Joana steps inside, her eyes adjusting to the dim light.
The Mother sits near the large arched windows, her gaze turned toward the lush gardens below. Her gown, a rich dark blue, pools around her like water, every fold perfectly placed. Despite her delicate frame and sickly nature, she is a vision of authority, adorned in rings that gleam with wealth and history.
Joana is about to greet her when she notices them—two figures seated nearby.
Lady Margaery. Lady Desmera.
She hadn't expected to see them here.
Margaery sits with the ease of a woman accustomed to her place, her posture impeccable. Her hands, however, betray her thoughts—one rests lightly against her stomach, the slightest swell hidden beneath layers of silk.
Desmera, in contrast, looks down, her hands twisting in her lap. Her face is carefully blank, but Joana catches the darting glances she sends her cousin. The tension between them is unmistakable.
Ah.
Joana understands everything in an instant.
Margaery had accepted that the Emperor would lay with other women—it was an inevitability in their world. But Desmera's pregnancy? That was a wound too deep to ignore. It changed everything. Another heir. Another stake in the game.
Joana's spine straightens as the weight of the moment settles on her.
She does not hesitate.
Moving forward, she drops into the deepest curtsy she can manage, her knees nearly touching the floor in a display of practiced grace.
"Good morning, Mother," she says, her voice smooth, unwavering. "Peace and happiness to you."
The Mother chuckles softly, the sound as delicate as the brush of silk. She extends a hand—slender fingers adorned with gold and jewels, their surfaces worn smooth from years of power.
Joana rises slowly, stepping forward to kiss the offered knuckles. The scent of expensive oils clings to the Mother's skin, mingling with the overpowering fragrance of the room.
"How are you, my dear?" the Mother asks, her voice both warm and knowing. With a flick of her wrist, she signals a servant. "A seat for the Consort."
A young girl appears almost instantly, her head bowed as she carries a small cushioned stool. Joana lowers herself onto it, arranging her skirts with a practiced hand.
She faces the three women, her expression carefully composed. Calm. Unassuming.
Joana smooths the fabric of her gown, her fingers brushing against the fine embroidery as she settles into her seat. Her back remains straight, her expression composed, though her mind is anything but still. Every glance, every flicker of emotion on the other women's faces tells her something—something useful, something dangerous.
"I'm well, Gracious Mother," she finally answers, offering a polite, measured smile. Her gaze shifts to the two women across from her—Lady Margaery, her hand resting possessively on the slight swell of her stomach, and Lady Desmera, her shoulders slumped, her eyes downcast.
The contrast between them is striking. One glowing with quiet triumph, the other weighed down by uncertainty.
"How are the both of you, Ladies?" Joana continues smoothly, her voice as soft as silk yet carrying a quiet confidence. "I pray every day and night for your good health and the safe delivery of your sons."
Margaery's lips curve into a smile, but there's something sharp hidden within it.
"Thank you, Consort," she replies, drawing out the title just enough to remind Joana of her place. Not cruel, not overt—just a gentle, pointed reminder. "This pregnancy has been a dream come true. The little prince is very kind to me."
How sweet.
Joana tilts her head, feigning admiration. "Of course." Then, smoothly, she shifts her attention. "And you, Lady Desmera? How have you been?"
Desmera looks up, startled. She hadn't expected to be addressed after Margaery had already spoken. A small oversight—one that reveals more than she probably intended.
"I'm well," Desmera says, though the words feel unconvincing. Her hands are folded neatly in her lap, her grip too tight. "Although it has been more difficult than I imagined, to carry this child."
Joana leans forward slightly, just enough to show sympathy—perhaps even concern. "Oh. How sad," she murmurs. "Please, feel free to come to my chambers if you need company, or even just for a small conversation."
It's an offer, but not just to Desmera. It's a move in the larger game, an unspoken challenge for Margaery to witness.
Desmera says nothing, her lips parting just slightly before pressing together again. The silence is enough of an answer.
The Gracious Mother, however, is pleased. She smiles, nodding approvingly.
"How graceful, Consort," she praises. "That is how I want all of you to be. Friendly. In a way, all of us are part of the same family."
A delicate silence follows.
Margaery's gaze flickers, her lashes lowering as if in thought. Then, she speaks, her tone light but laced with something far more pointed.
"How curious, then," she muses, "that the Emperor lays with us all, yet we are supposed to be family."
Joana doesn't blink.
"It's not curious at all," she says smoothly. "Was the Cherished Mother not the Unworthy's own sister? And the two ladies of the Conquering Emperor were his father and mother's daughters just as he was their son?"
She smiles, just a little, just enough.
"Such is the way of our beloved rulers."
History is a useful weapon. A reminder. A lesson. If a close relative of the Emperor bore his child, that child would be undeniable. Unquestionable. The rightful heir. Once, this was the norm. But in recent times, such unions had fallen out of favor—the last being the Hated Emperor and the Dutiful Mother, who were brother and sister.
A little nudge, a little sting—enough to make Margaery's fingers twitch against her stomach.
The Mother lets out a soft chuckle.
"Well said, Consort," she remarks, her voice full of amusement. "It seems someone has been studying our history faithfully."
Margaery flinches—just a flicker of it, a barely noticeable crack in her perfect expression. But Joana sees it. She sees it very well.
And then, just as quickly, Margaery smiles again, smooth as silk.
"Of course," she replies lightly.
But Joana knows.
She knows that at this moment, in the quiet corners of Margaery's mind, something has shifted.
A realization...
A threat...