

But he couldn’t finish his sentence. The maester who came was the same grey, unhurried man who had served the Targaryens for a very long time. He had seen Aerys and Rhaegel share a cold for almost a year when they were young. He had fixed Baelor’s nose five times (only told the queen about two of the incidents) and had helped Maekar treat the marks on his face from the stamp of adolescence. He had assisted in the birth of Valarr and Matarys, and when Daeron and Vaera were born on the same day, he had no rest, first assisting the Lady Dyanna with her first birth at midnight, and then at noon with Jena.

Now he was sitting while Prince Daeron, that same silent babe he helped bring into the world, stood before him as he examined his groin.

“How long?” The Master asked.

Daeron looked at his grandmother. “Must you be here?”

“Answer!”

“Two weeks? Not three yet?”

“Hm!” The maester grunted.

“How did it progress?”

Daeron explained. “It gets worse midday… but then I bathe, and it stops, but it keeps itching. So I scratch, and then the area gets very hot.”

“Interesting. Fever?”

“Can come and go . . . it is worse when the day is hot. But there have been days where I have had no itching in my testicles or no burning when I pass water.”

“But you have had burning when passing water? How about congress with such ladies?”

“Yes and no . . . I have not lain with anyone in a very long time”

That was when the maester looked up.

“But last time you had relations with a woman, you had not the burning or the itching? Or any blisters?”

Daeron shook his head. “I did not.”

The Maester sighed, “I will not lie to you. The blistering, the fever, the manner that you have kept scratching and tearing at your skin . . . and the color of some of the blisters—” The Maester looked at the queen now, “—the pus I do not like the shade and I can see some areas swollen . . . I cannot rule out the pox or any other fever that is common in the brothels, no matter how clean they advertise the poor souls to be. I would not wish to alarm you further, but if it does not get better in three days, I would very much like to remove the foreskin of the prince. It is done in some cases to cut the sick skin.”

“You are not going to cut anything.” Daeron said, “I have been using… well, more like stole from my cousin what you gave her when she was stung by bees, and it has calmed the itching and the mint oil—”

“For the pain, I will give you the same tea I brew for the princess when she is in her monthly pain. The herbs will do you good as well, and no wine, my prince. A diet of broth and clean water is needed… and depending on the coloring of the pus, we will decide about the cutting.”

“We are not cutting anything!” Daeron said. “It will fade. I know it.”

“So what I will do now is that I will give you the tea; it will help with the pain. I forgot to bring the tea to the princess before presenting myself to you, my queen. Oh, the princess will be in a foul mood. I will bring it first to her and then to you, my prince.”

“It will not kill the princess Vaera to wait.” Said Myriah, “The prince… this takes precedence and bearing through the pain of her moon blood is good. It makes her strong and will help her navigate her future childbirth pain. The prince first and then the princess.”

“I need not Vaera’s pain tea.” Daeron said, “I am managing well enough with what I have.”

“It is such an oddity, maybe this is a new brothel fever… it is such a curiosity how the swelling presents… yet every man is different… but yes, we will wait. I would be failing in my duty if I cut you too soon. But yes, it might do you good to bleed. Take out the poison.”

The words landed in the room like something Daeron could touch. When the Maester left, he looked at his grandmother.

“I’m going to my chambers.”

“Stay,” Myriah said, but he shook his head.

He could not believe it.

Could he really have it? Could he really have contracted something from one of those girls he lay with while imagining it was Vaera? Oh for fuck’s sake! He thought.

Vaera.

Was she now of sybil tongue? Was he a dreamer while she was a seer? No, what Vaera was or is a spoiled, privileged young woman with a sharp mouth and a beautiful face with long, soft, brown-red hair with silver strings and mismatched eyes and brows. That was all she was, all he could imagine her to be… it was the last thing he needed, or Vaera to be. She would be insufferable, as when she says they owe their lives to Daenys the Dreamer and she should be venerated as a goddess since she was the Targaryens’ savior.

Fuck! If Vaera knew of this… if he really had some whore’s pox… she would never marry him. Worst, his uncle Baelor would never allow it.

Oh, the shame!