It's only when Lady Margaery enters that Joana's attention shifts.
She arrives with her young daughter and a handful of maids, though Joana knows she has more—twelve in total, an entourage fitting for the Emperor's beloved.
There were only three following her into the garden now, watching over her with quiet vigilance.
They kept their distance, always ready, should she need anything, but allowing her space to play the role of a devoted mother.
Joana tilts her head slightly, observing the way Lady Margaery moves, the effortless grace with which she guides her child toward a bed of roses.
There is no rush in her steps, no tension in her shoulders. It is as though she has never once doubted her place here.
Roslin returns from inside, settling beside Joana with an extra embroidery hoop in hand.
Joana keeps her gaze on Lady Margaery. "What do you think of her?"
Roslin's fingers hesitate only briefly before pulling the thread through her cloth. "I think nothing of her," she replies, voice carefully measured. "Someone has to be the Emperor's favorite." The words are laced with a quiet resentment, a subtle suggestion that Roslin is glad it isn't her.
Before Joana could press further, a new figure enters the courtyard.
A plump, red-haired girl steps hesitantly into view, but as soon as her eyes meet Joana's, she stiffens. A soft squeak escapes her lips before she turns on her heel and flees, disappearing through the shaded archway she came from.
Roslin exhales a quiet laugh. "Teora Toland," she murmurs. "Poor thing. The Mother named her a consort, but she's so shy she hardly appears anywhere."
Joana watched the empty space where Teora had stood. It's strange, knowing that even those with a higher rank might find themselves just as lost in the harem's endless corridors.
Sensing Roslin's reluctance to continue the previous conversation, Joana drops her gaze to her embroidery.
She moves the needle through the fabric carefully and evenly, but her stitches are uneven. The motions are still unfamiliar. Meria had taught her a little during her recovery, but it will take far more than a few lessons to make anything worth selling.
Roslin, by contrast, works with practiced ease. Her stitches are clean, her hands were steady. Joana watches her out of the corner of her eye, trying not to let the envy show on her face.
Her fingers are still. "Does the Emperor ever come here?"
Roslin doesn't look up. "Sometimes, to visit his child," she says simply. "And he has dinner with the Mother every evening."
Joana hums in thought. "Where does Lady Margaery go, when the Emperor wishes to lay with her?"
"He goes to her rooms," Roslin says, her voice softer now. "Or, if it's a concubine, they use a set of private chambers. Some of the girls say there's a secret entrance he uses, so no one will see him."
"A secret entrance?"
Roslin nods. "It wouldn't be proper for anyone to know whose bed he visits." She glances up then, her blue eyes sharp with something unreadable. "Why do you ask?"
Joana keeps her expression carefully neutral. "Curiosity."
For a moment, Roslin studies her, as if weighing the truth of that answer. Then, with a small shake of her head, she returns to her embroidery.
"My old septa used to say that if we talked too loudly while sewing, the stitches would loosen themselves out of shame," she says lightly.
Joana exhales a soft chuckle, twisting her mouth as she refocuses on her own needlework.
Silence falls between them.
Joana's gaze drifts back to Lady Margaery. The little princess, Elaena, is on the ground now, gripping her mother's hands as she attempts an unsteady step forward. Her tiny face is scrunched in concentration, and when she wobbles, Margaery steadies her with gentle patience.
It is a striking image—one of quiet devotion.
And yet, Joana knows devotion alone is not enough to keep a woman safe in this place.
The Gracious Mother loves her son dearly. That much is clear. And perhaps she even loves her granddaughter. But she is still willing to supplant Lady Margaery to keep her power secure.
What does that say about love in this place? What does it say about loyalty?
The Mother had told her she could live in peace if she did not catch the Emperor's eye.
And yet, it is only her first day here, and already, Joana doubts it.
---
Life in the harem is not at all what Joana expected. It is neither a prison nor a paradise, but something in between—a world of quiet alliances, unspoken rules, and whispered secrets.
Slowly, she begins to understand the women who share this gilded cage with her.
Ladies Desmera and Margaery are inseparable. First cousins are always side by side, their heads bent together in hushed conversations or laughing as they play with Princess Elena.
They exude a quiet confidence, the unmistakable aura of those who know they are favored.
Lady Myrcella, the only granddaughter of the Warden of the West, carries herself with similar assurance. Her family is powerful beyond measure, their wealth vast enough to rival the imperial treasury.
There are others, too, with their own stories, their own connections. Consort Mya and Consort Myranda, two of the higher-ranking women, are rumored to spend their nights in each other's arms.
No one dares speak of it too loudly, but the knowing glances exchanged between the other women make it clear that it is common knowledge.
Then there is Marianne Vance, Roslin's half-great-niece, though their bond is nothing like Desmera and Margaery's. They are family in name alone.
Each evening follows the same ritual. Meria, the Emperor's quiet and severe attendant, arrives to inform Lady Margaery that she has been summoned by emperor.
Some nights, the call is for Lady Desmera instead, but no others. If anyone else were chosen, Joana knows she would hear about it. In this place, rumors spread faster than fire through dry parchment