When Joana reached her chambers, she barely registered the presence of her maids. Jeyne and Dalla were crouched on the floor, sweeping beneath her bed. But she had no words for them, no acknowledgment.
Her body moved on instinct, driven by the sickness roiling in her stomach. She fell to her knees and grabbed the chamber pot in the corner, retching violently. Her entire body shuddered with each heave, the convulsions wringing out every last bit of her stomach's contents until all that remained was the sharp sting of bile at the back of her throat.
A tentative hand touched her back. A voice, concerned, wavered behind her.
"Consort, is something wrong?"
Joana could hardly breathe, let alone respond. The acidic burn in her throat choked her, but it was nothing compared to the crushing weight inside her chest.
"Leave me," she gasped out, her voice raw and desperate. "All of you, leave me. I command it."
Hesitation hung in the air. Jeyne and Dalla exchanged a look, uncertain, but they had no choice. They obeyed. Dalla scooped up the soiled chamber pot and disappeared with it, while the others quickly gathered their things and shuffled out, casting her wary glances before shutting the door behind them.
Silence swallowed the room.
Joana sat there on the floor, her hands trembling as she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. Her breaths came unevenly, chest rising and falling in frantic bursts, but there was no one left to witness her unraveling.
She closed her eyes.
She had never truly prayed before.
She had spoken the words when required—muttered empty blessings in septs, knelt when the septas told her to. But even then, it had been half-hearted. There had been no faith in her pleas, no real belief that the gods who had taken her mother could ever save her.
She had believed, back then, that only she could save herself.
But now… now, she clasped her hands together, fingers locking tightly as if sheer desperation alone could force the gods to listen.
Her heart pounded wildly as she lifted her gaze, staring up at the ceiling. She tried to picture something beyond it, something greater than the stone and wood above her. A divine court, a place where celestial beings feasted and laughed, where prayers like hers were but whispers lost in the wind.
"Are you there?" she murmured, her voice unsteady. "Are you there? It's me, Joana."
No. They would not know her by that name.
"It's Jo," she corrected, her voice breaking. "Jo, daughter of Lya."
The child within her stirred, a sharp kick pressing against her ribs, and she bit down on a sob. Her hands flew to her belly, cradling it protectively. But in her mind, she saw not her own unborn child, but the boy lying in Lady Margaery's arms.
The boy who would grow up to hate her.
"If you do not wish me to bear the next emperor," she whispered, her lips trembling, "then give me only daughters."
The words tumbled from her in a rush, frantic and pleading.
"I shall be happy with princesses. I will love them, I swear it. I will give them a life worth living."
She squeezed her eyes shut, imagining a future where her children were only girls—girls who would never be seen as threats, who would never have to fight for a throne that would never be theirs. If she bore no sons, there would be nothing to fear.
No sons to be hunted.
No sons to be killed.
She could devote herself to arranging their futures, finding them good husbands, and ensuring that at least one of them wed a man who would allow her to stay in his household when the little prince finally ascended the throne.
She could survive.
Her breath hitched, and she clutched her stomach, pressing her forehead against the mattress.
"I will not be able to live through the loss," she whispered fiercely, her voice cracking under the weight of her grief.
She sucked in a sharp breath, steeling herself before she spoke again.
"If you intend for Margaery's son to be Emperor, then slay my sons in the womb."
Her voice was no longer pleading. It was a quiet, desperate demand.
"It would be a mercy," she continued, shaking. "A kinder fate than that of princes who fail to take the throne."
Tears slipped down her cheeks, soaking into the fabric beneath her.
"Please," she choked out. "I beg of you."
Her fingers dug into the mattress, her body trembling with the force of her desperation.
"Please, please, please."
A shuddering breath.
"Please, give me only daughters."
---
Roslin arrives in the evening, her face pale and solemn, bearing yet another burden of news. The little prince has been named Maekar, and in celebration—or perhaps as an attempt to secure the people's loyalty—Lady Margaery issues a command.
Her family's servants flood the streets of the capital, distributing gold and food to the starving masses. A single golden dragon and a loaf of bread for every outstretched, gaunt hand, accompanied by prayers for the health of little Maekar.
Three days later, wagons roll into the city, heavy with the summer harvest, all in the name of Lady Margaery and her newborn son. By the week's end, Joana is certain that every desperate soul in the city will be on their knees, praying for the health of the lady and her precious heir.
The Emperor does not come to her that night.
Nor the night after. Joana hadn't expected him to.
Why would he come after all ? His son has been born. An heir. His heir.
His need for her is gone.
The bells of the city toll endlessly, echoing the joy of the Emperor's new fatherhood. In Highgarden, Margaery's parents raise their golden goblets, toasting the health of their grandson from the luxury of their golden seats.
And Joana remains here, alone, forgotten within the walls of the Red Keep...