Only Herself

Aegon doesn't answer right away. Instead, his other arm comes around her, pulling her closer, holding her against him in a way that is both possessive and comforting.

She tilts her head slightly. "Have you told them that I am your consort?" she continues softly. "That Jaehaerys is born of your seed, just as much as Maekar and Daeron?"

Aegon nods.

A slow smile spreads across her lips. "Have you told them that I'm yours?"

A smirk plays at the edges of his mouth. His voice is low when he responds, a quiet promise against the dimming light.

"You're mine," he murmurs.

Joana doesn't hesitate. She leans in and kisses him, a soft, lingering kiss that is not meant to lead to more—not yet. But there is promise beneath it, an unspoken vow of nights to come when she is healed and when she can welcome him back into her arms fully.

When they part, she sighs against him, resting her head on his shoulder. Her eyes drift down to Jaehaerys, nestled against his father's chest. Somewhere in the midst of their quiet conversation, he has fallen asleep again, his tiny body rising and falling into peaceful slumber.

Joana smiles. She burrows closer to Aegon, letting herself sink into his warmth, allowing the steady rhythm of his breathing to lull her into rest.

She closes her eyes.

---

A new coat of carved oak, its edges smooth and polished to perfection. Blankets of the finest dyed wool, soft and warm to wrap a prince in comfort. Toys shaped like miniature knights and proud horses, waiting for tiny hands to grasp them. A small silver rattle, its hollow chamber filled with dried beans to make a soft, rhythmic sound. Rolls of cloth of gold, delicate silks, and shimmering satins—gowns and nightshirts fine enough for any noble child, even if this one was born of a common mother.

These were the gifts presented in honor of Jaehaerys' birth. Not just from members of the small council, but from vassals across the realm—men eager to prove their loyalty to the Emperor by honoring his newest son. Even if his mother did not have the blood they wished.

Lord Arryn had sent a handsome wooden horse, its craftsmanship exquisite. Large enough to hold a small child, the toy rocked with just the right amount of pressure, a thoughtful gift for the growing prince. Lord Velaryon, in turn, had offered a miniature dromond—a perfect, scaled model of the great warship Prince's Glory, still being built at Driftmark. The gesture was meant as a tribute to Jaehaerys, but Joana did not fool herself into thinking the honor was exclusive. She would not be surprised if Margaery and Desmera had received similar promises before. The time to show off the Emperor's chosen heir had not yet come.

And then there were the gifts meant for her.

Now that word had spread of her favor, the tributes were no longer just for her son. A set of prayer beads, the deep blue topaz glinting like a cloudless sky. Bottles of perfume in ornate crystal vials, their scents ranging from jasmine to rare foreign spices. Fans of embroidered silk, their patterns delicate and intricate. Necklaces of gold and silver rings set with precious stones, small tokens of wealth from those who wished to secure her goodwill.

It took an entire day for Joana and her maids to sort through them all, Jeyne keeping careful notes of each giver and their gift. Another day to decide what to do with them.

She rewarded her maids with small luxuries—each receiving a bottle of perfume and ten gold dragons from her reward. The lavender and rose-scented oils she kept for herself, while the rest were sent with Marra to be distributed among the lesser concubines.

Sitting at her vanity, Joana traced a finger over a sapphire bracelet, turning it in the light. The deep blue stones were striking, but the silver setting felt rough against her skin, the metal poorly shaped for comfort. Gaudy, she thought, slipping it off. It would be sold or given away, perhaps to one of the other concubines. Someone who might feel gratitude for her generosity.

In the cradle nearby, Jaehaerys slept peacefully, his tiny chest rising and falling in the rhythm of deep slumber. Through the mirror's reflection, Joana watched him, his delicate face softened by dreams. As soon as he woke, she would take him to visit his grandmother.

The quiet was broken by the sound of the door opening.

"Consort," Dalla greeted, stepping inside with Joana's midday meal carefully balanced in her hands.

"Leave it on the table, Dalla," Joana murmured absently, still studying the jewelry before her.

Dalla obeyed, setting down the plates of seasoned meat and a bowl of soup. But when she turned back, her gaze lingered on Joana, hesitation clear in her expression.

Joana caught the look in the mirror. "What is it?" she asked, straightening slightly. "Did something happen to Marra or Jeyne?"

Marra had been busy distributing gifts across the harem while Jeyne had gone into the city armed with a list of questions for a master's advice.

"No," Dalla answered quickly, shifting to her feet. "It is the Emperor."

Joana stiffened. Slowly, she turned to face the maid fully. "What about him?"

Dalla hesitated, her eyes darting toward the sleeping baby before returning to Joana. When she finally spoke, her voice was lowered, laced with unease.

"I overheard some of the kitchen servants whispering," she said carefully. "They said he summoned a concubine last evening. And that it was not the first time."

A strange silence settled in the room.

Dalla chewed her lower lip before continuing. "They prepared roasted nuts and other delicacies for them."

The words should not have stung, but they did.

Joana remained still, her face composed even as her mind reeled. She turned back toward the mirror, staring at herself. Her reflection was calm, unreadable. But beneath it, she could feel the dull ache forming in her chest.

"Who was it?" she asked, her voice steady despite everything.

Dalla hesitated for a breath before answering. "Marianne Vance, Consort."

Joana sighed.

Roslin's great-niece. A woman with a soft smile and a delicate charm. Her gifts for Jaehaerys had been thoughtful—one a small painted doll crafted in the Emperor's likeness, the other a set of beautiful white lawn nightshirts, embroidered by her own hand.

Joana stared down at her son. Jaehaerys is only days old. The weight of the moment pressed against her.

She thought of Margaery's words when she had been the new woman in the Emperor's bed. The veiled satisfaction. The warning. And then, she thought of the promise she had made in return.

"We shall do nothing," she said firmly.

Dalla blinked, startled. "Consort—"

"It is the Emperor's right to seek others when his favored women are unavailable." Her voice did not waver, though inside, something twisted. "Even when they are available."

He was not her husband, not in the way that mattered. Even if he were, expecting fidelity from a man like him would be a fool's dream.

She lifted her chin, meeting Dalla's gaze head-on.

"There is no room for jealousy in my life," she said, as much to herself as to the maid.

Dalla bowed her head, murmuring, "Yes, Consort."

Joana turned back to the mirror, forcing herself to study her own reflection. The woman who stared back at her looked lost. Forlorn.

But she could not allow herself to be either.

If Marianne Vance bore a son, it would only be another obstacle. Another stone in the path she had already committed to walking.

When the Emperor died, it would be Jaehaerys who must succeed him.

And for that, Joana knew she could trust no one.

No one but herself.