Harry's Comet

The Young Prince carried the heavy gravity of his father, Baelor Breakspear, along with the unmistakable, quiet pride of his heritage. He lacked the traditional, ghost-pale hair of the dragonlords; his haie was rich, dark brown, broken only by a single, striking streak of Targaryen silver at his temple. But it was his eyes that drew the gaze of the court — one a deep, grounding brown, the other a sharp, electric Valyrian violet. He was not a cruel man — the realm knew him as a chivalrous, educated knight — but he was sharply perceptive, and he knew exactly why you were in King's Landing.

"You look remarkably regal today, Lady Hightower", Valarr said, stepping onto the sunlit terrace where you stood looking out over the Blackwater Bay. He wore a doublet of dark velvet, the red dragon of his house stitched neatly over his heart. He didn't approach with the cold arrogance of a captor, but with a slight, amused twitch at the corner of his lips. "One might almost think you own the battlements".

You turned slowly, offering him a perfectly executed, smooth curtsy that lacked even a shred of genuine submission. "The battlements belong to the King, Your Grace. I am merely admiring the view. It is much wider than the one from my chambers".

Valarr leaned his forearms against the stone balustrade, looking out at the bay, thour his mismatched eyes remained fixed on your profile. "A subtle complaint, my Lady? I assure you, my grandfather's court is entirely open to you. Provided, of course, your walks don't lead you too close to the harbor where the ships from Tyrosh dock".

A small, genuine smile touched your lips at the sharpness of his wit. He was testing you, as he always did, referencing the exiled Blackfyre loyalists across the Narrow Sea. "The sea air in King's Landing is entirely too foul for my taste, my Prince. I prefer the fresh breeze of Oldtown. But I appreciate your concern for my health".

"Oh, it is not just your health I am concerned with", Valarr murmured, his voice dropping to a lower, more conversational register as he turned his head to face you. The teasing tone in his voice was undeniable, a quiet challenge that had nothing to do with hatred and everything to do with a mutual, dangerous fascination. "My father tells me your house has recently requested a reduction in the Oldtown port tariffs. He asked for my counsel on the matter".

You tilted your head, your eyes locking onto his mismatched ones. "And what did the wise Young Prince advise?".

"I told him that House Hightower is exceptionally prudent", Valarr replied, his lips curving into a soft, ironic smile. "So prudent, in fact, that they might choose to pay the full tariff just to prove how much they love contributing to the royal treasury".

"You are devastatingly generous with my family's gold, Your Grace", you breathed, stepping just an inch closer, your tone a mix of mockery and sharp amusement.

"Only because I know how much you enjoy a challenge, my Lady", he whispered back, his gaze softening with a warmth that completely bypassed his royal duty.

For months, this was your rythm. He did not abuse his power; instead, he used it to draw you out, to force you to match his wit and his intellect. It was a heavy, angsty game of political cat-and-mouse, but beneath the political distrust, a strange, breathless understanding had formed between you. You were both prisoners of your names, playing a part for the realm, and finding the only moments of truth in the sharp, teasing words you traded in the shadows.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a sensory assault of roast meats, heavy spiced wine, and the suffocating warmth of hundreds of bodies packed beneath the high raftered ceiling. King Daeron's court was celebrating the nameday of one of the royal cousins, and the wine flowed with a frantic generosity, as if the realm were collectively trying to drown the lingering memories of the Blackfyre banners.

You sat at the lower end of the high table, dressed in the softest green silk, the bodice embroidered with the silver beacon of your house. It was a calculated choice of attire.

"You are not drinking your wine, my Lady", a quiet, resonant voice noted from behind your shoulder.

You turned your head slightly to find Valarr standing there. He had discarded his formal state velvet for a more tailored, dark charcoal tunic, the three-headed dragon embroidered in subtle, black silk thread over his chest. He looked every bit the chivalrous prince, his posture relaxed, but his mismatched eyes were bright with that familiar, mocking intelligence.

"I prefer to keep my wits about me in King's Landing, my Prince", you replied, your voice a smooth murmur beneath the roat of the feast. "A single cup of your Dornish red might lead me to say something entirely too honest".

