A Unknown Wise Old Man once said,
Fate is not without its cruel ironies...
Just a fortnight after Maekar's birth, Lady Desmera delivers a son of her own.
He is named Daeron, after the warrior emperor and scholar who once sought to claim Dorne for the empire. Born two weeks early, the boy is small but healthy, with pale curls and a single lock of red hair that falls defiantly across his brow. When Joana visits, Desmera lies pale and exhausted, sleeping soundly after her labor.
No one presses the child into Joana's arms, sparing her the pain of holding what she can never have.
Desmera and Margaery, though sharing the same grandparents, belong to rival houses.
Each of their fathers harbors dreams of seeing his grandson crowned as the Emperor's heir.
The streets of the capital erupt in celebration once more, this time for the birth of Prince Daeron. With the arrival of another son, more Arbor gold flows through the city, and the people raise their cups to Lady Desmera's beauty and kindness.
Joana receives a golden coin in tribute—a token she quickly passes to her maid, Dalla—and a casket of fine Arbor gold. The wine is poured freely in the streets, drowning the people's sorrows in sweetness and song. The celebrations for Maekar have barely ended, yet already the city's blessings are divided between two princes.
At least, Joana thinks bitterly, Margaery's triumph was brief. Her days as the mother of the Emperor's only son have already come to an end. It is a small, cold comfort. But comfort nonetheless.
Joana sits by the large window of her chambers, gazing out at the Red Keep. From here, she can see only stone walls and shuttered windows, but beyond them, she hears the roar of the city—drunken voices raised in joy and song. The Arbor wine, no doubt, has loosened their tongues and filled their hearts with cheer.
A soft movement stirs within her. Joana looks down at her belly, her hand brushing over the curve of her child.
"I'll keep you safe," she whispers. "Mama will love you enough for the whole world."
The door behind her opens, but Joana does not turn.
"I feel fine, Jeyne," she says softly. "You can go and enjoy the cake with the other girls."
Desmera had paid for cakes to be distributed among the servants, and Joana, in an uncharacteristic moment of kindness, had granted her maids the night off to indulge in the rare treat. There will be no cakes when her own child is born.
But the silence behind her lingers, and when Joana turns, her breath catches in her throat.
It is not Jeyne who stands in the doorway.
It is the Emperor.
He leans against the doorframe, watching her.
Joana flushes, the color burning her cheeks as she struggles to rise. Despite the weight of her belly, she curtsies as deeply as her body allows, lowering her gaze to the cold stone floor.
"Forgive me, Your Majesty," Joana murmurs, lowering her gaze. "I thought you were one of my maids."
The Emperor steps further into the dimly lit room, the door clicking shut behind him as he nudges it closed with his foot. A faint smile plays on his lips as he reaches out, his hand finding the curve of her belly. He chuckles softly when the child stirs beneath his palm.
"He is strong," Aegon says, his voice filled with quiet amusement.
Joana sighs, though a reluctant smile tugs at her lips. "He is annoying. His Majesty calls him strong because His Majesty does not feel his kicks all day."
"Are you complaining?" he teases, pulling her by the waist. Despite the swell of her stomach between them, he draws her as close as he can, his dark purple eyes searching her face for something unspoken. "I heard you visited Lady Margaery and Lady Desmera. That was very courteous of you."
She does not tell him she has no choice. She knows he already understands that.
Joana slides her arms around his shoulders, tilting her body to avoid pressing her belly between them. She looks up at him, drinking in the familiar lines of his face — sun-kissed skin, an aquiline nose, full lips that betray no softness, and those eyes, dark as shadow until the light catches them and turns them to gleaming amethyst. The face of a conqueror. The face of her lover.
Aegon Trayan, The Emperor of a thousand cities and the ruler of her heart.
"Don't speak of them," Joana whispers, trailing her nails lightly up the back of his neck, smiling when she feels him shudder beneath her touch. "This is my room. Not theirs."
He laughs softly, his hand returning to stroke her belly with a tenderness that few others would ever believe him capable of.
"I should find a name that starts with the same sound as yours," he muses. "If it's a boy." He arches a silver brow playfully. "The people expect it now. It would be strange if I didn't."
"And whose fault is that?" Joana asks, arching a brow in return.
But as she leans in closer, her smile falters. She sees it now—the shadows beneath his eyes, the subtle tremor in the hand that holds her. He smiles, but she can see the weight pressing down on him, the burden of an empire carved into every line of his face.
Her heart tightens.
"Is there something wrong?" she asks softly.
"Nothing important," Aegon replies, brushing a strand of dark hair from her face. "You shouldn't worry."
"If it troubles you, I worry," Joana insists. Her fingers tangle gently in his hair as she strokes the back of his head. "Tell me."
For a moment, he hesitates.
Joana knows the world rests heavily on his shoulders—the weight of alliances, wars, and enemies that lurk in the shadows of the empire. Yet, here in her chambers, beneath the soft glow of candlelight, he is not the Emperor. He is simply Aegon. And she is the only one who sees him as a man, not a legend.
"Please," she murmurs. "Let me carry some of it. Even if it's only for tonight."