Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Crimson Baptism
The rain was a relentless percussion against the clean glass of Laenyra’s window, each drop a tiny hammer against the fragile illusion of peace she had tried to build in her quiet apartment. It was a sound that had accompanied her for as long as she could remember — a constant, melancholic rhythm to a life lived on the edge of something she could never quite name. The city beyond blurred into streaks of silver and neon, a living canvas of storm-lit streets and distant sirens.
Laenyra stirred in her queen-sized bed, the soft sheets tangled around her legs. The ceiling above was smooth and white, the paint fresh, the corners free of cracks. Pale morning light, filtered through sheer curtains, painted the walls a gentle grey.
Another day. Another echo of the day before. Her life moved in circles, steady but unchanging.
She pushed herself upright, the cool air brushing her skin, making her aware of the stillness.
Her phone buzzed, a low tremor against the oak nightstand, and then again—two messages in quick succession. Laenyra reached for it absently, blinking away the residue of dreams. The screen glowed coldly in the dimness. Mother – 6:13 a.m.: “Your father isn’t sleeping again.” Aunt Miriel – 6:14 a.m.: “The lake is rising.” Two sentences. Two small stones dropped into the still water of her morning. But they sent ripples deep and wide. The lake. Her father. The house.
The words didn’t say much. But they didn’t need to.
The lake rising wasn’t about floodwaters or weather. It was about the breathing of old things. About the slow, ancestral pulse that moved beneath the family land like a heartbeat in the earth. About Thorneveil Hall, nestled in a valley where the mist never lifted entirely and the trees whispered in a dialect of creaks and groans. The lake never truly moved—except when it did, and someone always felt it in their bones first.
She sighed and set the phone aside, but her thoughts had already unspooled like silk thread snagged on a nail. The memories never came directly; they curled inward like smoke. A week ago, she'd dreamt of the house again—not a nightmare, exactly, but the kind of dream that lingered in the chest like a bruise. In it, she'd stood in the long upstairs hallway, the one with the black-and-white tiles laid out like a chessboard. At the end of the corridor, the portrait of Great-Aunt Vaelra watched her with blank eyes. The oil paint had faded, but not enough to dim the unmistakable glint of emerald in those irises. The same green that stared back at Laenyra every time she looked in the mirror.
That green had always been the mark—more than blood, more than name. And the hair, so dark it shimmered blue in moonlight. “Sea-glass eyes in stormwater hair,” Aunt Miriel once said when Laenyra was ten, brushing out the tangles while muttering an old lullaby in a forgotten tongue. It wasn’t a compliment. It was a confirmation.
Her mother’s eyes were grey, nearly colorless, and her father’s were a deep hazel that had gone cloudy with age. But those green eyes—like lichen lit from within—skipped generations, only ever showing in the ones who felt the house most. In the ones the lake noticed. The story went that green-eyed women in the family always heard the whispers first. And sometimes, if they stayed too long, they started answering back.
Laenyra had left Thorneveil years ago, but the house was never gone. It curled around her memories like ivy, growing into every recollection. She remembered her father’s narrow face bent over a candlelit desk, his long fingers tracing symbols into journals he would never let anyone read. How he’d startle at loud sounds, or vanish for hours only to return muddy and dripping, mumbling about the waterline shifting again. And her mother, always perfect, always pristine—scrubbing her hands raw with rose-scented soap after walking past the old well, as if it clung to her.
There was a reason they never talked about the year Laenyra turned twelve. The year the reflection in her mirror started blinking after she had. The year the family cat, gray and sleek and silent, stopped crossing her doorway at night. Her mother said it was puberty, just “a sensitive girl’s imagination.” Her father said nothing at all.
But Aunt Miriel had simply nodded. “You’ll need to keep your hair long,” she said. “And never cut it on a waning moon. That’s when it listens best.” Miriel had given her an obsidian comb that night, wrapped in silk. It still sat in a drawer near Laenyra’s bed, though she hadn’t used it in years.
And now—this week—it had begun again. Her dreams. The creaking in her apartment that didn’t follow the rhythm of old pipes or settling wood. She’d found moss growing in the corners of her balcony, despite living six floors up. The smell of wet leaves in her coat closet. And once—just once—her eyes had glowed faintly in the reflection of the train window, though no one else seemed to notice.
The lake is rising.
She pushed herself upright, the cool air brushing her skin, making her aware of the stillness. The room smelled faintly of rain and the soft vanilla of the candle she’d forgotten to blow out the night before. Bare feet touched warm wood floors as she padded to the open-plan kitchen. The stainless-steel kettle gleamed on the counter, waiting. As it heated, she leaned against the window, staring out at the rain-swept city.
