She looks up, lifting her gaze slowly as she hears the familiar sound of approaching footsteps.
It's Jeyne, walking toward her with a sealed letter in her hand. Joana tilts her head, curiosity sparking in her eyes.
"What is that?" she asks, her voice calm but tinged with interest.
"A letter from Lady Roslin, Consort," Jeyne murmurs, her voice respectful and gentle.
Joana lets out a soft sigh.
Roslin had written to her again. They had been exchanging letters often ever since Roslin's wedding, and Joana always looked forward to hearing from her dear friend.
Words from Roslin were like sunlight through clouds—brief but welcome. Roslin had been so genuinely happy with the match the Mother had chosen for her, a man from her own land, sharing her traditions and values.
She had described him fondly in her letters—tall and sturdy, she'd said, with a bold shock of red hair that stood out like fire. His name was Edmure.
"Thank you," Joana says, reaching out and gently taking the letter from Jeyne's hands.
As she does, Jaehaerys, who is nestled in her lap, lets out a small noise of confusion. He grabs for the letter with his tiny hands, trying to tug it away from her. Joana rubs the back of his head absentmindedly, her attention still caught by the words unfolding in front of her as she reads. Her eyes move quickly, absorbing each line.
When she's finished, Joana lifts her gaze and looks back at the ladies around her, her expression unreadable as she exhales another quiet sigh. "Roslin is with child."
"Oh," says Dalla, her voice brightening with surprise. "That's delightful."
"It is," Joana responds, though her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. The joy in her voice is hollow, and deep down, she knows she doesn't truly feel happy. A pang of jealousy twists in her chest, sharp and unwelcome.
It's a cruel thing, she thinks, to envy her friend for something so beautiful. Roslin was carrying a child—without fear, without dread.
If her baby turned out to be a boy, there would be no shadows cast over his future, no whispered threats in the night. Joana feels selfish, deeply selfish, but the ache doesn't go away. This kind of self-pity feels foreign to her; it doesn't suit her well.
"I must send her a gift," she says after a pause, trying to push aside the gloom.
Her eyes flit between Jeyne and Marra as she gathers her thoughts.
"I must acquire wool and fur to produce a blanket for the babe. If I start now, I might be done when she gives birth."
Though she had spent time improving her embroidery, she knew very well that weaving was still her greatest weakness. The idea of weaving a full blanket alone was laughable, though she didn't laugh.
"Would it be terrible of me to ask for your assistance?" she adds, her voice soft with hesitation.
"Not at all, Consort," Jeyne replies immediately, her tone warm and reassuring. "I'll search for what you require right now."
Joana gives her a grateful nod and tries her best to smile, even if her heart isn't quite in it.
In her lap, Jaehaerys has managed to snatch the letter from her hands. He's crumpling it in his small fists, attempting to tear it apart, though his efforts are clumsy and ineffective.
Joana lets out another sigh, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him into a tight embrace.
Later, they walk through the garden together, the sun shining brightly overhead, casting golden light on everything it touches.
Jaehaerys blinks up at the sky, his large eyes squinting against the brightness. The sunlight dances across his face, catching in the fine silver curls that stick up wildly around his head. His cheeks are flushed red from having pressed against his bed for hours while he napped.
He's only just woken up, still groggy, his mood soured by the rude interruption of sleep. One chubby little fist rises to rub at his tired eyes, and he looks around at the world with a frown, as if offended by the very idea of being awake.
Joana watches him, amused. A soft chuckle escapes her lips at the sight of his sullen face.
"Sweet boy," she whispers to him, gently stroking his grumpy cheek with her free hand. "Don't be so cross with your mama."
He doesn't respond; he simply turns away from her with a dramatic huff, clearly displeased. Joana smiles again, her heart swelling with affection.
He is so stubborn—just like her. Not in his appearance, of course. His face and skin bore the mark of another legacy, but his spirit? His moods? That was her entirely. He was usually a happy child, full of giggles and curiosity. But waking up—he hated it with a passion. Just as she did.
