Chapter Text
To be honest, dying and being reborn as a Targaryen prince was not in his plans. Having lived one life was enough for him; another was absolutely unnecessary.
But for Harry Potter, things had never been that simple since he was just a year old. After all, not every one-year-old is hunted by a powerful Dark Lord.
Ha! He had always found it funny that Voldemort had fallen to his own arrogance, and though he'd deny it, the man was afraid. Otherwise, why would he go to kill a baby in its crib?
But back to the topic of his reincarnation. Harry Potter had lived about twenty years and died when he faced a Dark Lord who had taken control of countries in Central Europe. In the end, he managed to defeat him, but the bastard had mortally wounded Harry, causing his death. But Harry couldn't complain; he died as what he had been for almost his entire life: a warrior.
The only thing he regretted was not saying a proper goodbye to his wife. He missed her like hell. Gabrielle must have been furious.
Now, in this life, he had been born as the firstborn son of Prince Daemon Targaryen and his wife Rhea Royce—a prince by birth, heir to Runestone, destined to become the Lord of one of the prominent Houses of the Vale.
However, Harry was completely uninterested in all that. He was not willing to rot away as the lord of a noble house; he didn't do it in his previous life, much less in this one.
Harrison Targaryen. That's what his mother had named him, much to his father's displeasure. Daemon had not been present on the day of his birth, nor in the days that followed. That was the name he had in this life, and ironically, his mother called him Harry most of the time, which was more than fine. In this life, he had the chance to grow up at least with his mother, who, while she hated his father Daemon, always showed affection to her son. And Harry loved her with all his heart. She was a strong woman with an iron will. He didn't understand Daemon; maybe Rhea wasn't Valyrian, but she was a Visenya without Valyrian blood.
He sighed as he meditated. His father, Daemon, had never truly known him. They say that when he deigned to come see him for the first time, he made a face upon seeing that the only Valyrian thing about him was a silver streak. His dark hair, like a raven's wings, and his green eyes disappointed the Rogue Prince.
"I see none of my blood here," was what he said, and he left for Dragonstone.
Perhaps, if he didn't have the knowledge and years of experience he possessed, Harry might have felt hurt, but he only felt indifference toward the Targaryen prince who was his progenitor.
Opening his eyes, he stood up, feeling the breeze brush against his face.
"I should go back; Mother will worry," Harry thought. The Isle of Faces was an interesting place, brimming with ancient magic. He looked at the sky; there were some clouds, no sign of rain. "Nice weather."
A raven cawed. Harry observed it; it was on the branch of one of the trees. This raven was peculiar; it had a third eye.
"Of course. I'll see you later."
Crack!
With the sound of a crack, Harry disappeared from there, reappearing in his chambers.
Harrison Targaryen, fourteen namedays old, was an atypical Targaryen prince. His Valyrian ancestry was barely noticeable in his appearance: dark hair, green eyes, and pale skin. And with an intelligence and knowledge beyond the ordinary since he was very young.
Many called him the Bronze Prince, others the Dark Prince. Some even bolder ones called him the Half-blood Prince. They were only whispers; no one dared say it in his presence. They used to, when they considered him weak. They had learned the hard way not to mess with him.
He was a prodigy with the sword, sweeping away every opponent they put in front of him. He earned his reputation as "the Bloody" because he showed no mercy, though he hadn't actually killed anyone—just broken bones, so far.
"So, Uncle Viserys is organizing a tournament."
His mother, Rhea, looked at him scrutinizingly.
"You're not going to attend?"
Harry just smiled.
"And you?"
His mother snorted.
"Your dear father will be there; that's reason enough not to go."
Harry chuckled.
"Of course you'd say that," Harry told his mother, taking a sip of his tea. "I, for my part, will go. After all, it's not every day a tournament is organized for an unborn prince."
"Even with your father there?"
Harry snorted.
"Daemon Targaryen means nothing to me, Mother. You know that well."
Rhea nodded, approval in her eyes. It was strange to see a mother approve of her son not loving his father... curious.
"Alright," said Harry, getting up from his seat. "I'll get ready to travel to King's Landing."
"Be careful, Harry. The capital is full of snakes that won't hesitate to sink their fangs... try not to let them see your abilities. Magic isn't very loved by the Seven."
Harry gave her a soft smile.
"Don't worry, Mother. I'm very good at keeping my secrets."
Besides his memories from another life, he had also brought with him his magical abilities—not all, but enough to thrive in this world. As far as he knew, he was the most powerful magic user in this world—well, him and a necromancer in the North.
Though he had one major limitation: the fact that he didn't have a wand.
He could Apparate wherever he wanted as long as he had a clear image of his destination; he could summon elements and cast basic spells. But more advanced magic was beyond his reach; without a wand, it was almost impossible.
And unfortunately, he didn't have the skills to create a wand, let alone the ingredients.
But he wasn't complaining. Even though magic here was wilder and purer, so to speak, the other users were very limited. The Warlocks of Asshai were perhaps the only ones who could give him some competition.
He sighed. Truthfully, he didn't care much about the tournament his uncle was organizing. But this served as an excuse to go to the capital. He had put off acquiring a dragon for too long; he would try his luck in the Dragonpit. If not, he would try on Dragonmont at Dragonstone.
When the sun set, Harry felt it was time to begin his journey. Pulling up the hood of his cloak, Harry, in the darkness of the night, disappeared from his chambers and reappeared in King's Landing, Flea Bottom, more specifically. The first thing he felt was the smell of rot, common in the place.
He appeared in one of the many alleys. One of the many vagrants was startled when Harry materialized out of thin air; however, he was drunk, his blurred vision only saw a silhouette covered by a dark cloak.
"Has the Stranger come for me?"
The vagrant's voice was slurred.
Harry just glanced at him sideways, his eyes shining in the shadows of the night, and then left the alley.