Chapter Text
In this life, as in his last, his birth was heralded with reverence and veneration, and wrought with untenable legacy.
He was the firstborn son of the Realm’s Delight, lovely and fair and every bit as preternaturally beautiful as his mother. He was said to have his grandmother’s Arryn blue eyes, the king’s tousled white curls, his mother’s smile, and the very birthright of his great Valyrian heritage etched into his very existence; from his heavenly features, to his dragon, to the very name bestowed upon him.
For days on end the whole realm celebrated his birth as a magnificent affair; bells tolled long into the night, nobles spilled from the four corners of Westeros bearing gifts of abundance and splendor, the smallfolk celebrated en masse along the streets of King’s Landing.
They called him a blessed child, a perfect child, a glorious new heir for the throne.
Upon his very birth the Princess Rheanys was said to have looked into his heavenly eyes and pronounced him a gift from the gods of old Valyria. Those same eyes, a precious, celestial blue resembling the late Queen Aemma, were said to have reduced his grandfather, King Viserys, to tears from the moment he first opened them. His other grandfather, Lord Velaryon, had named them a mark of the gods’ favor; such a curious, mystifying color, never settling no matter the lighting, as mercurial as a tempest sea.
Just the mere sight of such a marvelous child, a mortal so obviously marked by the gods, so destined for greatness, could easily quell the rumors beginning long before his birth.
Such derelict hearsay would never grace the ears of such a divine prince, of course.
They rushed the wedding, they said.
The princess was meant to start her royal procession to select her prince consort, but instead was married to the Velaryon heir within a moon’s turn. (The King had to appease the Velaryon’s somehow, after the way he snubbed their pure Valyrian heiress for his Hightower bride.)
The babe came early— so suspiciously early. (The Princess Rheanyra was so young, of course she would have difficulty carrying to term. Didn’t you see him? The babe was born so small!)
And he looks every bit a Targaryen, not a speck of Velaryon to be seen on him. (But of course the blood of Aegon the Conqueror would run strong within the royal line— and the Princess Rheanys is his paternal grandmother, such features run on both sides.)
The Rogue Prince dotes on him, shockingly so. He perhaps even reconciled with his brother just to remain near the young prince. (The Rogue Prince has always remained stoutly devoted to his family, no matter his unsavory reputation, his loyalty to the throne is unquestioned. That he is just as devoted to his brother’s heir as he is to his brother is merely filial piety.)
No matter the rumors swirling around him, it only took a single glance from his blessed blue eyes to halt the whispers in their tracks.
His divine beauty and grace, his mystical eyes, his magnificent dragon— such pedestrian slander seemed silly and absurd in the face of them.
To question the legitimacy of the Radiant Prince, the Honored One… no mere mortal could possibly be capable of uttering such blasphemy.
To do so would be heresy; a sin and affront that would bring anarchy across the land.
//
WRITE MYSELF OUT OF THE HISTORY BOOKS
//
Aegon learned, from an early age, whom the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms truly was.
An argument could be made for his elder half-sister, the Realm’s Delight, perhaps. But most would unanimously agree, upon one mere look at her eldest son, that it was divine will for her line to rule, and her eldest specifically. Soren was a glorious child— the most beautiful thing Aegon had ever seen, and though he may only admit it in the privacy of his own mind, that included his beloved Sunfyre.
He was six namedays old when the Princess Rheanyra, heir to the Iron Throne, returned from Dragonstone after the birth of her youngest son. That was the first time he could remember laying eyes upon his eldest nephew, or at least the first of his living memory. Soren had been born in the Red Keep, but Aegon had been so young then, he couldn’t remember much of the boy before he and his family left for their ancestral home.
He arrived on dragonback, to Aegon’s endless jealousy. Aegon had never ridden a dragon before. In fact, he had never even seen one in the sky. His own Sunfyre was much too small to carry him, and had lived in the Dragon Pit his entire life.
The majestic Syrax came barrelling out of the clouds with a magnificent roar, heralding a flock of dragons as the Realm’s Delight and her family returned to the capital. Aemond, who had been clutching his hand at his side and talking his ear off about dragons all morning, had been struck silent by the sight. Aegon didn’t blame him. The might of their family was truly undeniable, their power unquestionable. Seasmoke and Meleys broke through the cloud bank following Syrax, along with a much smaller form he could barely even see, and for a moment Aegon thought that was all of them, before a massive shadow descended out of them. Aemond let out a cry of delight— or perhaps fear— as the great Vaghar descended upon King’s Landing.
It was some time before the heir and her family made it to the Red Keep. Aegon could not remember much of his half-sister; she’d left before the birth of her second son, and all Aegon could recall was her long, winding silver-white hair, so different from his own mother’s. He therefore couldn’t be sure if she’d changed much in the passing years, but if she had, she was no less resplendent for it.
She did not stand on ceremony, and neither did the king. She waited for no announcement or procession to waltz up to the throne, youngest child in hand, and bequeath the King his youngest grandchild. The whole court was avidly watching the heartwarming scene of a daughter introducing her child to her father, but Aegon had eyes for none of it.