Valarr smiled, a genuine, low chuckle that didn't reach the rest of the table. He offered his hand with a flawless, courtly bow. "Then come dance with me. Honesty is far less dangerous when it is whispered to the rhythm of a flut".

The court watched in hushed interest as the Young Prince led the daughter of Oldtown to the center of the hall. The dance was a slow, traditional courtly measure, requiring partners to step close, retreat, and loop around one another without breaking eye contact.

"My father spent the morning discussig the Reach", Valarr murmured as the music brought him close enough for his breath to touch your cheek. His hand on your waist was light, perfectly respectful, yet the heat of it burned through your silk gown. "He thinks your family's sudden enthusiasm for the Crown's grain stores is a sign of true devotion".

"And what does the son think?", you teased, your eyes locking onto his electric violet one, a playful tilt to your lips.

"The son thinks your family is exceptionally clever", Valarr whispered back, his mismatched eyes softening as he spun you gently. "You give us just enough smiles to keep us from looking too closely at your ledgers. It is a marvelous performance. You almost have me fooled".

"Almost?", you stepped closer as the music slowed, your shoulder brushing his chest. "I shall have to try harder then, my Prince. I would hate to disappoint my most attentive audience".

"Oh, you don't disappoint me", he said, his voice suddenly losing its light, teasing edge, dropping into a deeper, more restricted register that made your breath hitch. His hand tightened just a fraction against your waist, pulling you an inch closer than court etiquette strictly allowed. "You frustrate me entirely, but you never disappoint".

The sudden shift from political sparring to raw, unfiltered intimacy hung heavy in the air between you. The angst of your position — the fact that you were a living token of political submission, and he was the prince who could never truly trust your blood — pressed into the space between your chests. You could feel his heartbeat, fast and steady, matching the frantic rhythm of your own pulse.

"You shouldn't say such thing to me, my Prince", you breathed, the playful mask slipping for a fleeting second, revealing the genuine, frightening ache growing in your core. "The court is watching".

"Let them watch", Valarr murmured, his mismatched eyes sweeping over your face with a fierce, quiet intensity that shattered the last of his princely detachment. "They see a Targaryen and an Hightower keeping the peace. They have no idea how difficult you make it".

When the music finally ended, he kissed the back of your hand with a lingering, warm pressure that felt far more like a promise than a formal goodbye. You retreated to your seat with flushing cheeks and a terrifying realization: the verbal armor you had both used to protect yourselves was beginning to melt under the heat of a fire neither of you could control.

The suffocating warmth of the Great Hall did not reach the private solar of the library tower. Here, surrounded by the smell of ancient parchment, dried ink, and cold stone, the world felt distant. You had slipped away from the feast before the final toasts, unable to bear the weight of the court's eyes or the lingering heat of Valarr's hand on your waist.

But you had not been quick enough.

The heavy oak door creaked shut, and the latch clicked into place with a quiet, definitive sound. You turned, your heart instantly leaping into your throat. Valarr stood against the door, his chest heaving slightly as if he had climbed the winding steps in a frantic rush. The charcoal tunic was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the sharp line of his collarbone, and his dark hair was slightly disheveled.

"You left without saying goodnight, my Lady", he said, his voice low, raspy with a mix of fatigue and a quiet, building intensity. "My father was quite disappointed. And so was I".

"I thought the Young Prince had performed enough duties for one evening", you replied, your voice trembling slightly despite your besy efforts to maintain your usual aristocratic cool. You backed away until the edge of a heavy oak table pressed against your thighs. "You shouldn't be here, my Prince. If anyone saw you—".

"No one saw me", he interrupted smoothly, taking a slow, deliberate step toward you. His mismatched eyes were wide and dark in the dim candlelight of the solar — the brown eye soft with an uncharacteristic vulnerability, the violet one burning with that familiar, electric hunger. "And for once, I do not care about the court. I am tired of dancing around you, of pretending that your every glance doesn't throw my entire mind into chaos".

