Margaery's fingers tighten around her goblet, though her face remains impeccably smooth. She brings the cup to her lips, taking a measured sip before responding in a clipped tone.
"Of course. Such luck."
Across the table, Desmera says nothing. Her face grows steadily paler, a sickly green creeping beneath her freckles. Joana watches as she lifts a trembling hand to cover her mouth, her desperate eyes flickering first to the Mother, then to the Emperor.
"Are you unwell?" Joana asks gently, reaching out to place a hand on her shoulder.
Desmera rises abruptly, her movements jerky with urgency. "Mother, I'm feeling nauseated," she announces, voice tight. "I'll return to my rooms."
No one has time to respond before she turns on her heel and walks out, making no effort to offer a courtesy to either the Emperor or his mother.
The breach of etiquette is glaring, but no one calls her back. Joana watches her retreating figure, her heart stuttering painfully in her chest.
Margaery exhales a long-suffering sigh. "My poor cousin," she says, shaking her head. "I fear the next few months will be torturous for her."
The Mother, however, is unmoved. "Well, that is the price to pay to bear a prince," she states simply. "As of today, no other males, save for His Majesty, are available to produce sons for the dynasty."
The Emperor takes another sip of wine, then picks up a square-cut piece of meat, chewing slowly. When he finally swallows, he speaks with certainty. "She won't have to worry about suffering this again. It will only be this once."
A heavy silence follows his words, stretching long enough to feel tangible.
Then, the Mother smiles and strokes his arm, effortlessly shifting the conversation. "I have not yet had the chance to tell you," she says. "I have decided to wed our Princess Daenerys to Lord Stan's eldest son. It will help mend the bridges that were broken with the deaths of Concubine Lyanna and your sister."
The Emperor nods, but his mind seems to move elsewhere. "And Rhaenys?" he asks. "Does she have a husband yet? You know how she pesters me about it, Mother."
"I have not made a decision about Rhaenys," the Mother replies smoothly. "Tell her to be patient and wait." Then, she turns to Joana and Margaery, smiling warmly. "My dears, when your daughters are grown, you too will be pestered with endless questions of husbands and betrothals."
Margaery tilts her head slightly, casting a sidelong glance at Joana. "Well," she murmurs, her tone light yet sharp. "I suppose we must wait and see if the consort bears daughters, must we not?"
"She will," the Emperor says without hesitation. His voice is so firm, so final, that Margaery blinks, her composure slipping for the briefest of moments. She turns to look at him in shock.
"Boys and girls both," he adds.
The air between them stills. A second stretches into an eternity.
Then, Joana lowers her gaze, her expression carefully submissive. She presses a hand to her stomach and speaks softly. "Thank you, Your Majesty, for your faith in me," she says. "But I would prefer to see this one born before I think of bearing more."
The Emperor smiles, but Joana sees it—the hunger in his eyes. Not for food. For her...
The rest of the meal is eaten in near silence, the only sounds coming from the clinking of cutlery against fine plates. The hours drag on, and yet, no one dares to speak again.
When the time finally comes for Joana and Lady Margaery to rise and take their leave, the Emperor stands as well.
"I shall escort Consort Joana to her chambers,"
Margaery's eyes widen slightly, and even the Mother appears momentarily surprised. But neither of them protested. They cannot protest.
Margaery lowers into a graceful curtsy. Joana watches as the Emperor steps toward his mother, bending down to press a gentle kiss to her head. The Mother smiles, reaching up to stroke his face with all the devotion and pride in the world.
As Joana and the Emperor leave the room, she can feel the Mother's eyes lingering on her back. She does not turn to confirm whether the look is one of approval or satisfaction. She does not need to.
The Emperor walks beside her, never overtaking her steps, his hands clasped behind his back in a manner that feels almost restrained.
"How are you feeling?" he asks after a moment, his voice quieter now. Behind them, Dalla follows at a respectful distance.
"Well," Joana replies, her hand drifting once more to her stomach. "The baby is already a proper imperial child. He is quite good to me." She had only felt ill with certain foods, and her maids had been careful to keep them from her plate.
"I'm glad."
The Emperor stops walking, and so does she.
Without hesitation, he takes a step forward, reaching out to play a hand over her stomach. His touch is warm, lingering.
"I wish you a son, Joana."
She smiles.
They walk together toward her chambers, their steps slow but unhurried. Joana's mind drifts, considering the weight of the child she carries.
If it were a boy, an heir, his future would be secured. The Green Emperor and his mother had structured the succession so that only male children could inherit, ensuring stability at the cost of countless daughters being overlooked.
It was only through a miracle—or perhaps fate—that the Bane Emperor and the Brief Emperor had ascended after their mother's death. It had proven that a ruler could take the throne without a mother's guiding hand.
Meria Sand had been mistaken when she claimed otherwise.
Joana thinks of Lady Baela, their half-sister, who had ruled the harems as the Bold Sister. After the Bane Emperor's death, when her mother passed, the Defiant Sister tried to do the same for the Young Emperor and the Blessed. But that had ended in disaster. Only under the reign of the Good Emperor and his Cherished Mother had peace and stability returned to the empire.