Ser Laenor, his parents, and sister, entered after her with little fanfare, announced belatedly by the flustered herald. In the Prince Consort’s arms was their middle son, Jacaerys, barely more than a single nameday old, already with a head of curly silver hair to match his father. And by his side, so solemn and mature despite his mere four namedays, was Rheanyra’s heir.
Aegon had been besotted from the moment he’d laid eyes on him, even if he had yet to realize it at the time.
Those heavenly eyes scanned the room, before finally coming to rest upon him. Aegon’s breath caught in his throat. He felt pinned in place, by those unearthly eyes. They said their striking cerulean color was given to him by the late Aemma Arryn, but Aegon couldn’t fathom the late queen having eyes that looked like a god’s.
“My dear, I am so happy to see you return,” his father’s voice drew him out of those endless depths, and he turned to see the king grace his half-sister with a look of adoration he’d never turn towards Aegon.
“It is good to see you too, father,” Rheanyra returned, voice heavy with something Aegon couldn’t understand. She laid a dainty hand against the king’s, then turned around. “Soren, come greet the king.”
The young prince moved with far more grace than his four namedays would suggest. He held himself as royalty should; unflinching under the scrutinizing gazes of the lords and ladies of the land, of the wary eye of Aegon’s grandsire, even under the eyes of the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Soren looked upon them all with those godly eyes, and dismissed them as if they were naught but mere mortals and he was the Seven himself, walking among them.
“Grandfather,” he intoned, with a deferential bow. His voice was high and as clear as a bell.
“Come closer, sweet child,” said Aegon’s father, in a softer tone than he’d ever heard. He leaned forward on his throne with eager eyes. “Let me look upon you; it’s been so long since I’ve seen you last, and my eyes aren’t what they used to be.”
Dutifully, Soren crossed the last few paces to the stairs of the throne, and ascended towards his grandfather’s seat. King Viserys reached a hand between them, his ungloved one, and gently caressed the boy’s cheek. Soren’s expression did not change, but the King looked a mere moment away from tears. He thumbed gently beneath those blessed eyes, before his hand fell to cup his small chin.
“You’ve grown so much,” the King remarked, longing and wistfulness clear in his tone. “Why, look how lovely you are… you look so much like my father, and your hair, I haven’t seen hair so pale since Uncle Aemon—ah— and there’s my brother’s nose, I think. And those eyes… yes… those are my Aemma’s eyes.”
Soren took such intense scrutiny with nary a grimace of discomfort, merely blinking those luminous, mercurial eyes.
His hand fell away as he leaned back in his chair, turning an adoring look towards his eldest daughter. “I haven’t seen such a beautiful child since yourself, dear Rhaenyra.”
There’s a quiet clink from behind Aegon. He glanced back to see his mother standing straight and tall with a stoic expression; her hands were clasped in front of her, where her bracelets rustled against each other as she dug bloody lines into her fingers. Aegon quickly turned away.
Rhaenyra chuckled. “You flatter me, father.”
“Well they don’t call you the Realm’s Delight for nothing, you know!” Viserys chortled, then turned back towards his eldest grandson. The mirth left him, something solemn growing in them as he said, to Soren; “You are a chip off your mother’s shoulder, the blood of Old Valyria— of our family— runs fine and true through your veins… truly, you are the most radiant prince this land has ever seen.”
//
Mother and grandfather were arguing in low, furtive tones in the great room beyond, heated words too quick for Aegon to follow. They don’t seem to notice anything beyond each other, including the squalling sounds of Aemon and Haelena kicking up a fuss in the nursery. Aegon used the distraction to slip out of mother’s rooms, wandering the Keep free from the eyes of his nursemaids. Not that Aegon, at six namedays, knew much about navigating such a colossal construction. He’s lost within minutes, foreign statues and tapestries awaiting him at every turn, and only the distant murmur of voices for company. He didn’t worry terribly about his predicament; mother will send someone after him soon enough, else the whole castle will be up in a frenzy looking for him.
As he crossed along a stone archway, he chanced a glance at the gardens below and gasped.
Aegon ran for the stairs, appearing at the mouth of the courtyard before he could think better of it. A mix of excitement and shyness had him rooted to the spot; Soren lay relaxed at the base of a weirwood tree, head pillowed by the gnarled roots as a dragon lay coiled around him. The great beast was easily the size of a small pony, its head nearly too big for Soren’s lap. In the light of the godswood, the dragon gleamed like mother-of-pearl. It was of a size with Sunfyre, with pale opalescent scales across its body, and hints of cerulean tipped at the horns. As the dragon snuffled and slithered along the length of the boy’s body, Aegon could see the membranes of its wings had a soft pink sheen.
“Surely you’re not scared of dragons are you, Prince Aegon?”
Aegon startled at the unexpected teasing. Then he pouted ferociously once he clumsily parsed through the words. Soren spoke like a Maester, or a Septa, or even Grandfather; even if his voice was clear and high and that of a child’s, his inflection was precise. Aegon, a full two namedays older than him, still had trouble pronouncing bigger words, and hadn’t quite grown out of his lisp.
