A Sharp Lesson
Six-year-old Valora Velaryon decides that if the Iron Throne is going to be hers one day, then she should probably learn how to climb it.
Ser Harwin Strong disagrees.
Rhaenyra is horrified, Laenor is trying not to laugh, Viserys is far too amused, and Valora learns that ruling is dangerous, thrones are sharp, and adults are very difficult.
The Iron Throne had always seemed much larger from below.
Valora Velaryon had seen it nearly every day of her life, looming at the end of the throne room like some great black beast made of swords and shadows. It rose higher than any chair had any right to rise, jagged and wicked and strange, with blades jutting from its sides as though it might decide to bite if anyone came too close.
Most children were frightened of it.
Valora was not.
At six years old, she had already decided that fear was a thing adults made far too much of. Dragons were frightening too, but if one held oneself properly, if one knew where to stand and how to speak and when not to make sudden movements, dragons could be understood.
Surely a chair could not be harder than a dragon.
The trouble was that no one would let her close enough to find out.
“Princess,” Ser Harwin Strong said slowly, sounding caught somewhere between horror and laughter. “That is not a staircase.”
Valora, who had one small hand braced against the lowest melted step and one slippered foot already searching for purchase, did not look back.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Because it looks very much like you are attempting to use it as one.”
Valora frowned at the sword nearest her face. Its edge had dulled with age, blackened by dragonfire and time, but it still looked perfectly capable of cutting through silk, skin, and six-year-old certainty.
She shifted her foot anyway.
Harwin’s amusement vanished at once.
“Princess Valora Velaryon.”
That made her pause.
Not because she intended to obey.
Only because people usually said her full name when they were either very worried or very cross, and she was interested in finding out which one he was.
She glanced over her shoulder.
Ser Harwin stood a few paces behind her, broad-shouldered and tense, one hand held out as if he were already calculating how quickly he could cross the distance if she slipped. Behind him, two servants had frozen near the doors with armfuls of fresh rushes.
Neither looked brave enough to move.
Valora tilted her head. “You look worried, Ser.”
“I wonder why.”
“Have you eaten?”
Harwin blinked.
“What?”
“Mother says people become unreasonable when they do not eat.”
“I am being very reasonable.”
“You sound cross.”
“I am trying not to become cross.”
Valora considered this with great seriousness.
Then she turned back toward the throne.
“That is very kind of you.”
Harwin closed his eyes briefly, as though asking the gods for patience.
“Princess,” he said, gentler now. “Please come down before you hurt yourself.”
Valora’s brows drew together.
“I will not hurt myself.”
“You do not know that.”
“I do.”
“You cannot.”
“I can.”
“How?”
Valora lifted her chin.
“Because I have decided.”
Harwin stared at her.
Then, despite himself, his mouth twitched.
“That is not how falling works, Princess.”
Valora ignored him.
The Iron Throne had been calling to her all morning.
Not truly calling, not the way people called across halls or courtyards, but sitting there in its usual terrible silence, daring her to understand it. Grandfather sat upon it all the time, and he did not look afraid. Tired, yes. Sad, sometimes. But never afraid.
Her other stood before it with her chin lifted and her hands folded neatly in front of her, listening to lords who spoke too much and thought too little.
One day, everyone kept saying, it would be her Mother’s.
And after her Mother, one day, it would be Valora’s.
Grandfather had told her so.
Pay attention, Valora. One day, this will be your seat.
It seemed very silly that a seat meant for her should be forbidden.
Valora lifted her foot again.
Harwin moved instantly.
Not touching her.
Not yet.
But closer.
“Valora Velaryon.”
She paused again.
This time, not because he had used her full name.
Because he had not used her title.
She looked back at him, violet eyes narrowing.
Harwin’s face was serious now.
“You may be very brave,” he said carefully. “But brave girls can still bleed.”
That made her hesitate.
Only a little.
“I am not scared of blood.”
“No,” Harwin said. “I do not imagine you are.”
He took another step closer, slow and careful, the way one might approach a skittish animal or a hatchling dragon.
“But your mother is scared of yours.”
Valora’s hand tightened against the cold metal.
That was unfair.
Very unfair.
Bringing Mother into it changed things.
“I am being careful,” she muttered.
“I can see that.”
“Then why are you worried?”
“Because you are six.”