She pushed herself upright, the cool air brushing her skin, making her aware of the stillness. The room smelled faintly of rain and the soft vanilla of the candle she’d forgotten to blow out the night before. Bare feet touched warm wood floors as she padded to the open-plan kitchen. The stainless-steel kettle gleamed on the counter, waiting. As it heated, she leaned against the window, staring out at the rain-swept city.
But she didn’t see the cars below or the people rushing past with umbrellas bent against the wind. In her mind, she stood beneath skies darkened by ash and smoke. She saw cities of black stone, towers crowned with flame. She saw dragons — vast, terrible, magnificent — their wings devouring the sun. And she saw people like herself, but not: silver-haired, violet-eyed, their faces proud, cruel, beautiful.
These dreams were different from those dreadful years at Thorneveil — less damp, less claustrophobic. At Thorneveil, the strange had come slowly, like rot creeping beneath floorboards. There had been a heaviness to it, a weight that pressed down on her chest and refused to name itself. The house had felt ancient even when it was clean, always cold no matter how many fires her mother lit. Shadows behaved oddly in the corners of rooms — pooling like spilled ink and never quite empty. There had been rules, too, though no one admitted it. Don’t step over the threshold backwards. Never look into the mirror past midnight.
Don’t speak to the thing behind the linen closet, even if it knew your name. “It’s only the pipes,” her mother would say, scrubbing the smell of the well off her wrists. Her father, lost in diagrams and old tongue phrases, wouldn’t even glance up. “Let the house sleep,” Aunt Miriel used to whisper, brushing Laenyra’s hair by candlelight. “It listens best when you think it doesn’t.”
But these new dreams — they weren’t hushed or waiting. They burned. They erupted like visions clawing their way through her veins, bright and terrible. Valyria did not wait in shadows. It devoured them. In her sleep, she saw cities that pulsed with heat and light, impossible in their beauty and horror. Obsidian towers rose from molten rivers, and dragons circled high above, their wings cutting through skies that bled crimson. Sometimes, she could hear her name carried on the wind, distorted and ancient: Laenyra Vorynax. That wasn’t her name, not really — and yet it fit her in a way “Laenyra Harlowe” never had. Was that me? Is it going to be? She would wake with her jaw clenched, heart hammering, the taste of ash in her throat. These dreams didn’t want her to hide. They wanted her to remember.
“Why does it feel so familiar?” she whispered once, her voice lost in the rustle of rain outside the apartment window. Her own reflection blinked back at her, solemn and still. I used to dream of hiding in the attic at Thorneveil, hoping the house would forget I existed. Now I dream of standing at the edge of a burning cliff, being called forward. It was as though something old had been cracked open — something waiting. She no longer dreamed of creaking stairs and cold wells, but of fire and fury and wings large enough to eclipse the sun. Yet, despite all that grandeur, it was never the dragons she feared. It was the pull. The ache. That gnawing whisper in her bones that said she hadn’t been born in the wrong home or the wrong era — she’d been born in the wrong world.
Her fingers touched the window, cool glass meeting warm skin. Why do I feel as though I was meant to be among them? The thought was not new. It clung to her, shadowed her dreams, whispered to her in the quiet.
She knew it was irrational — crazy, even — to long for a place that existed only in stories, in pages penned by a man known for weaving worlds as brutal as they were beautiful. Who in their right mind dreams of belonging to a realm forged in blood and fire, where death could come on dragonwing or in shadowed alleys? And yet, Laenyra’s yearning wasn’t for the Targaryen dynasty that ruled Westeros, nor for the bitter wars that shattered kingdoms. No — what haunted her was Old Valyria itself. The empire before the Doom. The great, terrible civilization that had risen in flame and magic, a place of wonder and cruelty, of knowledge lost and power unchecked.
It had started innocently enough — reading the books, devouring every word George R. R. Martin had written about the Targaryens, about Valyria’s fall, about the empires that rose beyond the Bones and the Summer Sea. She’d pored over mentions of Yi Ti and Leng, of far-off lands barely touched upon in the sagas. But it was Valyria that sank its claws into her. The Freehold. The dragonlords. The secrets buried beneath fourteen smoking mountains.
And gods, she told herself a thousand times, she should have outgrown it. She should have shaken off this impossible fantasy — this foolish, childish desire to have been born beneath a sky lit by dragonflame instead of neon. What was the point of longing for a dead world, for a place that never existed, not really? She had told herself to stop, to move on. After all, wasn’t she an adult now? A woman with bills, responsibilities, a career?
But the truth was harder. Every time she tried to bury those thoughts, they clawed their way back. The moment she closed her eyes, she saw obsidian towers and rivers of fire. She felt the pulse of the Fourteen Flames beneath her feet. And in the marrow of her bones, in the secret corners of her heart, it felt less like fantasy and more like memory.