“Of course I’m not scared!” He insisted, stomping over before his fears could overwhelm him.
Soren glanced up at him through a fan of milk-pale lashes; the blue beneath seemed to seize right at Aegon’s very soul. “Then would you like to say hello?”
Aegon pursed his lips as he warily crept closer, slinking around the great bulk of the dragon to get a better look at its face. One slitted aqua eye slid open to glance at him balefully, before the opaque membrane slipped across it and the lid closed shut as the white dragon dismissed him as inconsequential and returned to snuggling its host. Soren chuckled at its antics.
“This is Sylveon,” he announced, petting its snout. “She’s four years-old, just like me.”
Aegon’s eyes widened. Sunfyre was even older than Aegon, and yet he was of a size with Sylveon! She was already so much bigger than Sunfyre! Was it because she was a female dragon? Did they grow faster than male dragons? Was there a difference? How was it even possible to tell? Aegon had no idea, as the only other dragon he’s ever encountered in living memory was Dreamfyre, and even then it was from a safe distance.
“She’s so beautiful,” Aegon praised, truly meaning it. He was partial to his own Sunfyre, of course, but he could admire a beautiful dragon when he saw one.
Soren preened. “Isn’t she?” He agreed readily. “Mother says she’s probably from one of Dreamfyre’s clutches with Quicksilver, or maybe even Silverwing, because she also says dragons alternate genders.”
Aegon blinked rapidly, not entirely following Soren’s response. Some of the words were a little too big and too fast for him, but he’s not about to admit that aloud to his younger nephew.
What he did understand, was that Soren was saying Sylveon came from Dreamfyre. Aegon believed it, as that shimmering pastel color palette was only something he’d seen on Dreamfyre. It was nothing like Sunfyre, who was a very bright gold-orange.
Before he could formulate a response, Soren was chuckling again. “They say Targaryen’s are more god than mortal, more dragon than man. Wouldn’t it be funny if we could do the same? Would it make succession issues easier or more complicated, I wonder?”
Aegon blinked some more. Now Soren had truly lost him.
Luckily, Soren didn’t seem to be waiting for a response. He leaned forward, looking up at Aegon with gleaming eyes. “What about Sunfyre? What color is he? I haven’t seen him yet.”
“He’s gold!” Aegon burst out. “The brightest gold! The prettiest gold ever! Sylveon might be pretty, but so is Sunfyre!”
He half-expected Soren to take offense to this, insisting his Sylveon was indeed the more beautiful of the two. But Soren just smiled. “Of course he is! He’s from Syrax’s clutch, and she’s the most lovely dragon in the skies!”
Aegon gaped at him. “He— He is?” He asked, flustered. He’d never known that.
“Yes. Mother said Syrax’s first mating only produced one egg. She was very young at the time, so that was probably why. Given the timing, the sire was probably Caraxes.” For some reason, this caused Soren to smirk, as if he knew something funny Aegon didn’t. He didn’t say anything else on the matter though. “Where is Sunfyre? Can I see him?”
Aegon’s cheer evaporated on the spot. “Mother said dragon’s don’t belong in the castle.” Aegon said, glumly. “They might bite or burn something.”
Soren stared at him for a long moment. The hand that was absently petting Sylveon’s snout stopped abruptly, causing the dragon to glance up at him with an annoyed look.
“So where is he?”
Aegon shrugged, looking down at his feet as he picked at the hem of his tunic. “He’s in the Dragon Pit.”
Soren gave one final pat to Sylveon, before standing up abruptly. The dragon groused, but slid off him. He brushed off his pants, then looked up at Aegon. “That won’t do at all! Let’s go find my mother or father; we’ll need an escort to go see him.”
Aegon gaped at him, jaw nearly at the floor. “Right— right now?”
“Why not?” Replied Soren, in the glib and unaffected tone of a prince who has never been denied anything in his life.
Stunned, Aegon could do nothing but follow.
//
Soren’s stay in the capital turned a new page in Aegon’s life.
He was no longer lonely and bored, whittling his days away without much in the way of company besides his squalling siblings. Apparently it was uncouth for Targaryen’s to mingle with the blood of the Andals. In reality, as Aegon would find out much later, his mother (or grandfather) simply didn’t want him associating with other houses that may try to influence him untowardly. In theory, this meant no potential brides were thrust his way under the pretext of innocent playmates, and no houses could try to curry favor for lands or treaties through boyhood friendships. In practice, this meant Aegon was mostly alone.
But Soren was not some noble’s first born son, pushed into his orbit to meddle with the affairs of the royal family. Soren was the heir apparent, the Prince in line for the throne. As much as his mother might try to find increasingly convoluted ways to keep them apart, Aegon’s father would never deny them the opportunity to play. In fact, King Viserys rather blatantly encouraged it. Why, they were so similar in age, and Soren was already such a bright boy, there was no reason to keep their lessons apart. They both even had dragons of a similar age, and would need the same instruction on how to handle them.