Valora frowned. “That is not my fault.”
Harwin looked like he was fighting a smile again.
“No. I suppose it is not.”
“I will be older eventually.”
“That is the hope.”
“And when I am older, I must sit there.”
Harwin’s gaze flicked up toward the Iron Throne.
Something changed in his expression then.
The humour softened.
The worry remained.
“Aye,” he said quietly. “Perhaps you will.”
Valora looked up at the twisted seat.
It really was very high.
That only made her want to reach it more.
“What if I cannot get up?”
Harwin’s expression gentled.
“Then someone will help you.”
Valora glanced back at him.
“I should learn myself.”
“You should learn many things,” Harwin agreed. “But perhaps not all in one afternoon.”
Valora considered that.
Then her sleeve caught.
It was a tiny sound.
Barely more than a whisper.
A rip of delicate fabric against old steel.
Valora froze.
Slowly, she looked down.
Her pale lavender sleeve, embroidered with tiny silver seahorses, had torn at the cuff.
For a moment, the throne was forgotten entirely.
Her lower lip trembled.
Harwin saw it at once.
“Princess?”
Valora stared at the tear.
“Mother is going to be upset.”
Harwin’s face softened so quickly that it almost hurt to look at.
“I think your mother would be far more upset if you lost a finger.”
Valora’s eyes widened in horror.
Harwin immediately winced.
“That was the wrong thing to say.”
“My finger?”
“No one is losing a finger.”
“You said…”
“I should not have said.”
Valora looked at her hand.
Then at the throne.
Then at Harwin.
“You think it wants my finger?”
Harwin pressed his lips together, very clearly battling several responses at once.
“No,” he said finally. “I think the throne does not want anything. Which is precisely why you should not trust it.”
That sounded wise enough that Valora briefly forgot to be offended.
Then another voice, warm and familiar, drifted across the throne room.
“And why, exactly, is my daughter discussing whether the Iron Throne wants her fingers?”
Valora went very still.
Harwin straightened at once.
Rhaenyra Targaryen stood at the entrance of the throne room with Laenor Velaryon beside her, both having arrived quietly enough that no one had noticed them until it was far too late.
Rhaenyra’s expression was calm.
Too calm.
That was never good.
Laenor, on the other hand, looked from Valora to Harwin, to the throne, and then visibly struggled not to laugh.
“Valora,” Rhaenyra said.
Valora immediately tried to stand straighter, forgetting for one unfortunate second that she was balanced halfway up the lower edge of the Iron Throne.
Her foot slipped.
Harwin lunged.
Rhaenyra inhaled sharply.
Laenor swore under his breath.
Harwin caught her around the waist before she could fall more than an inch, lifting her away from the throne with the kind of effortless strength that made it seem as if she weighed no more than a rolled tapestry.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then Valora, hanging beneath Harwin’s arm like a very dignified sack of grain, said, “I had it under control.”
Laenor made a choked sound.
Rhaenyra turned her head toward him.
He looked away very quickly, though his shoulders shook.
Harwin set Valora carefully on the ground and released her as if she were made of glass.
“Forgive me, Princess,” he said to Rhaenyra at once. “I was attempting to talk her down.”
Valora lifted her chin. “He was doing very well.”
Rhaenyra’s gaze shifted to her.
Valora straightened.
“I made the choice myself.”
“Yes,” Rhaenyra said, walking closer. “That is rather what concerns me.”
Valora frowned. “But Grandfather says it will be my seat one day.”
Rhaenyra stopped.
Laenor’s amusement faded slightly.
Harwin’s expression softened behind them.
The throne room seemed to quiet.
Valora looked between them, suddenly less certain than she had been a moment ago.
“He says I must pay attention,” she explained. “And I do. But how am I meant to sit on it one day if I cannot even climb it?”
Rhaenyra’s expression changed.
“Oh, my sweet girl.”
She knelt before her, ignoring the cold stone floor beneath her gown.
Valora immediately stepped closer.
Rhaenyra reached out and took her daughter’s hands, turning them over carefully to check for cuts. There were none. Only a faint smudge of dust across one palm and a tiny thread from her torn sleeve clinging to her fingers.
“The throne is not something you conquer by climbing it,” Rhaenyra said gently.
Valora blinked. “It is not?”
“No.”
Laenor came closer then, crouching beside them. “And preferably not by bleeding on it either.”
