Joana does not know what Margaery intends to give the Emperor, but she knows this much: whatever it is, it will be significant. House Tyrell is wealthy and ambitious, and Margaery holds an undeniable advantage. She is the mother of the Emperor's only child, with another on the way. Even without offering a material gift, she can wield that fact like a weapon.
Princess Elaena, the Emperor's young daughter, is absent from the hall, likely kept in her chambers due to her age. But Joana wouldn't be surprised if Margaery arranged for the child to make an appearance before the night's end, a living, breathing symbol of her influence.
A hush falls over the room as the Empress Mother rises to her feet. The music ceases, the conversation fading into expectant silence. Every eye turns toward her.
"My girls," she says, her voice smooth yet commanding, "shall we begin?" She spreads her arms in a gesture of invitation. "Tonight, we celebrate twenty years since I was delivered of a handsome, loving son, and our Melancholic Emperor gave him his name." Her lips curve into a serene smile. "Let us bring forth our gifts."
The concubines move first, standing one by one, each gathering the gifts they have prepared. Joana watches as Roslin approaches, presenting the Emperor with her embroidered cloak. The Mother looks particularly pleased by the craftsmanship, though the Emperor himself offers only a polite nod.
Next, Concubine Gella steps forward, offering an elaborate fishing spear. The Emperor accepts it with a cool glance, his reaction neither displeased nor particularly engaged.
A concubine comes forward and presents a fine, clear mirror with delicate decorations.
It was clear enough to show even minute details.
When presented before the emperor, he saw his own reflection in it and nodded with a slight smile.
Another concubine unveils an enormous painting of the Emperor and his late father, but Joana instantly recognizes the mistake—there is no depiction of the Mother. Even veiled, her presence should have been included. A costly oversight.
Talla Tarly steps forward with a finely carved bow, accompanied by a set of arrows tipped with red and black feathers, the colors of House Trayan. Marianne Vance, however, is the first to truly capture his attention. She presents him with a set of jewelry—rings, a necklace, and earrings, each adorned with rubies and onyx stones.
The Emperor, intrigued, lifts a brow. "An interesting choice," he muses. "And for what reason have you chosen this gift?"
Marianne inclines her head gracefully. "Because it is not for you, Your Majesty." She allows a brief pause, then adds, "It is for your mother, the woman who brought you into this world twenty years ago."
A slow smile spreads across the Emperor's lips. Joana feels her heartbeat quicken. A gift that pleases both him and the Mother is a rare feat.
The concubines retreat to their seats, their offerings given. Now, it is the consorts' turn.
One by one, they rise. Consort Teola steps forward, cheeks flushed, and presents the Emperor with a hundred casks of Dornish red from her family's private vineyards.
Another consort gifts him a hound, trained to lead his hunting parties. A third presents yet another portrait of the Emperor and his father, this time met with murmured disapproval—an unfortunate repetition of an earlier mistake.
Then, at last, it is Joana's turn.
She moves forward, feeling the weight of a hundred eyes upon her. Unlike the others, she carries no lavish object, no precious trinket wrapped in silks. Instead, as she reaches her place before the Emperor, a musician steps forward, dragging a chair with her.
Two nights ago, when the Empress Mother arranged for the traveling all-girls ensemble to perform, Joana saw her chance. She sent Jeyne to bribe one of the musicians, ensuring that she would have accompaniment.
Now, as she curtsies before the Emperor, she meets his gaze steadily.
"Your Majesty," she says, her voice clear. "Allow me to extend my deepest congratulations on your twentieth nameday. May the gods grant you another hundred."
The Emperor leans forward slightly, his chin resting against his fist, watching her with keen interest.
Joana glances at the musician, who nods in confirmation. Then, the first notes of the song begin—soft at first, then growing richer, fuller.
And Joana sings.
Your featherbed is deep and soft,
And there you'll lay me down,
You'll dress me all in yellow silk,
And on your head a golden crown.
For I shall be your lady love,
And you shall be my lord.
You'll always keep me warm and safe,
And guard me with your sword.