Lessons Aegon was forced to drag himself through alone became exciting new opportunities to play pranks or giggle behind the Maester’s back. Afternoons spent cooped up in his rooms with only babies for company became hours of exploring the winding corridors of the Red Keep with Soren, their frantic minders chasing them down. And any moment of free time was spent in the godswood, the only open space in the Red Keep big enough to house two growing dragons.
On Dragonstone, Soren’s Sylveon spent most of her time flying free about the island, hunting where she liked and napping along the cresting cliffs, or even on occasion on a turret or two. Dragonstone apparently had many large balconies and open terraces, where she could land and wander inside to find her rider. Soren’s room at Dragonstone even had one such terrace, that he would often keep open despite the cold, so Sylveon could come to him whenever she liked.
Aegon was endlessly jealous.
Sunfyre has always been a Pit dragon— a young one, but one not born from his cradle nonetheless. He’d been too young to hear the whispers that had flooded the castle during his earliest years; the poor Prince Aegon with his stone cold cradle egg, unable to hatch a dragon at his birth. The same could not be said for the Crown Prince Soren, who hatched a dragon in his cradle within the first few months of his life. Aegon wouldn’t come to fully understand it for many years, but the rivalry between the two of them had started long before their cradles— long before their very births.
The terrible unease that plagued his mother disappeared once a four-and-seven moons Aegon claimed the young Sunfyre without incident. But as much as his mother was relieved to see her fair-haired half-Andal child claiming his Valyrian birthright, she was not keen on a fire-breathing, flesh-eating creature staying so close to her young son. And so, Sunfyre was made to stay in the Pit for the duration of his young life.
Once Soren found out about that, he demanded immediately for Sunfyre to have the same privileges as his Sylveon— namely, to wander the castle with his master as he pleased, and to be kept in the godswood when that wasn’t possible.
Sunfyre was much happier out in the godswood with Sylveon, but Aegon knew it was only a temporary truce. His mother would never allow it, and whenever Soren and his family traveled back to Dragonstone, Sunfyre would return to the Pit. It was hard not to be jealous of the notion.
It was hard not to be jealous of Soren, across every metric.
He had two parents that doted on him endlessly, spoke High Valyrian to him, and understood what it meant to be a dragonrider. Where Aegon often felt disconnected from his family history and a stranger to his own heritage, Soren had been saturated in the Targaryen family roots. Where Aegon struggled to sit still through lessons and do his sums and memorize his maps, Soren could do it all by rote and rarely ever needed to pay attention. Anything Aegon could do, his four year-old nephew could do it better, despite being two years younger than him.
It would be infuriating, if only Aegon wasn’t so starved for company.
And what pleasant company Soren could be! He shared his mother’s sweet tooth, and they’d made a game of dodging their nannies to sneak into the kitchens for extra helpings of lemon cake. Soren had charmed the entire staff within minutes of meeting them, and now they always kept sweets around for them and gamely hid them from their minders, so long as they stayed out of the way and didn’t cause trouble. And everyday they’d run around the godswood with their dragons, and climb trees or play fight with sticks. Soren never got in any trouble for any of it, not like Aegon did.
Soren was even the reason Aegon’s father even looked at him or acknowledged his presence beyond a few words and a pat on the head.
Soren was the apple of the King’s eye, just like his mother, the Realm’s Delight. Father had christened Soren the Radiant Prince, and swept him (and by consequence Aegon, who was never very far from Soren) off for lessons on old Valyria. Nothing excited Father like Valyrian history, and as it turned out, Soren was an eager and already well-versed student on the matter. Occasionally he would spout a fact that had Father surprised, and Father would ask where Soren learned that. Soren would, without fail, reply with the name of Aegon’s Uncle. And, without fail, Father’s eyes would soften with something akin to longing, and he’d give them both a pat on the head, and continue on with his lesson.
Aegon didn’t really understand it, but he was too pleased by the sudden turn in his life to question it.
Truth be told, there was a great deal that Aegon, in his youth, did not question or understand.
As he grew older, threats of war and politics and treason would try to turn those idyllic days into blemished ash; yet in his memory, they remained splendid and ephemeral. Starting from those very young years, his time with the Radiant Prince always filled him with joy.
//
“You can’t go!” A young Aegon cried, as he stumbled into the library.
Framed in a beam of spectacular sunlight, when Soren’s eyes lifted from his book to him, Aegon swore he could see through them into the heavens. His breath momentarily caught, and he forgot what he was so upset about.
Then Soren closed the tome in front of him, causing a cloud of dust to rise into the air and obscure the visage, and Aegon remembered again.
He rounded the table on stumbling feet, nearly crashing into Soren as he grabbed him by the shoulders and nearly fell into his lap. “You can’t go! I just got you! You can’t leave!”
Soren was as unmoved as ever by his outburst, a calming hand reaching up to brush through his hair. “It’s not up to me, Egg. Mother says it's time to return to Dragonstone.”
The thought was unfathomable to him. He simply could not accept it. His very best friend, his most precious person in the whole world, was leaving. What would his life be like without Soren? He could scarcely imagine. Surely he’d lived plenty of days without the other boy’s company, but to go back to that was incomprehensible. Soren could not leave, and that was the end of it. Aegon was a Prince. Everyone had to listen and obey him!
