Chapter Text
" For the good of his people, His Grace must take another wife, though no woman will ever replace our beloved Jaehaera in his heart. Many have been put forward for this honor, the fairest flowers of the realm. Whichever girl King Aegon weds shall be the Alysanne to his Jaehaerys, the Jonquil to his Florian. She will sleep by his side, birth his children, share his labors, soothe his brow when he is sick, grow old with him. It is only fitting therefore that we allow the king himself to make this choice. On Maiden's Day we shall have a ball, the like of which King's Landing has not seen since the days of King Viserys. Let the maidens come from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms and present themselves before the king, that His Grace may choose the one best suited to share his life and love."
—Unwin Peake, announcing the Maiden Day's ball.
Red Keep, 133 AC
Aegon, third of his name, sat on his iron throne; his visage was devoid of emotions, and his dark violet eyes darkened even further in his dour mood. Maiden’s Day Ball—what a joke. Even so, it was just something he had to do.
His cousin-wife Jaehaera jumped out of a window, death quite like her mother. Except hers was far slower, he had heard, for the little queen was reported to be writhing in agony for at least half an hour before she fell to her demise.
The boy king did not feel any sympathy for his wife’s death. He was so deep in his grief that no grief could ever add up. Jaehaera did not give him a very good impression either. That child was also broken, just like him. Both were little children scarred by war waged by men. And now the young king had to shoulder the great dynasty of House Targaryen, reduced to... him.
Myriads of maidens across the lands and beyond gathered in the Red Keep; the hallways reeked of their perfumes and were loud with their chatter. He had to agree with Mushroom; it was quite like a cattle show. A herald would announce a lady’s name and lineage. Some of them, Aegon would allow to speak. For others, he would just nod along to the guards to escort them away and move to the next one.
Then came the next one.
“Lady Barba of House Bolton!” the herald called, the poor man's voice already quite hoarse, and he was the third herald of the day.
Lady Bolton walked, her movements quiet and calm. The woman looked a couple of years older than Aegon, youthful. Barba was a beauty in a common sort of way—pleasant, although nothing special, and certainly not Valyrian. Pitch-black hair, straight and pooled on the floor, adorned with a simple yet elegant braid with silver jewels.
She wears a black dress with pink fur linings that contrast her pale skin. Not the delicate, pale, rosy-skinned kind, but just… pale. Sickly, almost. The only thing remotely striking about the lady was her Bolton eyes, grey and unnerving, looking like dirtied snow. But Barba had elegant full lips and a shapely figure.
In all honesty, Aegon was about to nod along to his guards to fetch yet another maiden when Barba spoke.
“If you send me home, your grace,” Barba’s voice was low, yet articulated with a hint of Northmen accent. “Send me home with food, for the snows are deep and your people are starving.”
“Your people.”
Aegon had given a few maidens a chance to speak. Some of them boasted about their lineage, about how their mothers and foremothers could bear many healthy children—so would they. The rest of them proudly announced their skills: sewing and embroidery, singing, and whatnot.
But Aegon’s scars were fresh. In his mind, his half-uncle Aegon II was no hero. He was no king. That fool of a man burned and mutilated his mother alive and fed her to Sunfyre. That was not the kind of king he wanted to be. But he did not desire to tune another Dance.
If anything, after all the atrocities he experienced firsthand, he desired a peaceful life. Peaceful realm. A calm, serene one; one where his people’s bellies are full, maybe with dancing bears for them to watch so they can be happy, or whatever.
And Barba was the first one to speak of his people. Not even in the overtly sympathy-gaining way, she was just straight to the point—snows are deep. Winter is long. His people need food. His kingdom did not just stretch within the confines of King’s Landing gates.
Aegon could see it in her eyes; whereas many other ladies before her stared at him with greed, lust, or determination in all the wrong ways—such as because they were forced to charm him at all costs—The Lady Barba Bolton was here with that stare of hers, stating that the people of the North are starving.
The Dance hit them too, and it hit them hard. At best, Barba was a selfless maiden of the North, and at worst, she shamed him for neglecting the people of his realm.
And by the Gods, Aegon did not want to end up like his sorry arse of a half-uncle; despite constantly feeling unworthy of the throne he did not wish to sit on.
“The people in the North will get their rations for the winter, my lady,” Aegon replied, his voice somber, not quite yet deep—but it was getting there.
“But you are not going home.”
The herald, already preparing his voice for yet another mundane call, dropped his jaw. How many hundreds had it been? Of course, the northern noble lady was easy on the eye, but she was nothing special. She did not have the exotic looks of those Dornish princesses nor the Valyrian-like attributes of the Lyseni nobles. She was beautiful, but not extraordinarily so.
However, decisions had been made, and the rest of the maidens were hurried along. The little platinum-haired boy, Gaemon Palehair, was called swiftly to announce that the King had chosen Lady Barba of House Bolton.
Maidens fumed and wept that the poor lady Henrietta Woodhull was sobbing as she curtsied. Not that the King cared much; his face was frozen like ice.
Barba was a perceptive woman—otherwise, she would not survive. She kept her calm, thanking the Targaryen King for choosing her, much to her surprise and her family’s surprise, even when her visage remained unchanged and Gods knew what was beneath those mirror-like eyes. When she lingered, she paid close attention to her surroundings.
Not to the rest of the ladies gathered here, no. They were not important. Barba glanced discreetly at the people around the king. His Kingsguards with unchanging expressions, his herald and courtiers, the boy Gaemon Palehair…
…and the Hand of the King, Lord Unwin Peake. For a split second, his face showed shock. Then anger, and finally, disdain. It was good that the man was rather easy to read.
‘There it is,’ Barba thought inside her mind, ‘the man that could be my demise.’