With two sons already born of his blood, a daughter blooming in her youth, and another child growing within her womb, Aegon and the Mother feel a sense of ease in arranging marriages for the other girls of the court.
The crown, ever dutiful, provides generous dowries, fitting for the standing of each girl's noble lineage, with added gold to sweeten the deal for those who would take them as wives.
Roslin, with her beauty and gentle nature, is wed to the handsome heir of the Lord of Riten, while others are matched to men of the appropriate station, though none so lofty as hers.
Letters come from Roslin, filled with joy and tales of her new life by the waters of the Trident. Marra, clever as always, smuggles in a message from Lady Baratheon, who speaks of her eternal gratitude for Joana's courage in saving both her daughter and her house.
Mya, she reveals, has fled to Essos with Myranda, and the two now live in quiet peace, far from the turmoil of the Empire. They are happy together, she writes, and Joana chooses to believe it.
She imagines them in Lys, beneath golden sunlight, feeding each other slices of orange and laughing as free women. If fate ever turns against them, Joana wishes never to know.
A month after Roslin departs for her marriage and two moons after the impostor Visenya is dealt with, Joana's time comes.
---
The first pains strike her in the dim light of dawn. She is seated in her chambers, breaking her fast, when the ache coils deep within her belly, radiating to her back and thighs.
It is nothing like her monthly courses—this is sharper, deeper, and comes in waves that roll through her body with growing intensity.
At first, they come every twenty minutes or so, giving her brief moments of respite. Still, Joana sends for the midwife, who arrives with a knowing smile and a chuckle.
"You have many hours yet, Consort," the midwife says. "The babe will come when it is ready."
Joana bites her tongue to keep from snapping at the woman. Instead, she rises from her chair and paces the room, one hand pressed to the small of her back. Her maids remove her heavy gown, leaving her in a linen shirt that clings to her damp skin.
Her hair, unbound, falls in dark waves over her shoulders, and sweat beads along her brow as the day drags on. The world seems to grow hotter with each passing hour, the air thick and stifling.
By midday, her waters break, soaking the rushes beneath her feet. Yet the babe does not come.
The pain intensifies, the contractions growing closer and more unbearable until Joana can no longer stand. She leans against the cool stone walls for support, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
Her maids try to offer her food, but the very thought makes her stomach twist, and she waves them away.
Night falls, and at last, the midwife declares it is time.
Joana cannot bear to return to her bed. Instead, she sinks to the floor, her knees pressed into the bloodstained rushes and leans her forehead against the edge of the mattress. The midwife kneels behind her, steady and calm.
"Push, Consort," the woman instructs. "Push with the pain, not against it. Breathe when I tell you, and rest when you can. Your body knows what to do."
Joana grits her teeth and obeys, bearing down with each wave of agony that tears through her body.
It is fire and iron, stretching her from within, burning her from the inside out. Sweat trickles down her back, and her fingers dig into the mattress as she screams through each push.
Time becomes a blur—an endless cycle of pain, breath, and effort. She feels as though she is being torn apart. Actually, she was being torn apart. For a moment, she fears she will die here on this very floor.
Then, with one final, desperate push, the babe slips free.
Joana gasps as the sudden release washes over her. The midwife catches the child in her skilled hands, and for a heartbeat, there is only silence. Then, a sharp, shrill cry pierces the air, filling the room with life.
Her maids sigh in relief, some even weeping softly. Joana twists her aching body to see her child, crawling across the blood-soaked floor, uncaring of the mess that stains her shift.
The midwife smiles as she takes a clean linen cloth from Dalla and wraps the babe in it. "It is a boy, Consort. Another healthy son. Praise the Mother."
A boy. A son. A prince.
---
"Give him here," Joana all but begs, her voice trembling with exhaustion and longing.
The midwife moves carefully, placing the squirming babe in Joana's waiting arms. The child instinctively seeks the warmth of his mother, nuzzling against her breast. Joana stares down at him, her breath hitching as she takes in his tiny, perfect form.
"Healthy?" she asks, her voice barely more than a whisper.
"As a bull, Consort," the midwife replies with a smile.
Joana releases a shuddering sigh of relief and looks back at the baby. He has a good weight to him, neither too big nor too small.
The impression of him being enormous during labor was merely her own suffering.
His hair is matted with blood and fluid, making it impossible to tell its color, but his skin, flushed red from birth, already shows a hint of warmth beneath it. In time, she knows, it will darken to the shade of her own.
His face is scrunched in fury at having been born, his tiny hands curling into fists, but to Joana, he is perfect.
"Oh," she breathes, pressing her cheek against his damp forehead. "Oh, my baby."
Her arms tighten around him as a sob rises in her throat. A boy. Not a girl, not a stillborn, not a frail thing that would die within hours, but a healthy, breathing boy. The Emperor's son, whose claim to the throne will be as strong as his brothers'.
She refuses to let go, even as the midwife helps her expel the afterbirth. When they offer to take the babe to clean him, Joana shakes her head fiercely, clutching him to her chest. Somehow, she finds the strength to climb back onto her bed, sinking into the soft mattress as her body trembles with exhaustion.
The midwife ties and cuts the cord that once bound mother and child, but Joana barely notices. All she feels is the warmth of her son, the soft weight of him in her arms, and the steady rhythm of his tiny heart against her own.
In that moment, nothing else exists. Not the pain, not the blood, nor the fear that had gripped her for months.
Only him.
Her son. Her prince.
Her victory.