Jaehaerys' tiny fingers cling to her long, dark hair as she gently lays him down in his cradle. Joana moves carefully, making sure not to disturb his peaceful slumber. His delicate face is softened by sleep, his little lips pursed as he unconsciously sucks on his lower lip, as if still dreaming of nursing.
A tender smile forms on her lips as she settles beside his cot, watching him with quiet devotion.
He is only a few days old—less than a week—but already, he is a remarkably calm baby.
He never fusses without reason, never wails aimlessly like some newborns do. Whenever he does cry, it ceases almost instantly the moment she picks him up, as if the only thing he ever longs for is her presence.
He exhales a soft, contented sigh in his sleep, and Joana's heart swells with warmth.
"My son," she whispers, reaching out to place a gentle hand on the cradle's edge, rocking it with the lightest touch. "May your dreams be sweet, and your rest be deep." Her voice is hushed, filled with an unspoken love that needs no response. He does not stir, but she had not expected him to.
The nursery had been meticulously prepared for him—a secluded chamber with a hidden door, ensuring his safety and privacy.
Yet, Joana cannot bring herself to leave him there, alone and apart from her. The mere thought of it makes her uneasy. She needs him close, needs to be able to hear his soft breaths, to feel the warmth of his tiny body nearby.
So, she had instructed Marra and Dalla to bring one of the cots to her own chambers, placing it beside her bed where he could sleep within arm's reach.
He is her son. He belongs with her.
His silver hair, fine and straight as a pin, has begun to fall over his forehead, nearly reaching his eyes.
He has so much of it already, a full head of thick strands that glisten like moonlight. Joana holds her breath as she reaches out, her fingers trembling slightly as she brushes the hair aside. She prays he will not wake, that her touch will not break the spell of his dreams.
He does not wake. Instead, he leans ever so slightly into her touch, his tiny body relaxing even more as another soft sigh escapes him.
He is dressed in a lovely teal-colored nightshirt, its fabric smooth against his golden-brown skin. His little hands, curled into tight fists, rest beside him, utterly still in sleep. The sight fills Joana with an overwhelming sense of adoration.
She could watch him for hours.
He is so peaceful, so perfect. The faintest movement beneath his closed eyelids tells her he is dreaming, lost in a world she cannot enter.
She wonders what fills his tiny mind—perhaps the taste of warm milk, the comforting scent of her embrace, or the soft lullabies she hums as she rocks him. Maybe, in his innocent dreams, he already imagines toys, though he is far too young to grasp them.
To Joana, there has never been a child more beautiful. Not even Prince Maekar or Prince Daeron could compare to her Jaehaerys.
He is utterly perfect, from the soft curve of his cheeks to the delicate shape of his tiny nose—so much like his father's. He is Aegon's son, through and through. Everything about him speaks of his lineage, save for his eyes. Those belong to her.
The door creaks softly behind her, breaking the stillness. Joana turns, her gaze shifting from her sleeping child to the figure entering the room. Jeyne stands there, At the sight of her lady, she dips into a small, respectful curtsy.
Joana brings a finger to her lips, silently commanding her to keep quiet.
Jeyne nods in understanding, then steps forward, holding out a parchment. Joana sighs, glancing at Jaehaerys once more before rising to her feet. Together, they step out of the chamber, ensuring their conversation will not disturb the infant's rest.
She takes the parchment and unrolls it, her eyes scanning the carefully written words. It is an extensive account, a detailed record of the small council's members. Days of effort had gone into gathering this information, and it had taken Jeyne even longer to compile it all.
Joana's eyes flick up to her maid. "This is good," she says, nodding in approval. Her belt carries a small coin purse for such occasions, and she reaches into it, drawing out a handful of silver stags. She presses them into Jeyne's palm, a silent acknowledgment of the effort it had taken to acquire this knowledge.
Jeyne accepts the payment with a modest smile, offering another curtsy. "I'll see what more I can uncover," she murmurs. "Once I have something useful, I will inform you."
Joana inclines her head in agreement. "Yes, do that."
With that, she steps back into the room, the parchment now firmly in her grasp. She moves toward the cradle, settling beside it once more. Jaehaerys remains undisturbed, his breaths soft and steady. She takes a moment to simply look at him, allowing herself a brief respite before her attention returns to the report in her hands.
This is for him. Everything she does—every carefully laid plan, every alliance she considers, every decision she makes—it is all for him.
The master of laws is a man by the name of Jon Arryn. He has no wife, no son, only a nephew named Elbert, who serves as his heir. Jeyne's inquiries had provided a clear portrait of the man's character. Honourable. Law-abiding. Serious and stern, yet not cruel. Even his servants speak well of him, a rare testament to a lord's nature.
Then, there is Monford Velaryon, the master of ships. Proud, perhaps overly so. Arrogant, with an affinity for luxury and fine things. Unlike Lord Arryn, his servants do not speak of him with the same warmth, but neither do they despise him. He is a man of ambition, and ambition can be guided.
Other names fill the pages of the report, but for now, she chooses to focus on these two. It is a start. A foundation. There will be time to scrutinize the others, but some men will never be swayed. She knows this. It is wiser to concentrate on those who can be influenced, those whose allegiances may yet be shifted.
Baelor Hightower, master of coin. Lady Margaery's uncle. A direct link to the Hightowers, a family whose presence in court is undeniable. Some men cannot be moved, but others—others can be made to listen.
Joana presses her lips together in thought, her fingers tightening slightly around the parchment.
She does this for Jaehaerys.
For his future.
For his throne.