The Mother lifts a hand, signaling a servant. A silver goblet is placed in her grasp, and she drinks deeply from it.
Even without asking, Joana knows what it is—a tincture of some kind. The Mother's health has always been fragile, her body dependent on medicines and tonics since her youth. It is both a weakness and a strength. A sickly ruler is underestimated, but a woman who has lived through her ailments and still commands respect? That is another matter entirely.
The goblet is set down with a soft clink.
"I'm happy to see all of us together," the Mother says, her voice smooth but carrying an unspoken weight. "In a moon's turn, it will be my son's nameday. I hope to see all of you at the celebration in the harem."
She glances at Margaery and Desmera then, her gaze flickering ever so briefly to their stomachs.
"Even if some of you cannot participate wholeheartedly in the activities."
The empire will celebrate the Emperor's nameday with grandeur—festivals in the cities, feasts in the countryside, and, within the harem, a night of music, laughter, and indulgence. But Joana knows that Margaery and Desmera, heavy with their early pregnancies, will be limited in their enjoyment. They will sit, they will eat, they will smile politely, but they will not dance. They will not captivate.
Which means, this is an opportunity for her.
Her eyes drift over the lavish gifts laid before her, tokens of the Emperor's affection. Rolls of silk, bottles of rare perfumes, intricately carved jewelry boxes, and chests of silver, filled with the daily stipend she now receives as a consort—a hundred stags, more money than she had ever possessed in her life before this place.
She picks up a single silver coin and holds it out to Jeyne, her maid.
"Go into the city and buy another book for me," she instructs. "One about the laws of this country."
Jeyne dips into a shallow curtsy. "Yes, Consort," she answers before slipping out of the chamber.
Alone now, Joana lets her fingers skim over the gleaming gemstones and delicate metalwork. The rings, the bracelets, the necklaces—each piece would fetch a fortune in the city's markets. And yet, she does not dare sell them. Not yet. They are worth more in her hands than in another's, proof of the Emperor's favor. A reminder to the harem that she is not just another woman lost in the sea of silks and veils.
A safeguard for the day his gaze shifts elsewhere.
"Consort," a soft voice interrupts her thoughts. She turns to see Marra standing beside her. "Concubine Roslin wishes to speak with you."
"Let her in," Joana says without hesitation. "Roslin should not wait to speak with me. If she wishes to see me, then she is welcome."
Marra nods and moves to open the door.
Roslin steps inside hesitantly, her posture tight, her face unreadable. There is something guarded about her, something uncertain. She keeps her gaze low even as Joana gestures for her to sit beside her on the divan.
"Consort," Roslin murmurs in greeting.
Joana studies her for a moment before reaching out, placing a warm hand over Roslin's own.
"What is this, my dear?" she asks gently. "Why are you so cold to me?"
Roslin does not meet her eyes. "I must show my respect to the Emperor's consort and His Majesty's favorite," she says, the words rehearsed, distant.
"You're my friend," Joana counters. "My first friend in this place."
At that, Roslin finally looks up. Joana offers her a small smile, squeezing her hand.
Roslin's voice is barely above a whisper when she speaks next.
"I hope you know what you're doing, Consort," she murmurs. "Lady Margaery is not to be trifled with." Her gaze flickers around the private chamber as if searching for unseen ears. "I'd hate to see my friend taken down without the chance to fight back."
Joana exhales softly. "I'm not like you, Roslin," she says, her tone measured, quiet. "I don't have a title and a noble family to fall back on. When my mother died, I lost everything. Before the Gracious Mother saved me, I was starving on the streets, desperate and alone." Her grip on Roslin's hand tightens. "I have no other option. It's the Emperor for me or nothing."
Roslin studies her, searching for something in her expression. "And if you have a child?" she asks. "A son to threaten Lady Margaery's?"
Joana doesn't flinch. "I should not worry about what may happen in the future," she replies. "I could have no sons, just as Lady Margaery could bear another daughter. Nothing is set in stone."
Roslin sighs, stroking Joana's cheek with a tenderness that surprises her.
"Oh, my friend," she murmurs. "Think of what happened to the children of the Defiant Sister. She was part of her cousin's harem, and her son, and his sons, were all slaughtered because they failed to take the throne. Spare heirs cannot be made to live. It's too risky. Even the Unlikely Emperor, as gentle as he was, was convinced by his mother and lady to slay his nephew, Prince Maegor—her own grandson." She shakes her head. "This family… they do not hesitate to spill their own blood."
Joana swallows, the weight of Roslin's words settling in her chest like a stone.
"I know," she says at last. "But I cannot fight a shadow. Until I have a son, and Lady Margaery has her own, I must keep myself calm and collected."
Roslin watches her carefully, as if waiting for her to change her mind. When Joana does not, she sighs again, as if in defeat.
"When Lady Margaery and Lady Desmera have their children, I shall talk with the Mother," Joana says softly, shifting the conversation. "You're unhappy here. You deserve a husband who will only have eyes for you and children who will grow without the threat of fratricide."
Roslin blinks, as if surprised by the sudden kindness.
"Thank you," she whispers. "That is all that I want."
For a moment, there is silence between them—soft, fragile. A rare moment of honesty in a place built on deception.