"You are teasing me again", you whispered, your fingers gripping the edge of the table behind you as he closed the remaining distance, his body casting a long, commanding shadow over yours. "Is this another lesson in loyalty?".

"Does this feel like politics to you?", Valarr murmured, his voice dropping to a breathless whisper as he stopped right in front of you.

He didn't grab you roughly; instead, his large, calloused hand rose slowly, his fingers hesitating for a fraction of a second before gently bryshing against your cheek. His skin was incredibly hot against yours. His thumb traced the soft line of your jaw, tilting your head up to force you to meet his gaze.

"You are the most infuriating woman I have ever met", he breathed, his eyes dropping to your lips. "You look at me as if I am nothing but a target for your wit".

"And you look at me as if I am a riddle you cannot solve", you challenged softly, your breath hitching as his thumb pressed lightly against your bottom lip.

"I don't want to solve you", Valarr growled quietly, the last of his princely restraint finally snapping. "I want to keep you".

Before you could offer another retort, his mouth closed over yours. It wasn't the tentative kiss of a courtly lover; it was a deep, viscerally intense collision of two forces that had spent months building an unbearable tension. Valarr tasted of spiced wine and dark, untamed fire. His mouth was demanding but not cruel, parting your lips with an urgent, breathless necessity that made a soft, involuntary gasp escape your throat.

Your hands, which had spent the evening folded neatly in your lap, flew to his chest, gripping the dark fabric of his tunic before sliding up to wind tightly into his hair, your fingers tangling near the silver streak at his temple. You pulled him closer, matching his desperation with your own, the fear of your political reality completely melting away beneath the heat of his skin.

Valarr let out a low, guttural groan against your lips, his hands moving to your waist, his grip firm and possessive as he lifted you effortlessly onto the heavy oak table. The green silk of your gown bunched around your thighs, the cool wood of the table a sharp contrast to the overwhelming warmth of his body as he pressed himself between your knees.

"Valarr", you breathed his name into the dark space between his mouth and your neck as his lips tracked a burning path down your jawline. His teeth nipped lightly at the sensitive skin of your throat, sending a violent jolt of pure adrenaline straight to your core.

His movements became a quiet, intense negotiation of silk and skin. With steady, reverent hands, he unlaced the back of your gown, the fabric slipping down to exposed the pale curve of your shoulders to the pale moonlight filtering through the high window. He stopped for a brief moment, his mismatched eyes sweeping over you with a fierce, quiet awe that felt far more intimate than any touch.

When his bare chest pressed flat against yours, the heat was suffocating, a magnificent sort of torture that made your head fall back against his shoulder. His hands traced the line of your spine, his fingers digging into the soft skin of your hips, anchoring you to him as he began to move.

The rhythm was slow, deliberate, and entirely free of the polished decorum of the court. It was a heavy, frictioned heat that built with every ragged intake of breath, every quiet sigh you muffled against his neck. You arched into him, your nails digging into the smooth, scarred muscles of his shoulders, tracing the shap of the dragon lord who had completely abandoned his crown for the sake of your touch. The angst that had defined your relationship — the knowledge that you were from opposing sides of a bleeding realm — only fueled the fire, turning the intimacy into a desperate, vital confession that neither of you could put into words.

The world narrowed to the scent of ink, sweat, and silk, to the frantic cadence of his hearbeat against your ribs. The tension in your lower belly coiled tighter and tighter, a golden thread pulling you toward a precipice until your breath caught completely. You shuddered against him, a silent, gasping wave of release rippling through your body. Hearing your broken cry, Valarr let out a ragged, unprincely sound of his own, his body tensing completely as he buried his face in your hair, holding you so tightly against his chest it felt as though he were trying to bind your very souls together before the dawn could rip you apart.

The light that broke through the high windows of the library tower was a cold, pale grey, smelling of the early morning mist that rolled off the Blackwater. It illuminated the reality of the room with a geometric, unyielding precision. The ancient tomes remained silent on their shelves; the oak table was just wood; and the green silk gown pooled on the floor belonged to a daughter of Oldtown who knew, better than anyone, that the dawn always demanded payment for the secrets of the night.

