"Tell me the name of your stepmother and where she lives," Aegon murmurs, his voice a whisper against the hush of the night. His fingers trace absent patterns along her shoulder, but there is steel beneath his words. "I'll see to it that she regrets her actions against you."
Joana shakes her head, the lie coming easily to her lips. "There is no need," she says. "It's not worth it."
His brows knit together. "Revenge is not worthy?"
"I don't think so," she answers, carefully choosing her words. She knows that if she does not give him a reason to abandon the idea, he will persist. "Vengeance only begets more vengeance. If Your Majesty punishes her now, it will not undo what was done to me. But worse than that—others will see it as an indulgence, an Emperor swayed by personal affections. They will judge you for it, and such judgments may weaken you in their eyes."
For a long moment, Aegon says nothing, simply watching her, his violet eyes unreadable. Then, to her surprise, he smiles.
"You're kind," he says. "Too kind by half. The harem will eat you alive."
Joana thinks of Lady Margaery, the woman who had spoken to her with a kindness laced with a warning before her first night with the Emperor. She had seemed warm, but Joana had not missed the way her words had been carefully measured. There was kindness in the harem, perhaps—but it was always calculated.
"Is it not better to be kind? And merciful?" she asks softly. "The world may cast you down for it, but at least you can rest knowing you never betrayed yourself."
Aegon exhales, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling. "I suppose so," he says after a pause. "I guess I have never allowed myself to be kind before. I must be strict to rule."
Joana turns onto her side, facing him, her fingers grazing the smooth skin of his arm. "Your Majesty can be both," she says. "Strict and kind are not enemies. There is a balance—a ruler who tempers justice with mercy is not weak. He is wise. A tyrant rules with fear alone, but a fair Emperor will always have the loyalty of his people."
He frowns, his lips pressing into a thin line. She can tell her words have struck something in him, something deeper than mere conversation. A seed of thought, planted in the quiet of the night.
Joana watches him, wondering what kind of Emperor he will become.
A sudden, thunderous knocking shatters the stillness of the room, making Joana flinch. The Emperor sits up immediately, his body tense as he turns toward the door.
"Your Majesty! Your Majesty!" A frantic voice calls from the other side. "Your Majesty, it is most urgent!"
Joana frowns, blinking the sleep from her eyes. What could be so dire that they would dare interrupt him at this hour?
Aegon throws off the covers, rising from the bed in all his naked glory. Without a word, he grabs her shift from the floor and tosses it to her—a silent command to get dressed. She hurriedly slips it over her head, watching as he strides to an open chest, yanks out a dressing gown, and shrugs it over his shoulders. His movements are sharp, his anger betrayed by the heavy, deliberate steps he takes toward the door.
The knocking continues, growing more insistent. "Your Majesty!"
Finally, he yanks the door open with enough force that it slams against the wall.
"What?" he snaps, his voice edged with fury.
Kneeling on the floor is Overseer Meria, her face red with exertion and distress. She does not look at Joana—she doesn't need to. She already knows she is there.
"Your Majesty, forgive me for what I must say," Meria whispers, keeping her gaze fixed downward. "Consort Myranda Royce and Consort Mya Baratheon have been found in bed together. It was undeniable that they were amid unspeakable acts. The Gracious Mother has taken the liberty of imprisoning them in their rooms until you decide their fate."
Joana stiffens. She glances at Aegon and sees the barely contained fury in his expression.
The harem belongs to him. Every woman inside it is his for as long as she holds his favor—whether as a concubine, a consort, or a lady-in-waiting. To take another lover, whether a man or a woman, is treason.
Even pleasuring yourself alone is a crime. If you are pleasuring yourself, it means you are finding more pleasure in the act when done alone than the emperor; it's like a challenge to the emperor; this is treason to his authority. And treason has only one punishment.
Beheading.
Not just for the guilty parties but for their families as well, down to the last drop of shared blood. It was a precedent set by the Cruel Emperor, and no one had dared defy it since.
Aegon's hands clench into fists. His voice is dangerously calm when he speaks. "Who found them?"
"Lady Margaery, Your Majesty," Meria answers.
Joana lowers her eyes, uncertain of what to think. But after a moment, she looks back at him—and finds him already watching her.
He studies her, expression unreadable, then asks, "Do you still believe in kindness?" His voice is quiet, but the weight of his question is heavy. "And mercy to those that wrong us?"
Joana meets his gaze. "Yes, Your Majesty."
A tense silence stretches between them.
Then, Aegon turns back to Meria. "Consort Mya and Consort Myranda will be stripped of their titles and exiled to Essos," he declares. "They may take this month's allowance to see them there. Nothing more."
Meria hesitates. "And their families, Your Majesty?"
"Nothing will be done to them," he says firmly. "Tell Lord Royce and Ser Nestor that the Emperor has chosen mercy—due to the pleas of the newly appointed Consort Joana."
Joana inhales sharply, surprised. She had not pleaded, not truly—but he had given her the credit all the same.
With a deep bow, Meria whispers her obedience and quickly withdraws.
Aegon swings the doors shut and turns back to Joana. His expression is unreadable for only a moment before it softens into something amused.
And when he comes to take her again, Joana is smiling.