She watches him closely as she sings, gauging his reaction. The original song is a bawdy tune, one unfit for noble company, but her alterations make it even more daring. A scandal in itself.
And how I smiled and how I laughed,
Your maiden of the tree.
I spun away and said to you,
No featherbed for me.
I'll wear a gown of golden leaves,
And bind my hair with grass,
But you can be my forest love,
And me your forest lass.
The final notes linger in the air, and then—silence.
No one speaks.
The meaning is clear. She is not merely offering a song. She is offering herself.
Joana curtsies deeply, carefully watching the Emperor's expression. His face remains unreadable, a carefully maintained mask of neutrality.
But then—he raises a hand.
"Splendid," he murmurs in a low voice, carrying it across the hall.
"Finally, someone gifts me what I want, rather than what they want me to want."
A pause.
"Tonight, I shall visit Consort Joana's room."
The words settle over the gathering like a thunderclap.
Joana curtsies once more, her expression serene. "It is an honor to serve the Emperor."
His smile is bright and dazzling, like the sun itself. As she moves back to her seat, she can feel the weight of countless stares, some filled with jealousy, others with quiet hatred.
But she no longer cares.
Let them gossip. Let them scheme.
Tonight, the Emperor will be hers.
---
The ceremonies continue, each gift more extravagant than the last. Lady Myrcella steps forward first, presenting the Emperor with a striking new sword.
Its hilt is wrought from gold, intricately designed, and studded with glistening rubies and small, varicolored sapphires that catch the candlelight like tiny stars. A weapon of both beauty and power, it is a fitting tribute to the ruler of the realm.
Next, Lady Desmera offers something more delicate yet no less remarkable—a scaled-down replica of the Imperial Grace, a golden heart pleasure barge that sails to the capital.
The craftsmanship is exquisite, each detail mirroring the grandeur of the actual vessel. It is a gift meant to honor him, to remind him of his reach over the vast waters and the cities beyond.
Then comes Lady Margaery. Her offering is more intimate, more sentimental—a golden locket, its delicate filigree work crafted in the Dornish style.
The Emperor flicks it open, revealing a small, masterfully painted portrait of Princess Elaena. She is barely two years old, yet her likeness is captured in such fine detail that it seems as though she might blink at any moment.
A murmur runs through the gathered courtiers, but it is the Mother who reacts most sharply.
A frown creased her face. She was displeased.
The reason is clear: the portrait shows the young Princess with her face uncovered. Such a thing is unthinkable.
Children under six are kept within the sanctity of the harem, shielded from the eyes of the outside world. That someone beyond the servants or the women of the complex might glimpse Elaena's features is, to the Mother, an unforgivable scandal.
The Emperor's fingers tighten slightly around the locket. His voice, when he speaks, is clipped and measured. "Who painted this?"
Lady Margaery meets his gaze without hesitation. "I did, as I did the last time, Your Majesty," she replies smoothly. Then, as if sensing the tension beneath his words, she softens her tone. "Please, do not worry about our beloved daughter's dignity. The locket is for your eyes alone, my love. It was made to remind His Majesty of what I gave him when our Elaena was first born."
Joana watches the Emperor's reaction closely. It is not the gift itself that troubles him—Margaery's craftsmanship is as fine as ever, and the locket's sentiment is undeniable. But Joana knows him well, well enough to recognize that something has shifted.
Margaery has given him this gift before. In another time, it might have pleased him, even delighted him. But now, after all the quiet fractures in their relationship, after all the difficult turns that have reshaped their bond, he does not receive it as he once did. Perhaps Margaery does not yet realize this—or perhaps she does and simply refuses to acknowledge it.
"Thank you," the Emperor says at last, his voice even but distant. "I shall treasure it greatly."
And yet, before all those gathered, he does not clasp the locket to his chest or slip it into a pocket as he might have done in years past. Instead, he passes it to a waiting servant, just as he does with all the other gifts. The meaning is clear. Once, he had held such a token close. This time, he does not. And everyone in the room sees it.