Marry, Breed, Obey—Or Else...

Both princesses were strikingly beautiful in their own ways, though their expressions remained unreadable as Joan approached them.

"My princesses," Joana murmurs, lowering her gaze as she takes their hands, pressing brief kisses to their fingers. "It is a great pleasure to meet Your Highnesses."

Neither woman corrects her etiquette. Only the Emperor's mother is granted an additional honorific—a reflection of her character, earned through time and influence. In the records, the late Emperor Rhaegar's mother had been known as Her Dutiful Highness, for she had never failed in her duties.

Names, after all, were deemed too lowly for parchment when it came to the women who shaped the empire from the shadows.

The princesses offer polite smiles in return, but it is an empty gesture. Their gazes flick toward each other, a wordless exchange passing between them before they return to their prior conversation. Joana has been acknowledged, but not welcomed. She is, after all, just another concubine.

"Please, Joana," the Gracious Mother says, her voice smooth as silk. "Sit with us."

She gestures with a ring-adorned hand to a pillow placed apart from the women of rank, closer to where the lesser concubines gather. The unspoken hierarchy is clear in the arrangement—Joana is among them now, but she is at the bottom.

Joana lowers herself into a deep curtsy, smiling gently. She moves carefully as she steps back, mindful not to turn her back on the Emperor's Mother, then settles onto the cushion. The rug beneath her is thick and soft, but the distance between her and the women of the higher station might as well be a chasm.

A whisper of movement draws her attention to the girl beside her.

She is young, her soft blue eyes kind but hesitant, a small gap between her front teeth giving her an air of innocence.

Her complexion is milk-pale as if she has never seen the sun. She offers Joana a shy smile, the kind given by someone unaccustomed to standing out.

"Hello," the girl says softly. "Joana Noard, isn't that right?"

Joana nods. "It is."

"Are you from the North?"

Joana hesitates for only a moment before giving the answer she has been taught. "My father was Northern, and my mother as well, but I was born here in the capital."

It is a lie, of course. Any true Northerner would know from her accent alone that she had not grown up there. But the truth is not something she is willing to offer so easily.

"I see," the girl says, accepting it without question. "My name is Roslin. Roslin Frey. I arrived here just a moon ago."

Her voice is soft, barely above a whisper, and her gaze flits downward as if afraid to meet Joana's eyes for too long. She is small, frail-looking, her posture uncertain. Joana cannot help but wonder why she is here at all.

"Oh," Joana says, surprised. She had assumed the harem had been fully established long before her arrival, that every place had been filled upon the Emperor's accession. But Roslin's presence proves otherwise. "Frey. Where is that from?"

"The Riverlands," Roslin answers, blinking as if the question surprises her. A muffled snort comes from one of the other concubines behind her, and she flushes, ducking her head. "It's fine that you didn't know. We're not renowned outside of our region."

Joana reaches out, brushing her hand lightly against Roslin's in apology. "I'm sorry," she says. "You knew where I was from, and yet I could not offer the same courtesy."

Roslin's shoulders relax slightly, and a faint, grateful smile touches her lips. "Thank you," she murmurs.

Then, with a furtive glance toward the higher-ranking women, she leans in just a little. "You shouldn't worry about such things. Or about His Majesty," she adds, lowering her voice even further. "Most likely, the Emperor won't even look at you."

Joana stiffens, caught off guard by the bluntness of the statement.

Roslin takes her reaction as concern and offers what she seems to believe is a reassuring smile. "The concubines are only here for the rare days when His Majesty is not with one of his consorts or the imperial ladies. And even then, he hardly chooses a concubine to warm his bed. Most of us will be married off before he ever lays a hand on us."

"When do you think that will be?" Joana keeps her tone casual, though her mind races with the implications.

"Soon," Roslin replies. "The Emperor lets his mother choose husbands for the concubines he does not desire. But we must wait for Lady Margaery to bear a son first. That is the priority."

Joana's eyes flicker toward the woman in question, still seated with the little princess on her lap, her expression unreadable. "I see."

Roslin hesitates before speaking again. "Is that something you want?"

Joana tilts her head. "To be married?"

Roslin nods, her fingers twisting in the folds of her gown.

"My father sent me here," she admits, her voice quieter now, more vulnerable. "We were allowed to send one girl from our house. He chose me because my mother bore him a child every year they were married. He hopes I will do the same for the Emperor. Even if it's just a daughter, there will be rewards for my family. That's all that matters to him."

She exhales softly as if forcing the words out takes effort. "But I didn't choose this. I never would have. At least if I marry an imperial councilor, I will be the only lady in his house."

Joana studies the girl for a moment before squeezing her hand in silent comfort. "I hope you get what you want, Roslin."

Roslin glances up, startled by the sincerity in Joana's voice

"Huh?"

Her lips curve into a small, wistful smile.

"I hope we both do," she murmurs.

Joana could only smiles in return, but the thought lingers in her mind.

If only she knew.

If only she knew....