Chapter Text
180AC
The Red Keep groaned under the storm, autumn had descended upon King's Landing; the ancient stones of the fortress absorbed the rain, and the wind howled through the narrow corridors. It was on this night that the thunder first truly terrified her, not just the crack and rumble, but the way it shook her very soul, awakening fears that slumbered deep within her young heart.
Laenira's chambers were modest for a princess, tucked away in the Maidenvault, where the walls were adorned with tapestries depicting the Conquest: Aegon on Balerion, Visenya with her dark sister, Rhaenys on Meraxes. But to a child, those images were monstrous in the flickering candlelight, their shadows dancing like living beasts. She hated them on nights like this. Her bed was a grand four-poster with heavy velvet curtains, meant to provide comfort and privacy, but on stormy nights, it felt like a cage. The rain lashed against the leaded glass windows, each dropping a tiny drumbeat building to a crescendo. Then came the thunder, a deafening roar that made the ground tremble.
She bolted upright in her bed, her small hands clutching the sheets, her silver hair matted with sweat despite the chill in the air. Her jade eyes, already so vibrant and otherworldly, widened in terror, the silver rings within them seeming to glow faintly in the darkness. At four, Laenira was tiny, her frame barely filling the expanse of the bed, but her spirit was fierce, a little flame, as Baelor called her. Her heart hammered so hard she thought it might bruise her ribs. The lightning came next, white and sharp, painting the room in bones. For a heartbeat she saw shapes in the corners, long fingers reaching, mouths whispering things she couldn’t understand.
It wasn't just the storm. Even at such a tender age, Laenira's dreams were vivid, haunting things that blurred the line between sleep and waking. They weren't the prophetic dragon dreams of her ancestors, those blood-fueled visions that had guided Targaryens through conquest and catastrophe. No, hers were more personal, rawer, nightmares born from the fragile attachments of a child's heart.The dream had come first, the same one that had started creeping in after her third nameday. In them, she wandered endless halls of the Red Keep, calling out for her brothers, but the echoes returned empty. Worse were the ones where she saw Baelor, her beloved eldest brother. She was in a field of gray ash, the ground warm under her bare feet like dying coals. Baelor stood ahead of her tall, ten years old, his dark hair tousled the way it got after training. His eyes, one blue as summer sky, one warm brown like polished chestnut, looked at her with that quiet smile he saved only for her and Maekar. She'd reach for him, her fingers grasping at air, and wake with a sob caught in her throat. Her biggest fear, even then, was losing him, seeing his death, not in battle or by poison, but simply vanishing, leaving her alone in a world too vast and cruel.
Tears burned hot down her face. She didn’t call for Mother or Father. The king was always busy with maps and lords; Mother’s arms were soft but distracted by court whispers. Only Baelor made the bad things smaller.
Slipping from her bed, her bare feet silent on the cold flagstones, she padded out of her chamber. Her nightshift dragged behind her. The corridors were dimly lit by sputtering torches, the guards at their posts nodding off in the late hour. She knew the way by heart, having made this journey before on lesser nights of unease. Baelor's room was in the royal apartments, closer to the heart of the keep, and she navigated the twists and turns with the unerring instinct of a dragonling returning to its nest. The storm raged outside, rain sheeting down the walls, but inside, her determination burned bright.
She reached his door, a heavy oak, carved with the three-headed dragon of their house. Pushing it open with both hands,it creaked softly, she slipped inside. Baelor's chamber was warmer, a fire crackling in the hearth, casting golden light across the room. Books lay scattered on a table, remnants of his studies; a wooden sword leaned against the wall, evidence of his training. He slept soundly, his dark hair tousled, one arm flung over the edge of the bed. At ten, Baelor was already showing the promise of the man he'd become.
Baelor had woken moments before the knock that never came, before the small hands even reached the door. A prickle at the back of his skull, faint but insistent, like the first distant rumble of thunder. The first time, he’d jolted awake in the dark, heart racing for no reason he could name, only to hear her bare feet padding down the corridor minutes later. Since then, it had grown, subtle at first, a whisper of unease when she scraped her knee in the gardens or cried over a broken toy. Tonight it was sharper, colder, a sweep of fear that wasn’t his own. He knew it was her before she even crossed the threshold.