But Soren was a Prince himself, and further still, the son of the Crowned Heir. If Aegon’s half-sister willed their departure, Soren must heed her command.
“You can’t leave me,” Aegon said anyway, stubborn as ever. “Who will I play with once you're gone?”
“What about your brother and sister?”
Aegon turned his nose up. “They’re just babies!”
“Helaena is only a few moons younger than me,” Soren remarked.
Aegon scowled. That seemed impossible, but he knew it to be true. But Soren did not act like a boy of a mere four namedays— everyone said so, from the Maesters to his father, the King himself.
Aegon pulled frantically at the boy’s tunic. “And what of Sunfyre? How will you see him grow? How will we race against each other, like you promised?”
Soren gently pried Aegon’s hands from his shirt. “I’ll be back, Egg. It won’t be forever. Maybe when I return, our dragons will actually be big enough for racing!”
A moon or several moons, it mattered not to Aegon. Even a few days without Soren’s presence will feel like an eternity. The weeks would feel like years. And the thought of actual years felt unbearable.
His eyes stung as he thought on it. He has felt alone all his life, and finally there was someone else whom he could share his burdens with. He doesn’t want to go back to that interminable loneliness.
“Please don’t go,” he sniffled. He did not cry, as Princes do not cry, but his eyes burned nonetheless.
Soren sighed. “It’s not up to me, Egg.” He patted at Aegon’s cheeks, where no doubt his skin was turning a blotchy red. “Why don’t I write you while I’m gone?”
A ruddy flush crawled up Aegon’s neck. He was not very good with his letters yet. The Maester was always reprimanding him for it. But Soren knew this already, as he’s had lessons with Aegon for the entire time he’s been in the Red Keep.
“I don’t— I don’t know if I can write back,” Aegon confessed, fretfully.
Soren just smiled at him. “All the more reason to work hard and learn your letters then, hm?”
Easy for Soren to say! He never has difficulty learning anything! And he can sit in a hot, stuffy classroom for hours without ever once feeling bored! It takes all of Aegon’s strength just to confine himself to a chair on some days, let alone actually listen to the lecture.
Nonetheless, a stalwart determination overtook him. It would be wretched and awful to be separated from Soren for any given amount of time, but it would be interminably worse to not get to speak to him at all. If that must mean he finally learned his letters, then so be it.
Aegon pouted up at his young nephew, currently taller than him given his position seated on a chair. “I’ll write all about Sunfyre’s growth to you every day, so you must do the same for me!”
Soren seemed amused, but nodded along gamely. “Alright. I’ll write to you about Sylveon, and all the other dragons on Dragonstone. There’s quite a few unclaimed ones, as you know.”
Aegon perked up at the thought. He only knew a few of the names of the dragons currently on Dragonstone, just the ones like Silverwing and Vermithor that were famous throughout the land. And he knew Aemond would be brimming with excitement to hear all about dragons. If Aegon could get good enough with his reading to read Soren’s letters to him, he’d be very happy indeed. Talking about dragons was the only time he cared about spending time with Aemond.
“You must write every day,” insisted Aegon, chin wobbling. “And I’ll do the same.”
Soren raised a brow. “Every day? That’s a lot of letters, Aegon. Are you sure you can handle that?”
He nodded quickly, once again grasping at the sleeve’s of Soren’s tunic. “Yes! I can’t let you forget about me once you go home to all your dragons!”
Soren tugged back at his own sleeve, teasing, “How could I possibly forget a Prince of the realm? And my very own Uncle?”
Aegon stubbornly did not respond, staring up at him with a jutting lower lip.
Soren sighed, releasing his grip. “Very well. I’ll do it, but if it’s every day, don’t expect the letters to be very long.”
Aegon brightened. That was fine with him! He wouldn’t be able to write much either. Currently, he would need the Maester’s help to get past writing his own name and basic pleasantries.
“Yes! It’s a promise!”
Soren tilted his head, considering. Then he held out his hand again, but this time did not move to grasp at Aegon. Instead he held it out in a queer way, with all his fingers curled into a loose fist, save for his little finger, which was crooked towards Aegon. Aegon stared at it curiously.
“You said it was a promise, didn’t you?” Soren urged.
Aegon looked at him in confusion.
His younger nephew sighed, then used his other hand to pull one of Aegon’s away from his tunic, holding it out next to his own. “You do it, too,” Soren told him, somewhat impatiently.
Aegon crooked his hand in a similar fashion. His breath caught when Soren wrapped his little finger around Aegon’s, and gave it a tiny squeeze.
“There,” said Soren, leaning back. “Now it’s a pinky promise.”
Aegon had never heard of such a thing. “Pinky promise,” he repeated, slow and tentative.
Soren did not immediately unwrap their fingers, letting them hover aloft, entwined together.
“Yep. It’s the most solemn of vows, you see.” If Aegon had looked up in that moment, he would have noticed the teasing expression on his young nephew’s face. As it stood, his wide eyes were still focused on their hands. “The sacred pinky promise. It means I’ll never forget you, even if we’re apart, and be your friend forever.”
