Marry, Breed, Obey—Or Else...

She sits on the edge of the bed, pressing her hands into the mattress, feeling the firmness beneath her fingers. A dream. It must be.

A soft knock at the door startles her. A servant enters, carrying a tray laden with a bowl of steaming broth and thick slices of bread. "With the compliments of the Gracious Mother," the woman murmurs before setting the tray down and slipping away.

Joana stares at the meal, her stomach twisting. It has been so long since she has eaten properly. Slowly, she lifts the spoon to her lips, the warmth spreading through her like a gentle embrace. She dips the bread into the broth, savoring the way it soaks up the rich flavors. It is the simplest of meals, yet more delicious than anything she has tasted before.

Each day, the servants bring her more. At first, just broth and bread, but soon, they add cheese that melts into the warm liquid, sweet fruits she has never seen before, and tender cuts of meat that practically dissolve on her tongue.

Her body changes with the nourishment. The hollowness in her cheeks fills, and her ribs no longer protrude like sharp ridges beneath her skin. She watches, fascinated, as curves return—her breasts fuller, her hips softer. And with it, her moon's blood returns, a sign that she is whole again.

On the third morning, as she breaks her fast, the silent crone from before enters. This time, she speaks.

"I am Meria Sand," the woman says, her voice low and measured. "I serve the Gracious Mother. From now on, I will teach you."

Joana listens, her spoon hovering above her bowl.

Under Meria's guidance, she learns. How to read and write, her fingers tracing unfamiliar letters until they become second nature. How to walk with grace, to carry herself with purpose. How to embroider simple patterns, though her stitches are uneven at first.

She sings a skill that comes easily, her voice weaving melodies that fill the small room. She dances, learning the favored steps, moving her body in ways she never has before.

Each lesson is another layer, another piece of the woman they are shaping her into. And Joana, for now, allows it.

Joana listens intently as Meria Sand teaches her about the Emperor and his court. The names, the ranks, the invisible strings of power that bind the great houses together and threaten to tear them apart.

The Emperor, the man she is meant to serve, has three Ladies, seven Consorts, and twenty Concubines. She is not even counted among them yet. But the one who holds his heart—or at least his favor—is Lady Margaery of House Tyrell.

Joana does not need a portrait to imagine her. If the Emperor cherishes her above all others, then Lady Margaery must be beautiful beyond compare. But beauty alone would not have been enough. Her father is rich and powerful, a man who saw his daughter placed in the harem the moment the Emperor took the throne two years ago. It is said that her grace and charm won his devotion, but more than that, she gave him a child.

Not a son, but a daughter—the only living issue of the Emperor's body.

Princess Elaena.

The court whispers of Lady Margaery's fortune. If she were to bear a son, the Emperor might shower her and her family with untold wealth and power. Enough to overshadow even the Gracious Mother herself. The rivalry between House Tyrell and the Mother's own family has lasted for generations, and Joana understands now why Margaery must be watched. The Mother does not tolerate threats to her influence.

Joana glances at Meria, who does not meet her gaze. She wonders how long the Mother has been waiting for the right dagger to wield against Lady Margaery. A girl plucked from the streets—helpless, grateful, and with no one to call her own.

Would it not have been better to lose two knuckles?

She shakes the thought away. It does not matter. Her path is already set.

The lessons continue, and she learns more about the Emperor himself. He is young—nineteen. Young enough that he might still be swayed by a new face, a new touch. He has no brothers to bear the weight of the throne with him, only a sister by the Mother's womb, Princess Rhaenys. There is also an aunt of his age, Princess Daenerys, and an uncle who once existed but was gone before Joana was old enough to remember.

"A boy too dangerous to live," Meria had murmured when Joana asked. "A child, yes, but even a child can be a threat."

Joana had shivered at that. In the upper ranks of the world, mercy was a weakness.

And now, she—an orphan, a thief, a girl who has spent her life scraping for survival—has been chosen as the Mother's newest pawn.

Days pass, and her body heals. The wound at her temple fades into a silvery starburst, a mark that can be hidden with a careful arrangement of her hair. She tends to it herself, just as she tends to her own appearance. She may be a concubine-in-training, but she is not yet entitled to a personal maid or even the privacy of her small room. Soon, she will be sent to the communal chambers, where the lesser women sleep in rows, where her solitude will become another forgotten luxury.

One night, Meria hands her a silver-looking glass. Joana hesitates. She has never seen her own reflection before, not even in the septs or on the Street of Silk. But Meria says nothing, simply waiting, and so Joana lifts the glass and looks.

A stranger stares back.

Her face is long and delicate. Some days ago, Meria had muttered that she had an "oblong" shape, but Joana didn't know what that meant. She does know that her cheekbones are high and sharply carved, her lips full and heart-shaped.