Lessons in war and love

Jeyne and Marra walk to the kitchens for supper, their soft footsteps echoing faintly against the stone floor. The evening air carries the scent of roasted meats and fresh bread, a reminder of the warmth and comfort waiting for them. Joana watches them go, her fingers idly tracing small circles against the silk of her gown. She almost expects Aegon to stand and follow them, to murmur his goodbyes as he usually does before retreating to his chambers to dine with his mother. But tonight, he lingers.

Instead, he remains seated beside her, his presence a steady and unshakable force in the room. His silver-gold hair catches the glow of the dim candlelight, the flickering flames playing across the sharp angles of his face. He eats slowly, methodically, his gaze never straying far from her. Joana can feel the weight of it, studying her as she carefully offers Jaehaerys small pieces of cut grapes, watching the way he wrinkles his nose before turning his head away. She sighs softly, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips, and gives up the attempt, adjusting the fabric of her gown to bare her breast. Jaehaerys latches on immediately, his little fingers curling around a lock of her hair as he suckles.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the room are the soft noises of the baby nursing and the occasional clink of silverware against porcelain. Then, Aegon speaks, his voice low and thoughtful. "He is growing fast."

Joana glances down at the small life in her arms, watching the way his little fingers twitch as he drinks. "Like a weed," she agrees with a soft chuckle. "One of these days, he shall be taller than me, I swear."

Aegon smiles at that but says nothing more. Instead, he pushes his plate aside—still half-full—and rises to his feet with the ease of a man utterly confident in his dominion over any space he occupies. He moves about the room as if it is his own, his hands idly trailing over furniture, the very air seeming to shift in response to his presence. Joana watches him carefully before flicking a glance at Jeyne.

The maid understands at once, nodding almost imperceptibly before moving to collect the remaining dishes. The other attendants follow her lead, gathering plates and bowls in practiced silence before slipping from the room. The door closes behind them with a hushed click, leaving only the three of them—Joana, Aegon, and the babe between them.

Aegon doesn't acknowledge their departure. He moves instead toward her books, running his fingers along their spines before selecting one at random and flipping it open. His violet eyes scan the page, and he reads aloud, his voice smooth and measured.

"The Conquest of Dorne by the Young Emperor." His gaze shifts to another title, his brow arching slightly. "Account of the War of the Ninepenny Kings by Maester Eon." He looks up at her then, eyes narrowing slightly in amusement. "Are you preparing for war, Joana?"

She does not hesitate. Instead, she lifts her chin slightly, meeting his gaze without wavering. "Should I not be?" she counters, her voice steady. "The Emperor knows well that when a woman bears him a son, she becomes a participant in a deadly race to prepare the next ruler of our empire. I wish only to know what may protect my son in the future."

For a moment, he says nothing. His expression is unreadable, his gaze cool and calculating as he studies her. Then, slowly, a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Have you been craving power?" he muses, his voice tinged with amusement. "I suppose others will have to keep an eye on you."

Joana says nothing, watching him closely. He turns back to her books, flipping through the pages as if their contents might reveal something of her inner thoughts.

There is something almost unsettling in how at ease he is here, amidst her simple furniture, her quiet little world. For a fleeting moment, she wonders if he will press further, if he will accuse her of overstepping, of daring to assume she has the right to wield knowledge in preparation for a battle that may never come. But he does not. Instead, he lingers, perusing her books in silence as if he has all the time in the world.

At some point in the night, he leaves her and Jaehaerys, slipping away as quietly as he came. Joana does not know when she falls asleep, only that the room feels strangely empty without him.

When she wakes at dawn, the world outside is still cold, the first soft light of morning spilling through the windows in pale streaks. She blinks the sleep from her eyes, stretching slowly before rising from her bed. Jaehaerys stirs in his cradle but does not wake, his tiny form curled in peaceful slumber. She moves carefully, her bare feet silent against the stone floor as she crosses the room.

And then, she sees it.

A book sits on her table, large and imposing, its leather casing smooth beneath her fingertips as she picks it up. The title is written in a careful, precise script across the parchment. A Thesis about Warfare by Archmaester Hobert.

Her breath catches slightly as her eyes drift lower, to the small scrawl inked beneath the title. The handwriting is bold, almost reckless in its carelessness.

From my library. It's yours now – A.

For a moment, she simply stands there, the weight of the book solid and real in her hands. Then, slowly, she presses it to her chest, closing her eyes as she embraces it, her cheek resting against the worn leather cover. The gesture is silent, unseen by anyone else, but in that quiet moment, she allows herself to hold onto it, to treasure the gift for what it is.

A promise. A warning. Or perhaps, simply a recognition of what she already knows: she is no fool, and she will not be left defenseless.