It has only been five days since the Emperor first laid claim to her. Even if she were to conceive, it would be far too soon to know. Surely the Mother isn't expecting her to already carry the Emperor's child.
"The birth of a child is a great blessing from the gods, Mother," Joana says carefully. "They are always a joy."
The Mother watches her for a long moment before arching a delicate brow. "Do you understand what this means?"
Joana hesitates, though she already knows the answer. She doesn't need to speak for the Mother to continue.
"Lady Margaery will no longer be the sole mother of the Emperor's children," she explains, her voice smooth. "That alone is significant. But more than that… Desmera's family will now be locked in a silent battle with Margaery's. They will not be able to support each other—resources must be divided and alliances chosen. To strengthen one is to weaken the other."
Her gaze sharpens. "And now, the Emperor has begun to ask for you. If the sun continues to shine upon you, it is only a matter of time before you, too, bear a child."
A son or a daughter. A potential heir. A shift in the balance of power.
Joana swallows. She knows what the Mother is implying.
"I strive to please both His Majesty and Her Gracious Highness," she answers. "If the gods see me worthy of bearing an imperial child, I will accept their blessing with gratitude."
The Mother nods, seemingly satisfied. "Of course you will." She exhales, leaning back slightly. "I trust you will care for our little ones with great respect, Joana. That is the duty of a mother, after all."
There is a pause. A beat of silence that stretches just long enough to be uncomfortable. And then—
"I hope you understand," the Mother says, voice softer now, "that I cannot be seen favoring you too highly above the others. Especially those who have already delivered grandsons to me."
She does not say anything else, but Joana understands the unspoken message.
She is on her own.
Whatever protection or favor she may have hoped for, it will not come freely. Not from the Mother. Not from anyone.
Joana bows her head. "I understand, Mother."
And she does.
---
That night, the Emperor plays idly with her hair, twisting the damp strands around his fingers as if weaving rings of gold. Joana lies on her stomach, her flushed skin pressed against the cool silk sheets, her head resting on her crossed arms. Her gaze lingers on him, tracing his features in the flickering candlelight.
Meria Sand had said he takes after his father, but here, in the intimate hush of night, all Joana sees is his mother. The same sharp bone structure, the same quiet intensity in his gaze. He has her eyes—not in color, but in shape, in the way they reveal nothing and everything at once. Even his smile, when it comes, is hers.
"How old are you?" he asks suddenly, his voice low, almost hesitant. He doesn't meet her eyes, watching instead as his fingers continue their slow, absentminded play with her hair.
"Eighteen," she answers.
"Were you born in the capital?"
She nods. That much, at least, is true.
"Do you like it here, in the Red Keep?"
Joana doesn't think before answering. "It's better than before."
The words slip out too easily, and she sees the flicker of curiosity in his expression, the slight narrowing of his eyes as he finally looks at her. "Better than before?"
She exhales, shifting slightly against the sheets. "My father's wife was not happy with me," she says carefully. "When he died, she kicked me out. If the Gracious Mother hadn't taken me in, I might have starved."
His expression darkens. He says nothing at first, but his fingers tighten slightly in her hair before releasing. When he speaks again, it's quieter, almost to himself.
"Some people are truly evil," he murmurs.
Joana follows his gaze, her eyes landing on the armlet he wears—the one with three stones, each representing a lost imperial child. A reminder of lives that never got the chance to be lived.
He glances back at her. "Is there something I can do to improve your life?" he asks. "Some reward, perhaps?"
She meets his gaze, letting a slow smile curl at her lips. "The Emperor's company is reward enough."
He laughs at that, shaking his head. "Flatterer," he mutters, but his shoulders ease, the tension slipping away. A sigh escapes him as he loosens his grip on her hair, fingers trailing down her spine instead.
"I wish I could make you a consort," he muses suddenly. "You certainly deserve it more than some of those girls."
Joana tilts her head, playing at innocence. "Why can't you?"
The Emperor rolls his eyes as if the answer should be obvious. "There can't be more than seven consorts at a time," he says. "It's an old law, a tradition of the empire. My reign is supposed to be a return to the proper ways, and my mother insists it would be unwise to marry off any of them before I have a son of my own."
He pauses, then smirks slightly. "What do you think of her?"
Joana frowns, confused. "Of whom, Your Majesty?"
"My mother," he clarifies. "Don't you find it strange that her word alone is what prevents you from becoming a consort?"
She says nothing at first.
Meria Sand had told her that the Emperor holds his mother's opinion above all others, that he loves and respects her more than anyone because she saved him and Princess Rhaenys from the Hated Emperor's men.
So why is he asking her this?
And then, the realization hits.
He's testing her. Trying to see if she will be foolish enough to speak ill of his mother right to his face. Does he think she's an idiot?
She wonders briefly if anyone before her has been stupid enough to take the bait.
Joana smiles, slow and deliberate. "I adore her," she says brightly. "The Mother is so kind to me, so good. Her Gracious Highness saved my life—I'll always be in her debt."
The Emperor smiles in return, and Joana knows she has passed his test.