A Mother’s Blessing

The Emperor looks back at his mother, his expression softening with warmth. "Mother," he exclaims, opening his arms as if to embrace the moment itself.

She smiles at him, the loving, knowing smile of a devoted mother. Extending her hand, she lets him take it, and he does so with reverence—pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles before resting them against his forehead, silently seeking her blessing. Only then does he lift his gaze to meet hers. "How happy I am to see you."

"My son," she murmurs, her voice filled with affection. She reaches up, brushing her fingers lightly against his face, tracing the weary lines beneath his eyes. "How are you?" She tilts her head, studying him with concern. "You seem tired. Did you sleep well last night?"

Before he can answer, her features soften with understanding. "Never mind that," she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Let us eat. The food is warm, and it is good for you—and for my grandchildren. They must be nourished."

With that, she gestures for them to sit. The Emperor moves toward the chair that had been occupied by Lady Margaery, still speaking to his mother in a low tone.

Joana follows suit, intending to take her previous seat. But before she can do so, Margaery clears her throat, a subtle but unmistakable signal.

It is clear what she wants. She wishes to sit beside the Emperor. Her hand drifts to the round swell of her belly, a silent reminder of her position.

Joana pauses. Margaery is the mother of the Emperor's only child thus far, a lady of status, higher in rank than Joana, who is but a consort. By tradition, she must yield.

For a moment, the silence lingers, thick and expectant. Then, something stirs in Joana's memory—words from a book Jeyne had once brought her from the capital, a collection of sayings from distant cultures. A phrase from the southern lands of Trayan comes to her, wise and unyielding: The wind does not break a tree that bends. Strength lies not only in iron but in knowing when to bend without breaking.

"Lady," Joana says with quiet grace, dipping into a soft curtsy. Then, without hesitation, she takes the other seat, placing her hands neatly over the folds of her green skirt.

Margaery's lips curve in a small, triumphant smile as she settles herself beside the Emperor, smoothing her gown over the fullness of her belly.

"I took care to order only the best food to nourish my grandchildren," the Mother says, her voice warm with pride and affection. "Please, my dears, eat as you wish. Take whatever your heart desires."

Dalla steps forward, carefully filling Joana's golden plate with roasted nuts, perfectly grilled potatoes, and a steaming cut of pork. The rich, savory aroma rises to meet her, making her mouth water before she can stop herself. She leans forward, eager to begin.

"Not much for me," Margaery says softly, lifting a delicate hand to dismiss the maid when she tries to serve her more. "I do not wish to grow too big."

The Mother turns her gaze toward her with gentle but a firm wisdom. "Ah, there is no need for such restraint, Lady Margaery," she says. "The child within you must be well-fed."

Joana has already begun eating, savoring the warmth of the food on her tongue. As she takes another bite, Dalla silently steps forward, refilling her cup with wine. It is so heavily watered down that it is nearly tasteless, little more than a whisper of its former richness.

Across from her, Desmera barely touches her plate. A faint green tinge clings to her face, her expression tight with discomfort as she idly prods at her fried tomatoes with the tip of her knife.

"How is my daughter, Princess Elaena?" the Emperor asks, turning his attention to Lady Margaery.

Joana stills for the briefest of moments. The words my daughter feels heavier than they should. It is not only the child growing within Margaery that binds her to the Emperor, but something more—something that already exists, breathing and laughing in the halls of the palace. She swallows the bitter thought before it can surface, knowing she has no right to speak it aloud.

Margaery, ever composed, smiles sweetly. "Our daughter is well," she replies, her voice was warm. "She has begun to run about, and it is becoming quite the struggle to put her to bed. Elaena is very excited to meet her younger brother."

The Emperor grins, his gaze flickering to Joana and then to Desmera before returning to Margaery.

"Younger brothers," he corrects her with quiet certainty. "By the end of the year, there will be three imperial children sleeping in their cradles."

For the briefest moment, Margaery falters. Her lower lip trembles, so quickly and so subtly that it might have gone unnoticed if not for the watchful eyes around her. But just as swiftly, she schools her expression into practiced grace.

"Of course," she says smoothly. "We are all eager to see the children that will be born." Her gaze shifts, lingering on Joana and Desmera. "If either of you have any questions, feel free to ask me. I know how difficult and frightening it can be to carry your first child."

Oh, dear.

Joana's eyes flick toward Desmera, who remains poised, her freckled face set in careful neutrality. Yet there is tension there, unspoken but undeniable. A silent current of rank and expectation, of hierarchy even between cousins.

And with Desmera's pregnancy, that unspoken order is at risk of shifting.

Joana turns her gaze to Lady Margaery, her expression composed yet laced with quiet amusement. "Isn't it a joy to have a child so close in age to your cousin, Lady?" she muses, her fingers idly stroking the swell of her stomach. "Imagine if they are both boys. They shall be cousins and brothers at the same time." A small, knowing smile plays on her lips. "I'm truly jealous of your good fortune."