“Forever?” Aegon breathed, eyes growing wider.
Soren smiled. “Yes— but it means you promise to do the same for me. Do you?”
He finally looked up from their joined hands. He beamed up at Soren eagerly. “Yes! We’ll be friends, forever! Nothing will pull us apart!”
Soren’s smile grew a bit hard to understand. Aegon was too young to understand sorrow or regret when he saw it.
“It’s a promise, then.”
//
Soren felt a bit bad about so blatantly manipulating his uncle’s innocent affection towards him, but it couldn’t be helped, truly. He had to use every advantage he could, in any manner possible.
Such was the ways of this world.
He collapsed back onto his bed with a sigh, staring up at the ceiling with a resigned look.
“It would be easier to just crush them all,” he said, to his empty room, holding his hand aloft. His Limitless technique gathered at the tip of his finger, an unholy blue casting haunting shadows about the room.
He could never quite tell if he hated this new world he’d been born into, or if he’d merely grown to stoically accept it. In the same manner, he could never decide if he missed his old world, or was happy to be rid of it. This new, much-less advanced society was not without its own power struggles, and Soren had once more been born right into the thick of it. But despite the technological inconveniences and the appalling lack of indoor cooling, it felt less daunting than his last life.
He’s not even sure he’d trade this life for his old one.
And not just because he got to have his very own dragon in this one.
Soren might have been born into a great and storied house, just as he had the Gojo clan, but he did not feel as lonely as he had in his last life. This was not a cold, distant family looking at him as the Honored One, for all that it should be.
His mother was warm and loving, and looked upon him with such affection it took his breath away sometimes. She would move the stars and the heavens for him, would tear apart the realm for his birthright, would give him the world if he asked. He’d never experienced anything like it before. Rhaenyra Targaryen loved him with an unconditional fierceness he scarcely knew what to do with. She was a Princess of the realm, a lady of noble birth, but she had never once passed him off to a handmaid for rearing. He was the apple of her eye— as all her children were— and she made no secret of it.
At first, Soren had assumed her affection stemmed from the romantic sentiment she held for his ‘uncle’, the man who apparently named him. Soren had been told the Rogue Prince had chosen his name, from an ancient book on Valyrian mages (were Valyrians fans of Fire Emblem? He hoped some other poor isekai’d schmuck had gone through all the games and named shit after them just to fuck with people) and had even returned from exile and reconciled with his brother to return for Soren. With his adult prescience, Soren was well aware this was not the attitude any normal uncle would have towards a distant nephew, just as he was well aware that the looks his mother and the man shared were not the usual sort between niece and uncle. This was also, unfortunately, how he learned about the Valyrian predilection for marrying close family members.
The Gojo clan had done something similar— in the same manner as the Targaryens, they had a technique inherent to genetics they wished to preserve— but the closest he’d ever heard of was third cousins. Certainly not nieces and uncles, or even siblings.
Fortunately for him, all his siblings were other boys, so he didn’t have to worry about being shackled to his sister of all things. Though the thought of having siblings at all was still mystifying to him.
And not only did he have little brothers— the adorable Jace who now toddled after him, and the squishy little dumpling Luke that couldn’t quite speak yet but would grow up knowing every Star Wars reference Soren could throw at him— but he also had a mother and father (and not-father of an Uncle) who were shockingly present in his life. Even after five years now, it still took some getting used to.
Laenor loved to take him out to sea with him, and pour over maps and answer all of Soren’s geography questions. There was no way the Velaryon Heir was unaware that Soren was not of his own blood, yet that never stopped him from enthusiastically fulfilling the role of father. He treated Soren as he did his other sons, although to be fair, it was a bit up to speculation whether those two were Laenor’s blood either. (That, too, was information about his family he would have rather lived in ignorance of, but unfortunately he was too observant to miss the signs of whatever weird triad those three had going on.)
His mother was a constant and doting presence in his life too, always engaged in his daily affairs despite the gravity of her own. She insisted the whole family dine together for at least one meal, and sought him out several times during the day besides. She always seemed genuinely interested in not just the progression of his studies, but his interests and idle thoughts. Soren honestly didn’t know what to make of it. No one had ever cared that much about Soren’s thoughts or opinions in his last life; certainly not his parents, but not even the handful of friends he’d collected over the years.
And then there was Daemon Targaryen, the dastardly Rogue Prince, with a reputation as infamous as Soren’s was in his last. Him, he knew what to make of even less.
In truth, the lengths Daemon was willing to go for his family, and Soren specifically, made him deeply uncomfortable. He had never had someone so steadfastly loyal to him, someone who would move the heavens and earth to be in his life. He supposed there had been Yuuta, who had always looked at him like he’d hung the moon and the stars in the sky, but that had made sense to Soren. Yuuta had been his student, and Soren had saved his life. Of course he’d be loyal to him.
But he’d never done anything for Daemon, other than exist. And constantly surprise him in the training yards. And badger him about learning the super cool magical history of their dragon-riding family.