Valarr was already dressed, standing near the narrow window with his back to you. The silver streak at his temple looked stark, almost sharp against the dim morning light. He was fastening the cuffs of his dark tunic, his movements stiff, rhythmic, and entirely devoid of the frantic warmth that had guided his hands hours before. The prince had returned, and with him, the crushing weight of a fractured realm.

"The ravens from Tyrosh arrived before the first watch", Valarr said, his voice flat, though there was a slight, telltale strain in his throat. He did not turn to face you. "The council has been in session since the hour of the nightingale. My father has just pressed the royal seal to the parchment".

You sat up slowly, pulling the silk of your gown over your shoulder. For all your months of practice, your fingers fumbled slightly with the laces — a tiny, traitorous tremor that made your chest ache. A sudden, sharp image of an unknown Essosi lady standing beside him under a wedding canopy flashed through your mind, and a bitter, toxic wave of jealousy reared its head, tasting like ash.

"Then the Archon accepted the terms", you said, forcing your voice into its familiar, smooth cadence, though your eyes remained fixed on the stone floor. "How comforting. I was terribly worried the Crown wouldn't find anyone willing to tolerate the family temper".

Valarr finally turned his head, his mismatched eyes locking into yours. The violet eyes was hooded, but his brown one held a profound, raw sorrow that shattered his princely detachment. He took a step toward you, his hand half-raising as if he wanted nothing more than to kneel beside you and undo the day. "An alliance of blood to secure the Narrow Sea against the Blackfyre pretenders. I am to wed Lady Kiera of Tyrosh. The Hand makes the announcement at noon".

You stood up, quickly wrapping your dark cloak around your shoulders like armor, desperate to hide the bruises and the wildness of the night. You swallowed the lump in your throat, tilting your chin up to offer him a sharp, quick-witted smile. "A Tyroshi bride. How exotic, Your Grace. I hear they dye their hair in spectacular shades across the sea. It will certainly make the royal court look less...tedious. You might even find it an improvement".

You expected him to counter with his usual sharp wit, to keep playing the game. But Valarr didn't smile.

Instead, he closed the distance between you, his boots making no sound against the rushes until he was standing close enough for you to feel his heat. He didn't touch you, but his mismatched eyes searched your face with a terrifying, agonizing intensity. He looked at the tightness of your jaw, the faint flush on your neck, and the slight shimmer of unshed tears you were fighting so fiercely to suppress.

After months of studying your every shift, your every mark, Valarr didn't see the clever lady of Oldtown anymore. He read the truth written directly into your eyes: the grief of letting him go, and the quiet, raging jealousy of the woman who was about to watch him belong to the realm.

"Don't", Valarr whispered, his voice cracking, entirely stripped of royal authority. His mismatched eyes were bright with a deep, aching regret. "Do not hid behind your words today. Not after last night. You think I want this? You think I want to look at anyone else?".

The quick-witted armor you had worn so proudly completely dissolved. Your breath hitched, and for a single, fleeting second, the raw pain of your political reality hung naked between you. You loved the fire, but it was going to burn someone else.

"It doesn't matter what we want, Valarr", you breathed, your voice losing its sharpness, turning soft and terribly vulnerable in the grey light. You took a half-step back, pulling your cloak tighter around yourself, but your eyes remained locked on his. The jealousy, the grief, and the sudden, terrifying realization of your shared helplessness finally bled through your defenses.

Valarr took a ragged breath, stepping closer, his hand hovering near your cheek but never making contact. The sheer sorrow in his mismatched eyes was heavy, suffocating. "I am a Prince of the Blood. I am in line to the throne". He spoke the titles not with pride, but as if they were iron chains wrapping around his throat. "And I am not free to choose".

"And I am an Hightower", you whispered back, the words breaking on your lips. "My family sent me here to buy back their favor with my presence. My hand belongs to whatever alliance my father needs next. Neither of us had ever been free, Valarr".

