Joana kept her face neutral, oand mposed, but as she stepped inside, she couldn't help but take in the overwhelming grandeur of the space.The chamber was magnificent—thrice the size of Joana's own, draped in gold-threaded tapestries that shimmered under the soft glow of candlelight.
Thick, intricate rugs covered the floors, muffling the sound of footsteps, and chests lined the walls, their ornate lids surely concealing silks, jewels, and an unimaginable amount of coin.
Margaery's family was allowed to send her gifts, and the Emperor himself had showered her with wealth. A lady's stipend was a hundred golden dragons a day—an impossible fortune to anyone outside the palace—while the Mother, the most powerful woman in the harem, received a thousand.
Joana had always known the gap between them was vast, but standing in the middle of such opulence, she felt it more keenly than ever.
Margaery lay atop her grand bed, her body still flushed from the strain of childbirth. Despite the damp sheen of sweat on her skin, she looked breathtaking, her curly brown hair neatly woven into a braid, framing her delicate features.
But it was not her beauty that held Joana's attention. It was the way she smiled, eyes soft and tender as she gazed down at the small bundle in her arms.
The Mother stood beside the bed, her shoulders visibly relaxed for the first time in months. There was a quiet satisfaction in her expression, the relief of knowing her beloved son now had a male heir. A future emperor.
Princess Elaena sat curled against her mother's side, arms wrapped tightly around Margaery as if afraid she might slip away. But neither the Emperor nor his sisters were present. This moment belonged to the women.
Margaery lifted her gaze to Joana and Roslin, a warm, triumphant smile curving her lips.
"Sisters," she murmured, her voice rich with pride. "Look at my son. Look at how handsome he is."
Joana and Roslin halted at the foot of the bed. Despite the weight of her own growing belly, Joana lowered herself into a careful curtsy, a show of respect she dared not withhold.
"Seven blessings to the little prince," she said, her tone steady and dutiful.
Her eyes flickered toward the Mother, who acknowledged her with a small nod of approval. Pleased, but expectant. Joana had done the right thing by coming.
She turned back to Margaery. "Does the babe have a name yet?"
The Mother answered before Margaery could.
"The Emperor shall name his son," she said in a calm voice. "It is his right alone to whisper a name into the child's ear. We shall not intrude on the tradition."
"Of course, Mother," Joana replied, bowing her head in deference.
Margaery adjusted herself on the bed, shifting the child more securely in the crook of her arm.
With her free hand, she smoothed her fingers over Princess Elaena's silver hair in an absentminded gesture of affection. Even without looking, she was always aware of her daughter.
Then, her brown eyes landed on Joana's belly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them before she smiled again.
"Do you want to hold him, Consort?" she asked softly. "It would be good practice for your babe when it's born."
Joana hesitated. The question was innocent enough, but the Mother was watching her closely. To refuse would be to insult both Margaery and the child. She had no choice.
With a graceful nod, she stepped forward, stretching her arms to receive the newborn.
He was small but solid, his body warm against her hands. She cradled him carefully, mindful of supporting his fragile head. At that moment, one of Margaery's maids, moving with efficiency, stepped forward to loosen the wrappings just enough to reveal the baby's face.
Joana felt her breath catch.
The boy's features were still swollen and soft from the trials of birth, but already she could see the traces of his lineage. His skin was pale, untouched by the sun, and atop his tiny head was a full crown of curly silver hair. His eyes remained tightly shut, but his nose—his chin—
They were his father's.
The Emperor was unmistakable in him.
Joana swallowed hard. She knew what she was holding.
Not just a newborn.
A rival.
A prince today, but a threat tomorrow.
The Emperor had made his intentions clear—Joana would bear more than one child for him. And the chances were high that among them, at least one would be a boy. A son of her own.
And this child, so small and innocent in her arms, might one day send her son to the slaughter.
A lump formed in her throat, hot and suffocating. The weight of the baby became unbearable, pressing against her chest like iron.
Tears welled in her eyes, unbidden and undeniable.
When she finally looked up, the room was silent.
Everyone was staring at her.
Joana forced herself to speak, her voice a hushed tremor. "Forgive me, Mother," she whispered. "The prince is just so very beautiful. It makes me think of my own unborn child."
Carefully, she handed the baby back to one of Margaery's waiting maids.
The Mother regarded her with a gentle smile, but there was something else in her expression—something soft and knowing. Pity.
"I understand, Joana," she said kindly. "You have done enough by coming here."
There was no command in her words, but the meaning was clear. A dismissal.
Joana bowed her head in submission. "By your leave, Mother."
Without another word, she turned and walked out.
She heard Roslin call after her, her footsteps quickly behind, but Joana didn't stop.
"I need to be alone," she said, her voice breaking as she hurried through the corridors.
She didn't slow, not even when she reached the privacy of her chambers. Her stomach twisted with unease—whether from nerves or the restless movements of the child inside her, she could not tell.
Tears slipped down her cheeks, silent and unrelenting.
She had held the future in her arms.
And it had never felt so heavy.