Yet Daemon had turned his entire life around for Soren. His feelings for Rhaenyra probably played no small part in that, but Soren’s birth had been the catalyst for it nonetheless.
Soren had been born into yet another great house mired in dynasty and legacy, yes, but never had he felt so loved.
Was it any real wonder, that there were no lengths he wouldn’t cross to ensure their safety?
In that regard, he could understand Daemon very well.
There was a knock on the door to his chambers. Soren had sensed the maid nearing with his Six Eyes, and had already dismissed the shimmering blue orb of his Limitless cursed technique in favor of donning a pair of slippers and heading for the door.
“Oh! My Prince, you’re awake already!” The maid remarked, dipping into a curtsy.
Soren dismissed the niceties, celestial eyes zeroing in on the parchment in her hand. “Is that a letter for me?”
“Yes, indeed,” she held it out with reverence, for it bore the seal of the King itself.
Aegon had, indeed, kept true to his word and wrote Soren every day. Even with the child’s dogged determination, such a feat was a bit logistically impossible after so many moons, and within the first few months Aegon’s mother had tried to put a stop to the correspondence, insisting it was a waste of ravens. So Soren had wrote to the King personally, and the old man had been so delighted to hear of his grandson and son’s friendship he’d assigned a dedicated raven to the task. Now Aegon collected his daily notes onto a single parchment, that the raven flew to Dragonstone once a month.
The communications itself were hardly anything to write home about. Aegon’s scratchy writing held the idle, sometimes nonsensical, musings of a child. Mostly he wrote of Sunfyre, or occasionally his siblings.
Soren had only intended to befriend the young Prince in an effort to throw a wrench in the Hightowers’ plans, but over time, he found himself unwillingly charmed by the child.
It was hard to dislike him, when he approached their friendship so earnestly. Harder still to consider him an enemy, as his Andal family was attempting to forge him into. Soren did not find that particularly threatening.
If anything, Soren pitied poor Aegon for that. To be forced into the role of the enemy of the Honored One… it was not a fate he’d wish on a little child like Aegon.
Soren took the letter, making to retreat back into his rooms to read them in comfort, when the maid stopped him.
“Prince Soren, your mother also wished to relay that she is breaking her fast in her solar, if you would be so kind as to join her.”
Soren tucked the letter away with a genial shrug. It was no great hardship, to eat breakfast with the mother that raised him with such tender love and care, even if he had been eager to read through Sunfyre’s shenanigans of the month.
He had no need for the maid’s guidance, having long since memorized the layout of the keep, but allowed her to lead him through the halls nonetheless. His mother had just made up a plate for herself when they entered; the room was quite dim for the hour, the great bay windows swathed by gauzy curtains to tame the hazy morning light. His family had realized early on that Soren’s eyes were sensitive to light, and went to no small lengths to ensure his comfort. Soren always tried to insist it was no real hardship for him— his reversed cursed technique could easily heal the worst of his headaches— but his mother always insisted.
Soren clicked his tongue, heading immediately towards one of the windows to throw the curtains open.
“Growing babies need sunlight, you know,” he told her, with a dip of his head towards Luke’s bassinet.
“A few more hours without won’t inconvenience him much.” Rhaenyra chuckled in response, laying a gentle hand over the fuzz of white-blonde hair growing over the sleeping babe’s head.
Soren wandered over to peer into it himself. His littlest brother still had the soft, pudgy, and round appearance of a mochi ball, but if himself and Jace were any indication, he’d grow to be a very handsome child. He’d expect nothing less from a child of the Realm’s Delight. He reached a hand in to poke his nose, just to watch him scrunch it up.
“Enough of that,” Rhaenyra swatted his hand away. “You don’t want to wake him before he’s ready.”
Soren laughed. “Never tickle a sleeping dragon.” He agreed, even if he knew Rhaenyra would not get the reference. Nonetheless, aside from being the motto of a fictional magical school from a book that doesn’t exist in this world, it was fairly sound advice for a place that has living dragons roaming about.
“Precisely,” Rhaenyra nodded in satisfaction. “Did Daemon teach you that?”
“No, it just seems like good advice.” He replied, slipping into the seat next to her. “Where’s Jace?”
“Still sleeping in. I’m loathe to wake him early at this age. Speaking of, the maid didn’t wake you, did she? I told her to leave the letter and leave you be if you were still asleep.”
Soren shook his head, reaching for a slice of lemon cake. Rhaenyra didn’t stop him. It was true he adored his mother, but he had ulterior motives for preferring to dine with her over the other parental figures in his life; she was the only one who shared his exorbitant sweet tooth and was willing to let him eat sweets for every meal.
“I was already awake, so I’d figured I’d join you if no one else was.” He popped the lemon cake in his mouth, devouring it within a few bites.
“I see,” Rhaenyra returned, looking pleased. She reached over to ruffle his hair. “You didn’t want your mother to dine alone, hm? What a sweet child you are.”
Soren bore the doting with more pleasure than he’d admit. Rhaenyra had never hesitated to show forms of physical affection towards him; yet another novelty in this life he wasn’t used to.
“Where’s Skywalker?” He asked, looking around the room.