Lately, even she had found it difficult to gather the strength to get out of bed. Each morning felt heavier than the last. She had to force herself to greet the day, to stand before the Mother with a composed face, stifling her yawns and exhaustion.
She buried her fatigue with every step, wearing smiles that didn't always feel real.
But here, in the quiet of the garden with Jaehaerys in her arms.
They continue walking slowly, their steps careful as they make their way around the thorny rose bushes and beneath the large, looming fruit trees.
The branches above them are heavy, weighed down by ripe apples and round, purple plums that hang low, almost within reach. The air around them is thick with the sweet, heady scent of the garden—fresh leaves, blooming petals, and the faint tang of fruit that has just begun to soften in the sun. Joana inhaled deeply, letting the gentle aroma fill her lungs.
Beside her, Jaehaerys rubs his sleepy face again, yawning with the same quiet frustration he had shown earlier. His chubby fingers cling to her as he adjusts in her arms, still not quite awake and clearly not pleased about it.
As they move closer to one of the softly tinkling fountains, the delicate sound of water flowing over stone growing louder with each step, Joana catches sight of someone ahead. It's a young maid, walking carefully across the path with Prince Daeron in her arms. She scans the area instinctively and notes that Desmera is not present.
The little prince is nearly ten months old now, growing faster with every passing day. His silver hair gleams in the sunlight, soft and light, but one vivid lock of red curls unmistakably across his forehead like a ribbon of fire. His eyes, round and strikingly lavender, blink at the world with curiosity. But then Joana sees it—just beneath one of those bright eyes, a small scrape on his cheek. It's not a deep wound, nothing to cause panic, but still enough to catch her attention. Her gaze sharpens.
Her eyes then shift to the maid carrying him, and what she sees makes her breath catch. A large, ugly bruise has bloomed across the side of the girl's face, darkening the skin from cheek to temple.
It's black and blue, with faint purples and yellows beginning to creep along the edges. The bruise nearly reached her eye, and Joana could see the pain etched into the girl's features—stiffness in her jaw, tension in her brow, and the way she held herself just a little too carefully. Tendrils of pain stretch across her cheek, and Joana's heart tightens at the sight.
A sharp gasp escapes her lips before she can stop it.
"What has happened to you?" Joana asks, her voice a mixture of concern and disbelief.
The maid flushes with embarrassment and lowers her eyes. "I left the Second Prince alone for a few moments, Consort," she says quietly, shame lacing every word. "His Highness fell and hurt himself. It's my fault, and Lady Desmera saw that I was suitably punished."
"Of course," Joana murmurs, her tone now low and guarded.
The maid drops into a quick curtsy, still clutching Prince Daeron protectively in her arms. She begins to walk away, her pace slow and her movements cautious, like a person trying not to draw too much attention. Joana watches her go, noting how she seems to twist slightly with every step as if bracing for another blow that might come from nowhere. Her sigh is soft but heavy.
At her side, Dalla steps forward in silence, sensing the weight in Joana's expression.
"What is her name?" Joana asks in a hushed voice, eyes still following the maid.
"Anny, Consort," Dalla replies promptly. "I'm certain it wasn't her intention to cause injury to the Second Prince."
"I have no doubts," Joana says, her voice even, but her mind is already elsewhere.
She looks down at Jaehaerys, who has nestled his head comfortably against her shoulder. His little fingers are playing idly with the neckline of her dress, tugging at the fabric with sleepy distraction.
She watches him, a wave of thoughts washing over her.
What would she do, she wonders, if one of her own maids left her son unattended, only to return with a mark on his skin? Jaehaerys is spirited, curious, and more than capable of getting himself hurt. Still, the idea of him being left alone—unsupervised—sends a chill through her chest. That would be a grave mistake and one she would not take lightly.
But punishment—cruel and public—would solve nothing.
"Go into the city with a coin purse," she says after a pause, her voice steady but quiet. "Buy an ointment for bruising and give it to Anny. Discreetly. Don't let anyone know it came from me."
Dalla bows her head. "Yes, Consort," she says softly, and with that, she steps away to carry out the command, leaving Joana alone once more with her child in the soft glow of the garden.