A long time went by...
Joana lived her days in the Harem peacefully.
One morning, Joana tilted her face back, letting the warmth of the afternoon sun soak into her skin.
The harem gardens were alive with the gentle murmur of women's laughter, the whisper of silk skirts brushing against the stone paths, and the soft, rhythmic splash of water from the fountains. Concubines lounged beneath the sparse shade of the trees, their jeweled hands busy with embroidery, gossip, or idle games played with polished ivory dice.
Beside her, Roslin sat with a concentrated frown, carefully stitching a delicate hem onto a fine dress. The fabric shimmered in the light, and Joana knew that whatever her own clumsy hands could create would never match the precision of Roslin's work. Still, it did not bother her. Today, nothing could dim the quiet joy swelling in her heart.
Her hand rested protectively on the curve of her belly, fingers tracing the firm swell where new life grew. A sudden, strong kick made her smile, pressing her palm more firmly against the spot. The child was determined and full of spirit. A son, she believed.
A son.
The idea of motherhood had once seemed distant, foreign, even impossible. Before the harem, she had never thought of children and had never dared to imagine a future where she could bear and raise one without fear.
But here, everything was different. Here, her child would never know hunger or the biting chill of an empty night. No cruel hands would rip them from her arms, no desperate choices would need to be made.
If it was a daughter, she would grow up pampered, shielded from the struggles Joana had endured. And if it was a son—oh, if it was a son—then perhaps he would be the one to rule.
The thought filled her with a quiet, simmering hope.
She turned to Roslin, meaning to speak, to say something—though later she would not remember what. But before she could, the tranquil moment shattered.
A woman rushed into the gardens, skirts flying behind her in a blur of motion. The jingling of coins echoed against the stone, and Joana immediately recognized the maid—one of Margaery's. The girl's breath came in excited pants, her face flushed as she raised the small purse in her hand and shook it, the golden contents within clinking together.
"Lady Margaery has given birth to a son!" the maid cried, loud enough for all to hear. She moved quickly, pressing coins into eager hands, a bright, triumphant grin on her face. "Praise the Mother, it's a prince!"
The concubines gathered around her, murmuring their approval, their eyes flickering with unreadable emotions—some with happiness, others with calculations for distance future.
The maid reached Joana and Roslin without hesitation, pressing a golden dragon into each of their palms. The weight of the coin was solid, its edges smooth from many hands before hers.
"Lady Margaery has given birth!" the girl repeated breathlessly as if the words themselves were gold. "A boy! A prince!"
Then, just as quickly, she was gone, rushing off to spread the news elsewhere.
Joana stared down at the coin in her hand, her fingers trembling.
The sunlight caught the polished surface, making the dragon stamped into the gold gleam.
The coin burned against her palm, not with heat, but with the knowledge whof at it represented. A golden dragon for a prince.
Had it been a daughter, only silver would have been distributed.
Her throat tightened, and her chest ached as tears welled in her eyes. They slipped free before she could stop them, warm streaks trailing down her cheeks. She had known this day would come. She had known Margaery would give birth. But deep in the quiet corners of her heart, she had prayed—prayed that it would be another girl.
Because if Margaery had given birth to a daughter, Joana's life would have been easier.
If she, too, bore a son, there would be no immediate rival to threaten her own child's place. But now, the gods had made their choice. And they had chosen Margaery.
A sharp kick to her ribs pulled her from her spiraling thoughts. Her child moved restlessly as if sensing her unease.
Roslin reached out, squeezing her shoulder gently. Her grip was steady, reassuring. "We'll have to go and visit her," she said, voice calm but firm. "If they are already making announcements, then she's well enough to receive visitors. Best we go now rather than wait and risk the Mother wondering about our absence."
Joana forced herself to take a breath, to swallow the knot in her throat. She wiped her damp cheeks with quick, impatient fingers and nodded. "You're right."
She looked down at the coin one last time before thrusting it into Roslin's hands. "Keep this," she said flatly. "I have no desire to be paid to commemorate this."
Roslin said nothing, simply curling her fingers around the coin in silent agreement.
Together, they rose. Joana's steps were slow, her belly leading her forward as they walked into the heart of the harem. The corridors seemed narrower, the air heavier with unspoken tension. As they passed, other concubines cast their glances—some full of pity, others of speculation.
Margaery had secured her place.
A lady, with a daughter and now a son. Twelve maids at her beck and call, a wealth of jewels and silks, a favored position that had only strengthened with time.
She had always been rich, always well-connected. Once, before Joana arrived, she had been the most beloved.
And yet, despite all that, she had sent her maid to distribute coins among the lesser women of the harem.
Why?
Perhaps, Joana thought bitterly, because Margaery wanted to be loved.
Or perhaps, because she knew the truth.
She was a threat—to Joana, and to the child growing inside her.
When they arrived at Margaery's chambers, one of her maids greeted them with a polished smile, stepping aside to open the heavy wooden doors.