Laenira hesitated at the foot of the bed, lip trembling. Another thunderclap shook the keep; she whimpered and scrambled up the bed’s side, small hands and feet finding purchase on the carvings. “Baelor,” she whispered “Lēkia.”, her voice small and quivering, pressing her cold body against his warmth.
He opened his eyes without surprise, lashes fluttering only once. Those mismatched eyes,one blue, one brown, found her in the dim glow as if he’d been waiting. “Little flame? What’s wrong?” His voice was thick with sleep but gentle, the way it always was for her. He shifted, making room without question, drawing her close. His arm curled around her like a shield; blankets settled over them both.
He felt the tremor in her small frame, the way her fingers twisted in his nightshirt as if anchoring him to the world. That strange knowing hummed in his chest again, like a second heartbeat tuned to hers. He didn’t question it anymore; it simply was, a thread of Targaryen blood or sibling instinct or something older, pulling taut whenever she needed him most.
“The storm,” she mumbled into his chest, but the words kept coming. “And the dream. You were there, and then… a shadow took you. You were gone.”
He was no stranger to her nightmares, they had started a year ago, right after her third nameday, when the nightmares began in earnest sporadic at first, but growing in intensity. He suspected it was the Targaryen blood visions, even diluted, could plague the mind. But he never dismissed them.
Baelor held her tighter, stroking her hair, silver strands slipping through his fingers. “"It was just a dream, Nira,” he said softly, using the secret name only he was allowed. “I’m right here. Feel?” He guided her small hand to his chest, letting the thump-thump prove it.
She nodded, but the tears kept coming. "But what if it's real? What if you die? Like in the stories..." Her voice broke. The tales the septas told were full of tragedy: brothers lost in battle, sisters consumed by fire. Laenira's imagination, sharp and vivid, twisted them into personal horrors. Baelor was everything to her. The thought of his death was unbearable, a void she couldn't fathom.
He sighed, the sound rumbling through her. Propping himself on one elbow, he looked down at her properly. Firelight danced in his eyes, making the blue gleam like sea glass, the brown warm as hearth coals. "Listen to me, little one. The gods, old or new, don't take us without a fight. And even if shadows come, we'll face them together. You, me, Maekar, even Aerys and Rhaegel, if they can tear themselves from their books and daydreams. But I know you’ll protect me like when we play knights and dragons in the garden, remember? You always save me." He chuckled lightly, trying to coax a smile from her.
She giggled at that, the sound muffled against him. It was a reference to a silly game they played in the gardens, pretending to rescue each other from imaginary perils. The thunder rolled again, but this time, nestled in his arms, it seemed distant, less menacing. She sniffled, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “I’d dive in a river for you.”
He chuckled, low and fond. “I know you would. And I’d do the same for you.”
The thunder rolled again, but farther off now, like the storm was tiring. Laenira’s eyelids grew heavy. “Tell me a story,” she begged, voice small.
Baelor obliged, settling back, he tucked her head under his chin. His voice became a quiet rumble, spinning a tale of a tiny dragon who feared the dark but learned her fire could chase away any shadow. The dragon was small, stubborn, quick as lightning, named after her, of course. She outwitted giants, lit the stars, saved her big brother from the night itself. Laenira listened, breathing slowing, terror ebbing like the rain outside.
When the story ended she was asleep, face slack, silver rings in her jade eyes hidden behind lids. Baelor watched her for a long moment, a soft smile curving his mouth. The prickle had faded now, leaving only warmth in its place. Whatever this sense was, it had grown since that first nightmare, stronger with every storm, every scraped knee, every quiet fear she tried to hide. He didn’t know why he felt her so clearly, why her terror tugged at him like a hook in his ribs, but he accepted it. It meant he could be there before she even asked. It meant she was never truly alone. Maekar would tease him about it, calling Laenira a "leech," but Baelor saw the depth in it, the way she looked up to him, not just as a brother, but as her world. It was a responsibility he bore gladly.
As the fire died to embers, he drifted off with his arm still around her, the fire dying to embers. Outside, the storm quieted to a murmur. By morning the sky would clear, sun glinting on wet stones. Laenira would wake sheepish, slip away before the servants stirred, and pretend it never happened.
But Baelor would remember. And the next time the prickle came, whether from a nightmare, a fall, or something darker, he’d already be reaching for her.