Joana's breath catches as she looks up, her amusement vanishing instantly. The woman's expression is unreadable, but the clipped tone alone is enough to tell Joana that she is not pleased.
Joana straightens, suddenly very aware of how disheveled she looks—hair falling loose, cheeks flushed from laughter, breath still coming too fast.
The Gracious Mother folds her arms, her stare icy. "What do you think you're doing?"
Joana swallows hard.
Well. This is awkward.
Joana had never seen him up close before.
The man standing before her was tall—towering over both herself and the Gracious Mother—but what struck her most was his youth.
He wasn't some grizzled, imposing figure of legend. He wasn't even twenty. His silver hair cropped short, barely reached the tops of his ears, the strands catching the torchlight in a way that made them shimmer like the edges of a blade.
Against the Mother's ghostly pale complexion, he looked darker, though Joana knew his skin was still lighter than her own. His features were sharp and striking—carved by gods with an artist's precision. A strong jawline, full lips, and a nose that was long and aquiline.
But it was his eyes that caught her attention, deep and endless, shifting in the light between dark onyx and the richest shade of violet she had ever seen.
He was beautiful.
A kind of beauty that could not be ignored. A dangerous beauty.
Joana could barely breathe.
Her heart was hammering wildly in her chest, her stomach twisting itself into a tight knot. But she could not stop looking at him.
And his clothing—gods, his clothing was exquisite. Heavy, expensive fabrics draped over his tall frame, the deep red of velvet paired with the glimmering shimmer of cloth-of-gold.
A golden chain hung loosely around his broad shoulders, and resting on his chest was the unmistakable pendant of the three-headed dragon.
There was no crown atop his head.
He didn't need one.
Not here.
Not in the harem, where his presence alone was enough to remind them all of who and what he was.
A gasp threatened to slip past her lips, but she forced it down, her throat tightening.
Then, the Emperor moved.
With one hand, he rubbed his chest where she had collided with him, his lips curving into a faintly amused smile. "Careful now," he murmured, his voice smooth, tinged with amusement. "You almost killed me."
Joana's body acted before her mind caught up. She dropped into the deepest curtsy she could manage, her head bowing low. "Forgive me, Your Majesty," she said quickly, the words tumbling out of her. "Forgive me for the insult and the aggression. I had not intended—"
But the Emperor only chuckled. The sound was soft and warm, nothing like the cruel laughter of the nobility she had known in her childhood.
"Why should I be insulted?" he mused. "It was I who interrupted your run."
Slowly, Joana lifted her gaze.
The Emperor's expression was thoughtful as he looked past her, his sharp gaze scanning the hallway from which she had come.
"But what, I wonder, were you running from?" he asked, his lips quirking slightly. "What are you escaping?"
Joana's face burned.
"The other girls," she murmured, barely above a whisper. "We were playing. They—" She cleared her throat, feeling utterly ridiculous. "They said they were going to throw me into the cold pool in the bathhouse."
For a moment, there was silence.
Then, the Emperor laughed.
"Playing?" he repeated, tilting his head slightly. "What, without me?"
Joana thought she might burst into flames.
The Gracious Mother, standing stiffly at the Emperor's side, exhaled sharply through her nose. A single glance at her expression made Joana's stomach drop.
Ohh no...
She was furious.
Her fingers curled around the Emperor's arm, a gentle but firm touch, her knuckles paling. "Come, my son," she said.
The words sent an odd shiver down Joana's spine.
She had known, of course, that the Emperor was the Mother's son. But hearing her say it—hearing the possessiveness in her voice—made it feel different.
Joana remained on the cold floor as they stepped around her. But as the Emperor moved past, he twisted slightly to glance back at her, his expression unreadable.
Then, he smiled.
It was brief, fleeting, but unmistakable.
And then he was gone.
Joana exhaled sharply, pressing her forehead to the cool stone floor.
She had ruined everything.
She was so stupid.
---
Two days later, the harem was abuzz with news.
Lady Margaery was pregnant.
The announcement spread through the chambers like wildfire. The other women flocked to her, offering gifts and warm congratulations. Some were genuine. Others were veiled in bitterness, their lips curling into polite smiles that didn't quite reach their eyes.
Joana could see why.
The Emperor had barely looked at any of them. Ever. Not in the two years since he had taken the throne. Every girl in the harem was waiting for his attention, waiting for the moment he might glance in their direction.
Most would wait forever.
But Margaery had been chosen.
Joana congratulated her earnestly, though the words felt strange on her tongue. It wasn't Margaery's fault that she had failed.
Margaery didn't even see her as a competition.
She smiled as Joana murmured her well wishes, resting one hand on her still-flat stomach. The baby would come in eight moons.
And if it was a boy…
The Mother's plans would be for nothing.
Joana would have failed.
She sat beside Roslin in their communal chambers, listening as two concubines played music. There were twenty-one of them gathered together, their laughter and voices filling the space, weaving into the sweet notes of the lyre.
Roslin was smiling. A wide, bright smile, unashamed of the small gap between her teeth that she had always been self-conscious about.
"Isn't this wonderful?" she whispered. "If Lady Margaery has a son, we might be married off!"
Joana nodded, but it was hollow.
"It's incredible," she murmured.
But the words tasted like ashes in her mouth.
It wasn't the baby that upset her.
It was a disappointment.
The Gracious Mother had believed in her. Had trained her. Had prepared her.
And Joana had failed.