There are still three ladies left in the harem, five consorts, and two concubines.
Yet with each passing day, the number seems to shrink, little by little, as if the palace itself is slowly emptying. When Jaehaerys reaches his seventh name day, Consort Teora Toland is married off to the grandson of a Martell vassal and happily makes her way back to her homeland in Dorne.
She had always longed for her native sun-kissed sands, and now she returns to them with joy. Not long after, Concubine Talla, the granddaughter of Lord Florent, is married into House Selmy — a proud marcher family of the Stormlands. It seems her father had never truly accepted her position as a mere third-rank woman in the imperial harem and had finally petitioned the court to arrange a match more fitting for her birth. And so it goes — one by one, more are sent away, married off, their rooms left empty and their laughter fading into silence.
Marianne Vance, of course, cannot be married now. The Emperor has lain with her, and once that line is crossed, no noble lord would take her. But Joana's thoughts are not burdened by Marianne. It is not her she worries about.
Myrcella Velmont remains in the harem. She is the third of His Majesty's ladies, the only one among them who has not borne a child. A granddaughter of the richest lord in the Empire, she is a curious presence in the palace. Quiet and reserved, Myrcella rarely draws attention to herself.
Joana had never once seen her chatting idly with the others, not even with her own mother when the woman visited the capital. Of course, like all the women chosen for the Emperor's court, she is beautiful—golden-haired and graceful—but there is something missing, something subtle that makes her invisible to the Emperor's eye. And everyone knows it.
Still, it might be unwise to ignore her. Despite nearly two years passing since Joana first arrived at the palace, she has never made a move to speak with Myrcella.
Perhaps now is the right time. Myrcella's family is powerful, obscenely rich, and well-connected in the highest circles. As the only high-ranking woman in the harem without any child vying for the succession, she could become a valuable ally. A buffer, perhaps, between Joana and the ambitions of Desmera and Margaery.
Joana hands little Jaehaerys to Dalla before setting off to find Myrcella. She doesn't want her son around when she speaks to a woman who has yet to bear a child—it might be an unintentional insult or a painful reminder.
Dalla is a good maid, gentle and warm, and Jaehaerys adores her. He always tries to grab at the delicate wisps of hair that slip free from her tight braids. Joana feels confident leaving him in her care. There will be nothing to worry about.
It takes the better part of the morning for her to track Myrcella down. Joana had never bothered to learn what the other woman enjoyed doing, where she liked to spend her time, and now she regrets it. Searching for her without making it obvious that she is doing so proves more challenging than she expected.
Myrcella is not in the bathhouse, nor the communal rooms of the concubines — though Joana still checks them thoroughly, just to be certain. She's not in the gardens either, or even her chambers, where her twelve maids are busily cleaning and fussing over invisible stains and imagined dust.
Eventually, Joana finds her in the music room, sitting alone and quietly tuning a beautifully crafted lute. Myrcella looks up at the sound of approaching footsteps, her emerald-green eyes flickering to Joana.
She is lovely, with a soft face framed by golden curls, but there is a subtle trace of her mother's plumpness in her features — perhaps in the sculpted line of her nose or the proud lift of her cheekbones. She watches Joana carefully, wariness in her eyes.
Myrcella is dressed in a refined gown of dark blue satin. It is elegant and tastefully embellished—enough to reflect her noble status but not so extravagant as to seem boastful. Her hair falls in perfect ringlets down her back, and her round green eyes, bright as polished gems, study Joana in silence.
"Lady," Joana says gently, dipping into a graceful curtsy. "How are you this fine morning?"
Myrcella nods politely, her expression unreadable. "Consort," she replies in a calm, measured tone. "I am well. What may I do for you?"
There is an empty seat beside her, a beautifully carved wooden chair. Without hesitation, Joana lowers herself into it. In the absence of The gracious Mother or a princess—someone who might outrank them—she is within her rights to sit beside a lady. Myrcella does not object, but her eyes narrow slightly with suspicion as she studies Joana's face.
"It has been far too long since we last spoke," Joana begins, keeping her voice light and friendly. "How is your mother? And your lady aunt? They were both quite kind to me, as I recall."
"My mother was awful to you," Myrcella says bluntly, setting the lute aside. "Especially my mother."
Joana is momentarily taken aback, but Myrcella continues without pause.
"She's afraid, you see. Afraid that with you here, the Emperor will never look at me again."
Joana hesitates for a moment, then offers, "I could speak with His Majesty on your behalf. I could mention your good qualities. I'm certain that, with a chance, his gaze will turn to you."
"I care nothing for that," Myrcella replies coolly, her voice smooth and distant. "It's only my grandfather who dreams of me bearing the next ruler. And my mother, who fears him." Her eyes remain fixed on Joana's face, unblinking. "So please, spare me the pleasantries, Consort. Say what you came to say."
"Lady, I-I—" Joana starts, but her words falter and trail off. She cannot finish the sentence.
"You want me to become your ally," Myrcella says, not unkindly, but firmly. "Against Margaery and Desmera. But be prepared to be disappointed. I have no wish to become a pawn in anyone else's game."
She picks up her lute again with practiced ease.
"Both of His Majesty's Ladies have already tried. It was only a matter of time before you came as well." Her fingers rest lightly on the strings. "I'm happy being alone, Consort. Do not try again."
And with that, Myrcella rises to her feet and walks out of the room without a backward glance. Joana is left sitting alone, speechless and stunned. There is nothing more to do now but wait in silence, hoping that her dignity might eventually return to her.
When Joana finally returns to her chambers, the air feels heavier, as if her disappointment clings to her skin like a damp fabric.
Inside, Jeyne and Marra are busy at work, tugging off the old linens from her bed and replacing them with fresh ones. The scent of lavender and clean cotton drifts faintly in the air.
In the far corner of the room, Dalla sits cross-legged on the floor, playing gently with little Jaehaerys. The boy's giggles fill the space, light and bright like sunlight breaking through a stormy sky.
As soon as Joana steps into the room, all three women pause what they're doing. They turn toward her in unison, as if they'd been listening for her return. With practiced grace, they rise and offer shallow curtsies, respectful and measured. But Joana lifts a hand almost immediately, shaking her head in quiet protest. She doesn't want their courtesy right now. Not when her pride feels bruised and shaken. Not when she walks in with the sting of rejection still fresh behind her eyes.
Dalla hesitates for a moment before shifting to the side, making space on the floor beside her. She chews on her bottom lip as if uncertain whether to speak, her eyes flickering between Joana's face and the infant who has now caught sight of his mother.
As soon as Jaehaerys sees her, his whole face lights up. His little arms wave excitedly, and with a gleeful squeal, he throws himself forward, trying to crawl straight into her lap.
Joana kneels and gathers him into her arms without a word, holding him close. He smells of soft milk and something warm, something innocent. He reaches for one of her braids with his chubby fingers, intent on pulling it to his mouth. She watches him with quiet fondness, her eyes tracing the soft curve of his cheeks, the tiny dimples that appear when he smiles.
He is always happy. Always smiling. No matter what is happening around him, nothing seems to bother him. His joy is untouched by politics, pride, or power. And in moments like this, Joana envies that deeply.
"How did it go, Consort?" Dalla asks in a whisper, as if afraid to intrude too suddenly on her silence.
Joana doesn't meet her eyes. She merely shakes her head, her voice barely louder than the rustle of fabric as she rocks her son. "Not well," she murmurs. "But I have no wish to talk of it."