Laenyra drew in a slow breath, forcing her gaze back to the rain-smeared city beyond the glass. Enough. She blinked, as if that could clear away the ache. It won’t do any good to dwell on the past — or on a past that was never mine to begin with. She turned her head, focusing on the world as it was, not as she wished it to be.
The kettle clicked off, pulling her back. She poured the water over a teabag, the dark tendrils of the brew swirling like smoke. The taste was bitter, but the heat was comforting. She curled into her armchair by the window, drawing a heavy leather-bound volume onto her lap. The book was worn at the edges, its spine creased from use. The histories of Valyria — of the Targaryens who fled the Doom — filled its pages. Her own notes crowded the margins: theories, corrections, fragments of longing.
Her apartment was small but bright and well-kept — a one-bedroom with warm wooden floors, clean white walls, and shelves lined with books and small plants. The furniture was simple but chosen with care: a deep grey armchair, a sturdy oak table, framed prints of places she’d never been. It was the kind of space someone might call cozy, but to Laenyra, it was a refuge she had built against the world’s noise — and against the ache of belonging nowhere.
At first, Laenyra had been frustrated by that ache, by how no matter what she did, she always felt on the outside looking in. She thought of the milestones that should have felt magical — prom, graduation. She remembered the bright lights, the music thudding through the gym at prom, the smell of punch and perfume. Everyone laughing, dancing, shining with excitement. And there she’d been, smiling when expected, laughing when prompted, but inside feeling hollow — like a guest at someone else’s celebration.
Graduation had been the same. While others embraced and wept, tossing their caps into the air, Laenyra had clapped and posed for photos, but felt like a shadow in every moment.
And then there were Alyssa and Xavier — the friends she hadn’t spoken to since college. They had tried. Alyssa with her sharp, kind eyes, who always seemed to notice when Laenyra’s smiles didn’t reach her eyes. Xavier with his quiet presence, who would glance her way mid-conversation, checking if she was still there. They tried to draw her out, to remind her she wasn’t alone. But even with their care, that sense of apartness never left.
Laenyra blinked a few times, staring up at the clean ceiling. No. It won’t do any good to think about the past. She turned her head to the window on her right, watching as the rain traced silver paths down the glass. The city blurred beyond, the present reclaiming her from memory’s grip.
Hours slipped by, the rain marking time’s passage. Eventually, duty called. She dressed in her usual neat grey suit, tailored but simple. The subway swallowed her — metal, noise, and the scent of wet coats. She stood among blank faces, another soul adrift in the tide of the city.
The office was no better. Fluorescent lights hummed above, the air thick with stale coffee. Laenyra moved through it like a ghost, exchanging quiet greetings with quiet people.
“Morning, Laenyra,” Sarah from accounting chirped, her cheerfulness as fragile as glass.
“It is,” Laenyra said, her polite smile never touching her eyes.
Sarah was… fine, if you only looked at the surface. Bright enough, cheerful enough — at least on the outside. But beneath that veneer, there was something about her that set Laenyra’s teeth on edge. Maybe it was the way Sarah would bat her lashes or lean just a little too close whenever their boss, Lincoln, walked past. Subtle at times, blatant at others — always seeking attention that wasn’t hers to claim.
Not that Laenyra cared. Not really. It wasn’t jealousy or indignation that fueled her aversion. It was exhaustion. She had seen this kind of person a thousand times before — in high school hallways, at college parties, on city streets. The type who thought a smile and a well-timed compliment could unlock any door, that charm alone could smooth every path. That looks can get you anywhere in life bullshit. And maybe, sometimes, in certain places, with certain people, it worked. But not here. Not with Lincoln.
Lincoln, who ran the office with quiet competence, who kept a framed photo of his boyfriend on his desk, a reminder — if one was needed — that Sarah’s little games were wasted energy. Laenyra doubted Lincoln even noticed the flirtation. Or if he did, he likely found it as tiresome as Laenyra did.
No, it wasn’t that Sarah was inappropriate that bothered her. It was that she was predictable. And Laenyra had no time, no patience, for predictable people who played at things that didn’t matter.
So, her desk awaited: orderly, lifeless. Numbers filled the screen, blurring into meaninglessness.
At lunch she stood by the window, watching the storm. The glass reflected her pale face, her tired eyes. For a moment, in the flicker of lightning, she thought she saw silver in her hair, flame at her temples. But no — only tricks of light, of longing.
When the clock released her at last, she fled. The city was drowning beneath the storm. Wind howled through steel canyons. Laenyra let the rain soak her, cold and clean, a baptism of sorts.
And then — an alley she had never turned down before. Narrow, dark, the sky a slit of storm-torn grey above. Water ran like rivers at her feet.
A figure stepped from the shadows. A man — tall, gaunt, desperate.
