Every day, they must present themselves before the Gracious Mother, curtsying with soft smiles that hide the weight of unspoken grievances.
Margaery and Desmera are always there first, their expressions smug, basking in the Emperor's favor. Joana and Roslin walk together, and over time, Roslin becomes more talkative, her early shyness melting away.
Through these conversations, Joana learns something unexpected—the lower-ranking concubines are not necessarily here to serve the Emperor's desires.
For many, their presence is a financial arrangement, a means to spare their families from the burden of a dowry. If the Gracious Mother arranges a marriage for them, the imperial household covers all expenses. These girls are not daughters of the wealthiest houses but rather their younger sisters or the children of noble families in decline. The harem is less a collection of lovers and more a refuge, a place where girls are kept until they can be placed elsewhere.
But if the Emperor takes an interest in one of them, all the better.
It is a strange realization. Joana had always imagined noble families as untouchable, their wealth endless. Yet even lords had expenses, debts, and obligations that made the cost of a dowry too much to bear. The harem, in its own way, is a solution to that problem.
The communal sleeping quarters are spacious, the beds covered in thick silks, the air perfumed with soft floral scents. It is a strange comfort to be surrounded by so many women.
In the outside world, Joana always had to watch her back. Here, she is safe. The ever-present fear of being hurt, of starving, of being abandoned, is gone. She is protected, even if she is not free.
The food is unlike anything she has ever seen. Platters arrive each day, heaped with rich meats, warm breads, and delicate pastries that melt on the tongue. It is almost overwhelming, how much there is. But as the days pass, she begins to notice something odd.
The roasted carrots are sliced into thin slivers, the sausages neatly halved, the corn stripped from the cob, and placed in bowls. Anything remotely phallic is carefully altered and broken down into smaller pieces.
She frowns at her plate, confused before Myranda's laughter rings out from across the table.
"Oh, sweet girl," the consort says, shaking her head as she catches Joana's bewildered expression. "It's so we don't use them for a night of self-love." Then she blinked.
Joana's face turned red, and she quickly scoops a spoonful of corn into her mouth, as if she is invisible. Myranda's boisterous laugh echoes through the chamber, drawing others into her amusement.
Joana keeps her eyes on her plate, but she can feel the mirth around her, the teasing glances, the shared smirks.
Most of the girls here act as though they are not meant to be with the Emperor at all. They spend their days strolling through the gardens, making friendships, gossiping about noble houses they have never met. It is a sobering thought. These are some of the highest-ranking women in the empire, draped in silks, fed the finest meals, treated with reverence—and yet, none of it matters. They are caged birds, their every movement dictated by the whims of those in power. They have everything, except the one thing that truly matters: freedom.
And yet… Joana feels at peace.
For the first time in her life, she does not have to worry about where her next meal will come from. She does not have to look over her shoulder in fear of being assaulted in the streets. She is warm, safe, full.
And happiness, she realizes, can be found even in a gilded cage.
After the meal is cleared away, Joana flops onto the soft rug beneath her feet, arms spread wide, her stomach pleasantly full. Not being hungry is already the best feeling in the world, but being completely, blissfully stuffed? That's something else entirely.
Roslin giggles at the sight of her and gives her a playful nudge with her foot. "Joana, are you actually planning to sleep on the floor?"
Joana groans dramatically, letting her eyes flutter shut. "I'm so tired," she murmurs. "Leave me be, Concubine Roslin."
"I don't think I will, Concubine Joana," Roslin teases. Small hands clamp onto Joana's shoulders, attempting to tug her upright. But Joana goes completely limp, making herself as heavy as possible.
Roslin lets out a breathless laugh, struggling against Joana's dead weight. The other girls, sensing mischief, rush over to help. Skinny fingers latch onto Joana's ankles, and suddenly, she's being dragged across the rug.
"Help," Joana whispers, barely containing her laughter. She keeps her voice low—if Meria, the ever-watchful overseer, hears them, their fun will be cut short. "Help, I'm being abducted."
"Let's throw her in one of the pools," Myranda suggests, her grin wicked.
"Yes!" The others chime in, even Roslin, and before Joana can properly protest, they're pulling her toward the doors leading to the bathhouse.
"Oh, no, absolutely not," Joana yelps, suddenly twisting in their grasp. If she ends up soaked, she'll never hear the end of it. "Let me go!"
She kicks her legs wildly, and Roslin—laughing too hard to keep hold—drops her shoulders.
The others step back when Joana feigns another vicious kick, giving her just enough room to scramble to her feet. Her braid is half-undone from the struggle, wisps of hair sticking to her flushed face.
"Come here!" Myranda sings, prowling closer. "You just need to cool off!"
"Never!" Joana shouts, laughing as she turns and bolts toward the side entrance of their chambers.
The weight of her skirts slows her down, and for a fleeting second, she considers ripping them at the seams just to run faster. Dresses, she's decided, are completely impractical for a good escape.
She races down the hallway, her heart pounding with exhilaration. Where to hide? The gardens? No, too obvious. The bathhouse itself? No one would expect her to go straight into enemy territory.
She is so caught up in her own thoughts, so busy reveling in the thrill of the chase, that she doesn't notice the figures rounding the corner ahead.
Until it's too late.
She collides hard with someone—her face hitting a solid chest. The impact nearly knocks the air from her lungs. She stumbles back, rubbing her cheek, eyes wide.
"Concubine Joana!"
The sharp, disbelieving voice made her stomach drop.
The Gracious Mother....