Joana gazes at her reflection in the mirror as Dalla pulls the laces of her dress tight, her hands moving with practiced precision. The fabric cinches around her, accentuating the gentle curves of her body. Her hair, twisted into an intricate braid, is pinned with emeralds that gleam under the dim candlelight.
She looks beautiful—more than that, she looks valuable, adorned as she is in the wealth of the empire.
She is neither particularly tall nor strikingly petite, neither plump nor gaunt. In truth, she might have been thinner had it not been for the change within her—the event that now shapes her future.
It is this very reason that Dalla dresses her in a delicate maternity gown, pale green with golden lace tracing the edges of the sleeves and hem. A consort's attire, but also a declaration.
Her fingers brush against her abdomen, still flat, though she knows that will change soon. It has only been two weeks since conception, but already, her body is shifting. Her breasts have begun to swell, preparing for the life she will one day nourish, and the sight brings a rare smile to her lips. It is a joyous thing, to carry a child.
More than that, it is security.
Even if the child does not live, she has proven her worth, proven that she is capable of bearing the Emperor's offspring. That alone ensures her place and shields her from the fate of those deemed useless. There is power in this. Safety.
She presses her palm firmly against her stomach, wondering when she will feel movement within.
She is eager for it. For all of it. The weight of her child in her arms, the changes in her body, the tangible proof of what she has accomplished.
In truth, she had foolishly believed she would begin to show the moment she conceived. But the reality is slower, quieter. It will take time.
Behind her, Dalla ties the last of the laces and steps back, admiring her work. Joana sighs, rolling her shoulders to release the tension.
"I will only need one of you tonight," Joana announces, turning to regard the three maids in her chambers. Dalla stands nearest, the other two—Marra and Jeyne—busying themselves with smoothing out the silken sheets of her bed. "Dalla shall accompany me to the Mother's supper. The both of you are free to retire once you finish here."
Marra and Jeyne exchange a glance before dipping their heads in acknowledgment.
"It is an honor, Consort," Dalla murmurs, bowing her head.
Joana nods, then turns, gliding toward the door with effortless grace. As she walks, she keeps one hand over her belly, as though already protecting the child within.
There is a new lightness to her step, a quiet triumph in the way she carries herself. She is pregnant.
She is to bear the Emperor's child, and that child—boy or girl—will never know hunger, never live in fear as she once did.
Even if it is a daughter, she will be an imperial princess, with power in her veins and respect in her name. And Joana will be there to guide her, to choose her attendants, her tutors.
The mother of a princess wields unique authority—unlike the Emperor, who may influence but never dictate a princess's marriage. That power belongs solely to the mother.
She recalls the story of Princess Daenerys, given in marriage by the Melancholic Emperor to Lady Elia when her own mother, the Dutiful, perished in childbirth. A child with imperial blood must be raised with care and nurtured with intention. And Joana will be the one to do it.
A servant steps forward, opening the heavy doors to the Gracious Mother's apartments. The scent of spiced wine and roasted meats drifts through the air, rich and enticing. Joana enters with a poised smile, dipping into a curtsy as deep as her condition allows.
The Gracious Mother sits in the center of the chamber, draped in fine silks, her posture effortless in its regality. To her left and right sit Ladies Desmera and Margaery, their own gowns framing their rounded bellies. Before them, a table brims with delicacies, untouched as they await their final guest.
"Ah, Consort Joana," the Mother greets "How good of you to join us."
Joana steps forward, taking the offered hand and pressing a reverent kiss to it. The Mother's fingers curl gently over hers in a silent gesture of welcome.
"Sit, please," she continues. "We have not yet begun."
There are four chairs set around the table, aside from the Mother's own. Joana lowers herself into the seat beside Margaery, feeling the weight of eyes upon her. Desmera and Margaery watch her closely, their gazes lingering on her midsection as if expecting to see the swell of new life beneath her gown. It has only been a fortnight since the announcement was made to the harem, but private moments between them have been few.
Their own pregnancies are further along—six months for Desmera, five for Margaery—but none of them are yet near delivery. There is still time.
Still, Joana notices something strange. The supper was meant for the Mother and the expectant women, and yet, a seat remains empty. Who else is coming?
She lifts her gaze to the Mother, voices soft but inquisitive. "Are we expecting another guest, Mother?"
The Mother's lips curve into a knowing smile. "His Majesty has decided to join us."
The words send a ripple through the room. Eyes widen. Spines straighten. Even Joana, prepared as she is for all courtly expectations, feels her pulse quicken. The doors to the chamber open once more, and the Mother's smile grows.
"There he is."
A servant's voice rings out, clear and loud.
"Attention! The Emperor of Trayan, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Shield of His People!"
Joana pushes her chair back and stands swiftly, dipping into a deep curtsy. The rules of etiquette exempt her from kneeling in her state, but she bows nonetheless, lowering herself in reverence.
Around her, the other ladies do the same, while the servants fall to their knees in practiced submission. Only the Gracious Mother remains standing, back straight as a blade as her son enters.
The Emperor strides inside. He wears the colors of his house—deep red and shimmering gold—the fine fabric draped over his powerful frame.
A brooch shaped like a speared sun fastens his cloak at his shoulder. His silver hair gleams under the candlelight brushed to perfection.
Those eyes sweep across the chamber, taking in the scene before him. Then, for the briefest of moments, they settle on Joana.
And there, ever so slightly, his expression softens.