Valora glanced back at the throne.
“It has many swords.”
“It does,” Laenor agreed.
“That seems unsafe.”
“It is famously unsafe.”
“Then why does Grandfather sit there?”
Laenor opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Looked at Rhaenyra.
Rhaenyra sighed.
“Because the throne is meant to remind those who sit upon it that ruling is dangerous,” she said after a moment. “Power can wound. Even those born to it. Especially those born to it.”
Valora considered that with all the seriousness of a child who understood more than adults wished her to.
“So it is a lesson.”
Rhaenyra smiled faintly. “Yes.”
“A sharp lesson.”
Harwin coughed into his fist.
Laenor’s mouth twitched.
Rhaenyra tried very hard not to smile.
“Yes,” she said. “A very sharp lesson.”
Valora looked down at her torn sleeve again.
“I did not mean to ruin it.”
Rhaenyra touched the tear gently. “A sleeve can be mended.”
“Can thrones be mended?”
That made every adult go still.
Valora looked up at them with wide violet eyes, not yet aware of the weight of the question she had asked.
Rhaenyra’s fingers tightened slightly around hers.
“Sometimes,” she said softly. “If the right people are careful enough.”
Valora nodded as though this answer had satisfied some private concern.
“Then I shall be careful.”
“You shall also not climb it again,” Rhaenyra said.
Valora hesitated.
Rhaenyra lifted a brow.
Valora sighed. “Not without permission.”
“Not at all.”
“What if there is an emergency?”
Laenor chuckled.”
Rhaenyra gave him a look before turning back to Valora. “What emergency would require you to climb the Iron Throne?”
“That is what Ser Harwin asked.”
Harwin lifted both hands slightly. “And I remain curious.”
Valora frowned thoughtfully.
“I have not decided yet.”
Laenor laughed then, unable to stop himself.
Rhaenyra pressed her lips together, but even she could not fully hide her smile.
Valora looked offended.
“It could happen.”
“I am sure it could,” Laenor said. “But until it does, perhaps we leave the throne where it is and keep you where you are.”
Valora glanced up at the throne again.
It still loomed above her, black and jagged and impossible.
But it looked different now.
Not smaller.
Never smaller.
Only less like a thing to be climbed and more like a thing to be understood.
Rhaenyra brushed a loose strand of silver hair away from her daughter’s face.
“There will be time enough for crowns and thrones later.”
Valora leaned into the touch.
“I wanted to see what Grandfather sees.”
Rhaenyra’s face softened.
Laenor’s expression did too.
Harwin looked away for a moment, his jaw tightening faintly with something almost like sadness.
For a moment, the three of them stood beneath the shadow of the Iron Throne, the child between those who loved her, the future sitting heavy and unseen around them.
Then Laenor held out his hand.
“If you want a better view, little seahorse, I can manage that without risking your limbs.”
Valora narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “How?”
Laenor grinned.
A moment later, Valora shrieked with laughter as he lifted her high onto his shoulders.
“Father!”
“There,” he said, steadying her small hands where they gripped his hair. “Higher than the first step and considerably less bloody.”
Valora looked out across the throne room.
From here, the hall stretched wide before her.
The long path between the doors and the throne.
The towering pillars.
The painted windows.
The empty space where lords would stand with their petitions, their grievances, their schemes, their hopes.
For once, she was tall enough to see it all.
Her laughter quieted.
Rhaenyra watched the change come over her daughter’s face.
That bright curiosity settling into focus.
That childish delight sharpening into thought.
It was there already, even at six.
The weight of care.
The need to understand.
The instinct to look at a room and wonder what could be fixed.
Valora rested one hand lightly on Laenor’s head and stared down the length of the hall.
“It is very big,” she said softly.
“The throne room?” Laenor asked.
Valora shook her head.
“The realm.”
Rhaenyra’s breath caught.
Harwin lowered his eyes.
Laenor’s hands tightened around his daughter’s legs, holding her securely.
“Yes,” Rhaenyra said after a quiet moment. “It is.”
Valora looked down at her mother.
“Will you teach me all of it?”
Rhaenyra smiled, though there was something fragile in it.
“As much as I can.”
“And Grandfather too?”
“Yes.”
“And Father?”
Laenor nodded. “Everything I know.”
Valora seemed pleased by that.