Luke’s dragon was never far from the babe, and at a year old, wasn’t big enough to fly far from the castle.
Soren named it, of course, much to the bemusement of all the adults. It was a perfectly reasonable name, in light of the standard dragon naming conventions that created Sunfyre, Dreamfyre, and Silverwing, but what confused them was mainly Soren’s insistence on it. They simply didn’t understand. They couldn’t have a Luke and not a Skywalker.
Rhaenyra had already axed his first choice for his own dragon, which was Blue Eyes White Dragon, as both too long and pedantic, but she’d caved on Sylveon, which had sounded Valyrian enough to pass muster. If it also happened to be the name of one of his favorite Eevee evolutions, well, no one had to know. He’d wanted to follow a similar pattern for little Jace’s dragon, but Daemon had named him Vermax before Soren could argue for Leafeon.
“Nesting by the fire in his chambers, the lazy thing.” Rhaenyra snorted. “But I suppose that’s better than the chaos Vermax and Sylveon cause.”
“Sylveon doesn’t cause trouble, that’s all Vermax!” Soren insisted, in defense of his dragon.
He was likely biased, of course. In his eyes, his dragon could do no wrong. The fact he had a dragon at all was still too cool for him to get over, even after years of accepting the fact he’d been born into a magical family that rode them. He couldn’t wait for the day she was big enough for him to ride on his own.
Speaking of that…
“She’s just bored, mother. I’m sure it must be terribly difficult to confine herself to one island, when she was born to fly the world.”
Rhaenyra just gave him an unimpressed look. “I know what you’re trying to do here, young man, and the answer is still no. If you want a ride on dragonback, ask your father or your Uncle, or wait until I have time later to give you one on Syrax.”
“How about we take a flight to King’s Landing, then?” He needled.
Rhaenyra looked surprised. “You wish to go to King’s Landing? Whatever for?”
“It’s been too long since your last visit. It would be good to remind the Capital of who the Heir to the Iron Throne really is, lest they get too complacent.”
Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed. “And your correspondence with a certain Prince has nothing to do with it?”
Soren laughed. “Of course it does! I must make sure our friendship remains as steadfast as ever, so he never wishes to challenge for the throne.”
“Aegon is just a little boy,” Rhaenyra said, exasperated. “He is of no challenge; I am a woman grown, allied to a great house, with several heirs to succeed me. I see Daemon has been filling your head with ideas again— you are just a boy yourself, you shouldn’t be thinking of such things.”
“My Uncle has the right of it— and I’d trust his judgment, as he was there to witness the last time a woman grown, allied to a great house, with an heir to succeed her, was spurned by the Seven Kingdoms.” Soren pointed out.
“That was different. There is no vote involved here, the decision has already been made.” Rhaenyra denied, steadfast.
Soren merely sighed. As it stood now, it would be impossible to change Rhaenyra’s mind.
Her relationship with the Queen Alicent confounded him on the best of days, for he knew they had been close once, but now refused to stay in the same room as each other or exchange anything more than vague pleasantries. Yet despite that, Rhaenyra persisted in believing the best in the Queen. He’d never spent much time with her himself, but he’d spent an awful lot of time mucking about the Red Keep with Egg in tow. Egg had been too young to fully understand the whispers of the serving staff, but Soren had not been. Queen Alicent might hold some small favor for Rhaenyra still, but the same could not be said of her Andal family.
Rhaenyra reached out again, to brush the hair away from his forehead. “And you are here now, my dear Radiant Prince. Even the King himself has proclaimed his favor to you. None could deny your right to the throne.”
Yes, precisely. Soren was here. Born in this world, with all this power at his fingertips, and with something of his own to protect. He had no intention of letting his family be dragged into a war of succession.
“All the more reason to go.” Soren insisted. “It will be my seat one day, too. I cannot know it from a distance.”
Rhaenyra gave a sigh of her own, begrudgingly conceding his point as she leaned back in her chair.
Soren understood her displeasure; Dragonstone was simply so comfortable, the easy days spent squirreled away on their own little island, away from court gossip and the confines of the capital, was difficult to give up. And it’s not as if he truly wanted the throne himself— he was no stranger to the burden of responsibility, to the consuming weight of inconceivable power and authority— but he understood his duty as her eldest son. Hiding away would do them no good.
And, truth be told, he rather was looking forward to seeing Egg again. Perhaps they’d finally be of a similar height.
“Very well,” Rhaenyra agreed, brow pinched. “But it will be a short visit. We’ll pack light and fly on Syrax—
Soren opened his mouth to protest.
“Sylveon may accompany us, but you are not to ride her under any circumstances.” Rhaenyra finished, with a severe look. “She might be big enough, but she is too young to understand how to keep her rider safe. Have I made myself clear, Soren?”
Soren refrained from rolling his eyes. It wouldn’t do him any good to mention he could easily fly himself with his cursed technique. “Yes, mother.”
“Then I shall write to the King, and we will set off within a sennight.”
He touched the letter in his pocket. Aegon will be delightedly surprised to be expecting a letter, only to have him arrive in person instead. His mother, probably not so much.