During his years as a prince, the Melancholic Emperor had governed the throne, the ancestral seat of his dynasty—a supposed sign that his father had once intended for him to rule. In his household, he had the Gracious Mother, a consort, and a single concubine. A modest arrangement by imperial standards, yet still enough to mark him as a man of importance.
He had five living children at the time of the purge. Four belonged to the Gracious Mother: Prince Jaehaerys, six; Prince Daeron, four; Princess Rhaenys, three; and Prince Aegon, barely a year old. The fifth, a newborn daughter, was borne by his concubine, a lady of House Stak. His consort, pregnant at the time, carried what would have been his sixth child.
The book speaks of a warning—someone must have told the Gracious Mother what was coming, though the author cannot say who. Perhaps they did not know, or perhaps they feared naming names. Regardless, it was this warning that allowed her to act. She hid her youngest children inside a grain storage, but she was too late for the eldest.
Prince Jaehaerys and Prince Daeron were the first to die.
His consort, Lynesse Hightower, was slain alongside her unborn child, the infant cut from her womb and discarded into a well. The author makes it clear—the child had been too young to survive, already dead before the blade struck its mother. A nameless loss, mourned by none beyond the Reach, its remains burned and forgotten.
The slaughter did not end there. Servants and guards who dared to interfere were struck down alongside the children, their bodies discarded into the sea. Some were never found, the tides carrying them away, only for the waves to return them to the shores days later.
The Melancholic Emperor himself had nearly perished, but fate—or perhaps the gods—had placed him beyond the castle's walls when the assassins came. By the time he returned, the deed had been done, but his presence alone was enough to halt the chaos.
This was the crime that shattered the empire, sending it into revolt. The Melancholic Emperor, along with the powerful houses of his murdered wife and concubine, led the charge. By year's end, the Hated Emperor was dead, his reign ended in blood.
His eldest son took the throne, but the wounds inflicted upon the dynasty could never truly heal. The Melancholic Emperor never took another concubine after his ascension. He fathered no more children.
Joana's hands tighten around the book as she reads the final passage on the purge, her heart racing painfully in her chest.
Concubine Lyanna Stak and her infant daughter, Princess Visenya, were presumed dead.
Their bodies were never found. Upon ascending the throne, the Emperor ordered an investigation, hoping against hope that the rumors of their survival might hold true. But time eroded those hopes, and soon the whispers faded into legend. Scholars now believe that the concubine and her child were killed like the others, their throats slit before their bodies were cast into the sea.
It is said that the North has never forgiven the empire for the loss of their blood. Their isolation in recent years is proof of that.
The book directs her to another volume—Of Wolves and Snow by Archmaester Benjamund—for further knowledge of House Stak, but Joana barely registers the words. Her pulse pounds in her ears, the weight of history pressing against her. The sheer cruelty, the senselessness of it all, tightens like a vice around her chest.
Her thoughts are interrupted by the sound of her chamber door opening. She jolts, too engrossed to have noticed the approach. But it is only Overseer Meria, stepping inside with her usual stern gaze.
"The Emperor will see you tonight," she announces simply.
Joana exhales slowly, schooling her expression into one of quiet composure. She dips her chin, a small, graceful nod.
"I am honored for the opportunity to serve His Majesty," she replies, a practiced smile curving her lips.
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The golden morning light spills through the narrow windows, painting streaks of warmth along the stone corridor. It catches the soft sheen of Joana's satin blue skirts, making the fabric shimmer as she moves.
She doesn't look around; she doesn't need to. The harem stretches endlessly in all directions, a labyrinth of silks, whispered gossip and quiet power plays.
The diamonds at her throat and wrists—gifts from the Emperor—glint as they catch the light, scattering reflections across her skin. They are beautiful, exquisite even, but Joana pays them no mind. Pretty things have never distracted her. They are meant to dazzle, to make a woman forget what truly matters. But Joana is not that kind of woman.
Behind her, Dalla follows in silence.
They both know the routine. Every morning, the consorts and women of the harem pay their respects to the Gracious Mother. It is an unspoken rule, a ritual of loyalty and submission. Of course, allowances are made for those who have spent the night in the Emperor's chambers. A late arrival is excused, even expected.
Joana does not rush.
The scent of burning incense curls in the air, mixing with the distant notes of perfume and morning dew. The harem is awake—soft voices hum behind silken screens, the rustle of expensive fabrics filling the halls as women drift through, each lost in their own battles. Some fight for affection. Some for power. Others simply to survive.
At last, Joana reaches the Mother's chambers. The grand double doors stand before her, polished and imposing. There is no need to knock.
The Mother's servants are trained for this, their ears sharp enough to catch even the faintest footsteps. Before she has fully come to a stop, the doors swing open, as if by magic.
She smiles slightly. Efficient.
The room beyond is awash in gold and deep reds, the air thick with a cloying perfume that threatens to smother the senses. A blend of jasmine, sandalwood, and something heavier—amber, perhaps. The scent is unmistakable, a signature of the Gracious Mother herself.