Then she looked at Harwin.
“And Ser Harwin can teach me how not to fall off things.”
Harwin blinked.
Laenor laughed again.
Rhaenyra finally allowed herself to smile fully.
“I believe Ser Harwin has already begun that lesson.”
Valora gave the knight a solemn nod. “You did well.”
Harwin bowed his head with equal solemnity, though his mouth twitched.
“I am honoured, Princess.”
Rhaenyra rose and smoothed her skirts.
“Come along. We should leave before your grandfather finds out.”
At that exact moment, the side doors opened.
King Viserys entered with a small cluster of attendants trailing behind him, pausing when he saw his granddaughter perched on Laenor’s shoulders, her sleeve torn, her cheeks flushed, and her parents standing far too innocently beneath the throne.
His gaze moved from Valora to the Iron Throne, to Harwin’s carefully blank face.
Then back to Valora.
“Ah,” Viserys said.
Valora smiled brightly.
“Grandfather.”
Viserys looked as though he were trying very hard not to understand what had happened.
Rhaenyra closed her eyes.
Laenor murmured, “Too late.”
Viserys approached slowly, his expression caught somewhere between concern and amusement.
“And what, may I ask, has occurred here?”
Valora answered before anyone else could.
“I was learning.”
Rhaenyra gave a soft, defeated sigh.
Viserys’s brows rose. “Learning?”
“Yes.” Valora pointed at the throne. “Mother says it is a sharp lesson.”
Laenor turned his face away.
Harwin looked at the ceiling as though begging the gods for mercy.
Viserys looked at Rhaenyra.
Rhaenyra looked back at him.
Then, to everyone’s surprise, Viserys laughed.
Not loudly.
Not mockingly.
Just a warm, helpless sound that filled the throne room and softened the hard edges of it for one brief moment.
“My little dragon,” he said, stepping closer. “Most people wait until they are grown before the throne cuts at them.”
Valora frowned. “It did not cut me.”
“Good.”
“It only tore my sleeve.”
“Even better.”
“Mother says it can be mended.”
Viserys smiled at Rhaenyra, then at Valora.
“Yes,” he said gently. “Many things can be mended.”
Valora looked down at him from her place on Laenor’s shoulders.
“Grandfather?”
“Yes?”
“When I am queen, may I put cushions on it?”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Then Laenor broke first.
He laughed so hard that Valora had to grab his hair to stay balanced.
Rhaenyra pressed a hand over her mouth.
Harwin turned sharply away, shoulders shaking.
Even Viserys, king of the Seven Kingdoms, looked up at the monstrous seat of swords and seemed, for one glorious second, to imagine it covered in purple cushions.
“I do not believe anyone has ever asked that before,” he said.
Valora nodded, satisfied. “Then I shall be the first.”
Rhaenyra reached up and lifted her daughter down from Laenor’s shoulders, settling her safely back onto the floor.
“That,” she said, brushing Valora’s hair back into place, “is a decision for when you are older.”
Valora sighed. “Adults say that when they do not want to answer.”
“Because adults are wise.”
“Because adults are difficult.”
Laenor grinned. “She has you there.”
Rhaenyra shot him a look, but there was no heat in it.
Viserys held out his hand.
Valora took it at once.
Together, they stood before the Iron Throne.
The old king and the little princess.
The present and the future.
Viserys looked down at her, something soft and proud moving through his face.
“One day,” he said quietly, “you may sit there.”
Valora looked up at the throne again.
Then she looked at her mother.
Then her father.
Then Harwin, who still looked as though he would personally remove every blade from the thing before allowing her near it again.
Finally, she looked back at her grandfather.
“Not today,” she decided.
Viserys smiled.
“No,” he agreed. “Not today.”
Valora squeezed his hand.
“But one day.”
Rhaenyra’s eyes softened.
Laenor’s smile gentled.
And above them, the Iron Throne waited, dark and sharp and silent.
Valora stared at it for one more moment, not with fear, but with promise.
Then she turned away from it and tugged on Viserys’s hand.
“Can we go see the kitchens now?”
Viserys blinked. “The kitchens?”
“I have learned enough sharp lessons today.”
Laenor laughed again.
Rhaenyra shook her head fondly.
Harwin followed a step behind them, still watching Valora with that careful, protective warmth he could never quite hide.