Her emperor is turning twenty today. Three years have passed since he ascended the throne after the untimely death of his father, and the entire capital is alight with celebrations. The streets hum with excitement, a symphony of joyous voices blending with the steady chime of bells, each toll marking another year of his reign.
The sound drifts into Joana's chambers as she is made ready, a distant yet inescapable reminder of the world outside these gilded walls.
She longs for last year's celebration—the one for his nineteenth birthday when her mother was still alive, and she was free to partake in the festivities, even if only as a servant. She remembers the laughter, the endless supply of spiced wine and honeyed pastries, and the puppet shows and plays performed under the vast night sky. It had been magical, each part of it, and she ached for those simpler days. Days when she was just Jo when she was nameless in the eyes of the palace, unseen and unimportant. When her greatest concerns were hunger and the stubborn grime clinging to her skin, not the weight of expectation, the silent battles of the harem, or the unspoken fears of what it meant to carry an emperor's child.
Now, she sits beside Roslin in the lavish communal hall, her posture composed, her hands resting lightly in her lap. Servants move between them, balancing trays laden with delicacies—golden figs drizzled in honey, spiced nuts, and roasted meats glistening with fat. Her copper plate remains untouched, as does her goblet, though the rich scent of wine lingers in the air. Hunger is a distant concern. Her mind is elsewhere.
Her gaze drifts toward the raised dais where the Emperor sits in a high seat of honor beside his mother. His sisters, Princesses Rhaenys and Daenerys, occupy the seats just below them, while the three favored ladies of the court form a graceful arc around them. A servant kneels before Margaery, offering a small dish of roasted nuts. Margaery, ever poised, keeps one hand resting on her stomach, a silent yet deliberate reminder of the child she carries. Desmera remains forward-facing, her expression unreadable, while Myrcella stands near the musicians, listening intently to the steady pull of the lute and the delicate chime of bells.
Joana knows her place in all of this. As a consort, she has been seated far from the imperial family, her position an unspoken reminder of her status. Roslin, her closest friend, is beside her, their proximity a rare comfort in a world where alliances are fleeting. The concubines whisper amongst themselves, their hushed voices weaving a tapestry of speculation and quiet ambition. The consorts, however, remain silent, content to enjoy the music—or, perhaps, wise enough to know that drawing attention too soon would be a mistake.
She studies the Emperor carefully. He is young and handsome, his smile easy, his expression one of quiet amusement as he leans toward his mother, whispering something only she can hear. The Empress Mother, the most powerful woman in the empire, listens with an unwavering gaze, her sharp eyes noting every morsel he lifts to his lips.
The Emperor, for his part, seems to bask in it, indulging in her care with the ease of a favored son.
But Joana does not care about the mother-son bond between them. It is the Emperor himself who holds her attention. Beneath the effortless arrogance, the quiet confidence, and the ever-present touch of amusement, he remains unreadable. She wonders if he will be pleased with what she has prepared for him. The harem's traditions dictate that each woman may offer a gift on his birthday, a small token in the hopes of capturing his interest. Some gifts are extravagant, meant to dazzle. Others are carefully crafted and designed to appeal to his tastes and desires.
She knows what Roslin has prepared—a fine cloak embroidered with the speared sun of House Martell and the three-headed dragon of House Trayan, a symbol of their shared bloodline. It is a thoughtful gift, but Joana suspects it will fade into the sea of offerings, just as Roslin intends.
That is the difference between them.
Joana does not intend for her gift to be forgotten.
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Many girls have sent letters home, calling upon their fathers and families to procure extravagant gifts—majestic warhorses with shining coats, precious stones as large as a goose's egg, and garments woven from cloth of gold, the richest fabric money can buy. Each hoping to outshine the others, to offer something that will catch his attention.
Joana, however, knows better.
The Emperor has no need for material wealth. He can summon the finest treasures with a mere command. A gift that will truly capture his interest must come either from someone already basking in his favor or from someone who understands the simple truth: there is nothing he lacks.
As if sensing her gaze, the Emperor turns his head, his sharp eyes locking onto hers from across the hall. The moment stretches, thick with unspoken meaning. A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as he lifts his goblet; the movement is slow and deliberate. He takes a sip, watching her all the while.
Heat flares in Joana's cheeks, the intensity of his attention igniting something deep within her. Forcing herself to break the connection, she tears her gaze away, embarrassed by her own reaction.
But even without looking, she can still feel his eyes on her. A lingering presence, burning against her skin.
She fumbles for her utensils and begins eating hurriedly, stuffing roasted carrots and tender cuts of meat into her mouth, as if occupying herself with food will settle her nerves. Beside her, Roslin eats in silence, offering no commentary.
When Joana finally risks glancing up again, she realizes that the Emperor's attention has shifted. It now rests upon Margaery, who sits with an air of quiet authority, one hand placed protectively over her stomach. She was, after all, carrying the child of the emperor.