"Last night we were", he said, his voice dropping to a rough, desperate register. His mismatched eyes burned with a sudden, hopeless passion as he looked at you, a raw hunger that had nothing to do with politics and everything to do with the man he was forbidden to be. "Last night, there was no throne. There was no duty. There was only us".

"And today the sun is up", you replied, a single, hot tear finally slipping down your cheek, cutting through the perfect mask you had worn for months. You stepped back, out of his reach, though every fiber of your being screamed to close the distance. "Go and marry you Tyroshi lady, Valarr. Be the prince the realm need you to be".

Valarr's jaw tightening, his fists clenching at his sides as he fought the urge to pull you back into his arms. The silence between you was thick with everything you were forced to sacrifice upon the altar of duty.

"Farewell, my Lady", he whispered, the finality of the word heavy and bitter in the quiet room.

You looked at him one last time, letting your eyes linger on the silver streak at his temple, before lowering your gace with a heartbreak that felt as ancient as the stones beneath your feet.

"May the gods bless you, my Prince", you breathed.

You turned and walked down the long, empty corridor into the morning light, leaving the Young Prince alone in the quiet of the tower, both of you broken by the very Crown you were born to serve.

Epilogue

The grand maester’s voice had barely faded from the Great Hall when the first ravens were sent. Beneath the heavy stone arches of the Red Keep, Prince Valarr sat alone in his chambers, the formal celebratory toasts still bitter on his tongue. He dismissed his guards, locked the heavy oak door, and dipped his quill into the ink by the fading light of a single candle.

To the Lady of Hightower,

The Grand Maester read the announcement before the Iron Throne this morning, and the lords of the court offered their hollow congratulations for the birth of your daughter. I smiled, I nodded, I drank to your House—and inside, I felt the phantom weight of a ghost. I write this now in the dead of night, in a room that feels far too large and far too cold, where no Kingsguard or councillor can see the ink bleed on the parchment. They expect me to be the Prince of Dragonstone, the dutiful heir who wedded for the realm, but my mind is a traitor. It drags me back to that small room in the grey light of the dawn, to the warmth of your skin and the bitter truth of our farewell. I am surrounded by the heavy stones of the Red Keep, yet I am entirely hollow. I love you still. I miss you in every breath, in every silence, in every law I am forced to uphold. May the Seven guard your little girl, though I envy the life she will lead, growing up beneath the shadow of the beacon that keeps you from me.

Yours,

Valarr

Weeks passed before the reply returned, carried not by a royal courier, but hidden deep within the mundane trade ledgers of the Citadel. In the quiet sanctum of her solar in Oldtown, you had waited until your lord husband was asleep to press your signet ring into the soft wax, your hands trembling in the dark.

To the Prince of Dragonstone,

Your letter arrived hidden beneath the ledger of the Citadel grain reports, and I read it until the paper grew soft under my fingertips. Do not speak of that grey dawn as a curse, Valarr; it is the only sanctuary I have left when the world grows too loud. I wear my green velvet, I sit at my lord's side, and I play the perfect lady of Oldtown with a grace that would make my father proud. Yet, it is all a mummer’s farce. My heart did not stay here. It remained with the dragon, left behind in the ashes of the night we shared. I love you, and the longing does not fade; it merely learns to hide in the quiet hours before the castle wakes. You speak of my daughter, and my soul aches to hear it from your lips. I only pray to the Mother that one day, the Gods will be kind enough to bless you, too, with another child.

The final sentence of your message left a cold, sharp ache in Valarr's chest. Caged in his royal duties, the word haunted his thoughts for three days and three nights, until the ambiguity became a torment he could no longer endure. Strangling his own caution, he penned a rushed, demanding note.

Your response burns through me, but it leaves a question I cannot silence. You pray the Gods bless me with "another" child. My wife shows no signs of carrying an heir, and my bed is as cold as the Wall. I have no children to speak of. Why do you use that word? What is the meaning of your prayer? Speak plainly, I beg of you, for the doubt is tearing me apart.