You know that moment—the one when you leap from a dizzying height and, midair, your mind freezes, gripped by the sickening fear that your legs will shatter on impact? That dreadful slowing of the heart, not by choice, but by some ancient instinct buried deep in our bones—the body’s dark lullaby in the face of unseen peril. I felt it then, dragging at my chest like a heavy stone, as my mouth opened and closed in frantic, shallow gasps, desperate for air but finding none. Like a fool, I drank in lungful after lungful, my breath ragged and meaningless, as the man drew nearer through the fog of terror.
It took me another two—precious—seconds to move, to respond, to act. But the cruel truth was undeniable: it was already too late. I knew it in the marrow of my bones, the slow, cold certainty that no salvation awaited me.
“Your purse,” he hissed. A blade gleamed in the dark.
Salvation? Who was I fooling? I’d never been religious in a single day of my life. Were these truly the last thoughts I was meant to have before death? No flash of loved ones—no faces of partners, siblings, friends—just this bitter, hollow silence. “I mean—death can’t be so terribly final, right?”*
Those stupid, desperate thoughts clawed at my mind, a frantic whisper against the roar of my pounding heart. And still, I found myself frozen, utterly transfixed, my gaze locked on the trembling blade as if it were some cursed relic from another world—an unknown artifact, sinister and unknowable, held by a man whose hands shook with a cold madness.
Time stretched and twisted, each second dripping slow as blood from a wound. I was caught in a nightmare painted in shadows and steel, unable to look away from the cruel gleam that promised nothing but oblivion.
The world slowed. The rain beat like a drum. Laenyra’s breath caught. This wasn’t destiny. This wasn’t the fire she’d dreamed of. This was meaningless.
The world slowed. The rain beat like a drum, its relentless cadence muffling every other sound until all that remained was the thudding pulse in Laenyra’s chest. Her breath caught, shallow and ragged, as if the air itself had turned thick and viscous, choking the life from her lungs. Time stretched and warped around her like a dark velvet curtain, heavy and suffocating. This wasn’t destiny. This wasn’t the fire she’d dreamed of—the childhood, foolish dream she’d clung to for years, the fierce blaze of dragons and ash, the roaring inferno that promised meaning and power.
No. This was not the way she wanted to die.
The cold bite of rain mingled with the hotter sting of rising panic as her thoughts twisted inward. Has anyone ever wondered why we human beings are so terribly contradictory? she thought to herself, a silent bitter murmur against the storm’s howl. For as long as she could remember, Laenyra had felt like a ghost wandering through a world that refused to hold her, a shadow slipping between cracks in reality. Dark thoughts had often haunted her—those quiet, desperate wishes to vanish, to self-exit from a life that felt too heavy, too empty.
But now, faced with the cruel immediacy of death, terror gripped her in a way no sorrow ever had. The stark contrast unsettled her soul—how she had once wept alone in her room, curled beneath blankets like armor, mourning the world’s cold indifference; and now, here, at the precipice of oblivion, her heart screamed with the raw, unyielding will to survive. The desire to cling to life, so fierce and unexpected, shook her to the core.
Her hands trembled, fingers twitching as if searching for a way to fight or flee, but the man’s shadow loomed larger, darker, swallowing the faint light around her. The rain drummed harder, a relentless rhythm that echoed the pounding of dread and hope entwined within her chest.
Her mind flickered back to the dragons, to the caldera of fire and ash she had dreamed of, to the voices of old gods calling her name across the ruins of a lost world. Yet here, in the dank alley soaked with stormwater and menace, none of that grandeur remained. Only the cold gleam of a blade, the whispered breath of death, and the heavy, bitter taste of meaninglessness.
“Please—” the man stammered, his voice cracking beneath the weight of his own desperation, the word torn from a throat dry with hunger, with regret. His eyes, hollow and rimmed with shadows, flickered between her face and the purse clutched in her stiff, trembling hands. The edge of panic threaded through his voice like a fraying rope, unraveling fast.
The knife lunged.
Pain bloomed — hot and blinding, a searing blossom of agony that stole the breath from her lungs and set fire to her nerves. The blade found its mark, slicing through fabric, through flesh, through the fragile barrier that had once kept her safe. Blood welled up, dark as garnet in the dim alley light, and spilled over trembling fingers. It mingled with the rain, that relentless, icy rain, until it seemed as though the storm itself wept crimson tears for her.
The world fell away, piece by piece — the rattling hum of a subway beneath the streets, the shriek of sirens far off in the city’s veins, the flicker of neon signs reflected in rain-slick puddles. All of it dissolved, bled out like watercolors left too long beneath a storm. The alley became shadow, a gaping maw that swallowed light, swallowed sound, swallowed everything except the ragged drum of her weakening pulse.
And in that dark — in that space where breath faltered and time fractured — the visions came