The final reply did not come in a formal letter, but on a jagged strip of vellum, sealed with no crest, only a smear of plain wax. It was delivered directly to Valarr's hand by a silent, hooded rider who vanished into the King's Landing docks before the sun rose.

The archives of Oldtown hold many secrets, but some truths are too dangerous for ink and ravens. If you truly wish to understand the word I chose, my Prince, then leave your crown behind. Come to the High Tower. Come alone, by the light of the thief's moon.

The journey south had been a blur of midnight roads and strained horses. Valarr had ridden hard, cloaked in rough-spun wool, his Valyrian features buried deep beneath a heavy hood. To the realm, the Prince of Dragonstone was resting in his chambers; to the dark roads of the Reach, he was just another lonely traveler.

When he finally breached the private, lower gardens of the High Tower, the sheer scale of the citadel loomed above him like a giant of pale stone, its beacon cutting a green swathe through the starry sky. The air here was heavy with the scent of salt from the Whispering Sound and the sweet, suffocating perfume of night-blooming jasmine. Every shadow seemed to stretch and whisper. Valarr’s hand rested white-knuckled on the pommel of his sword, his heart hammering a fierce, erratic rhythm against his ribs.

A rustle of silk broke the silence.

You stepped out from the archway of a weeping willow, looking like a spirit of the woods in a gown of deepest forest green. In your arms, nestled closely against your chest, you carried a bundle wrapped in thick, white wool.

Valarr took a step forward, his hood falling back just enough to catch the faint starlight on his high cheekbones. His voice was a raw, trembling whisper. "I am here. No ravens, no riddles. Tell me".

You looked up at him, your eyes bright with tears that reflected the green glow of the tower above. You didn't speak a word. Instead, you stepped closed, until the warmth of your body reached him through the chill night air. With trembling fingers, you gently folded back the edge of the wool blanket.

The thief's moon broke through the clouds, casting a pure, silvery light directly upon the infant's face.

Valarr froze. The breath died in his throat, and the world seemed to stop spinning.

The child was not a babe of Hightower stock, but she was not a traditional dragon either. She was his perfect, impossible mirror. Beneath the moonlight, Valarr stared at a head of soft brown hair, broken by distinct, striking streaks of pure white that glowed like fresh winter snow. As if sensing the sudden stillness, the little girl stirred, her eyelids fluttering open for a brief, fleeting second.

Valarr felt his heart shatter and mend all at once. Looking back up at him were his own mismatched eyes: one a deep, warm brown, and the other, a haunting, unmistakable Valyrian violet.

A dragon born in the heart of the beacon, carrying his exact bloodline written on her face.

"My husband believes she was born too early", you whispered, your voice cracking as you pressed a soft kiss to the baby's forehead. "The maesters called her survival a miracle, a blessing from the Mother. But she is no miracle, Valarr. She is the night we stole from the dawn. She is ours".

A tear slipped down Valarr's cheek, hot and unbidden. He reached out with a hand that shook violently, his thumb brushing the soft brown and white hair on the baby's head. The crushing weight of the Iron Throne, the politics, the arranged marriage, the duty that had broken them — it all evaporated, replaced by a sharp, beautiful agony.

"My lord husband has named her Jocelyn", you continued, your gaze locking onto his with a fierce, defiant pride. "A proper name for a lady of the Reach. But she does not belong to the Reach, Valarr. She deserves a name that carries the blood of Old Valyria, like her father".

"Daenys", Valarr breathed, the name slipping from his lips like a prayer. "Like The Dreamer, the one who saved us from the Doom of Valyria".

"Daenys", you agreed, smiling through your tears.

Valarr leaned down, his lips brushing the baby's warm cheek. He did not promise her kingdoms, nor did he speak of crowns or glory. He only gave her the one truth he could offer: that no matter what lie the world forced her to live, she belonged to the blood of the dragon.

He closed his eyes, whispering into the quiet dark in the low, ancient tongue of his ancestors: "Bona jēdo Jocelyn iksā, mēri ñan Daenys iksā. Ao ñuha zaldrīzes iksā, sēte". (To the world you are Jocelyn, but to me you are Daenys. You are my dragon, always).