Chapter 1

Eddard Stark

All things considered, it would have been more fortuitous if Winter was coming, and not the King.

Ned Stark, Lord of Winterfell, let out a small blow of frustration as he absentmindedly reached for his cup of ale – heavily weakened with water in order to better maintain his wits – and stared at the three pieces of parchment that took center place on his desk, a great and ornate thing of solid oak with ironwood trim and a surface of a rich, silver-dyed leather; a relic of his father's love of grand gestures. Now it was Ned's – as were, he thought sourly, the political maneuverings that threatened to engulf him, like a winter's storm that came without warning after a false spring.

Putting down his cup he picked up the first letter once more. He scanned the scrawl, though in truth by now he had the entire letter known by heart. His wife's sister had clearly written in haste, telling a woeful tale of her husband's poisoning and her subsequent flight from the royal capital of King's Landing. She wrote now from the safety of her deceased husband's holdfast, The Eyrie, and vowed that neither she nor her son would leave for as long as danger threatened her precious Sweet Robin. For all her waxing, her letter was short on any sort of actual explanation, save her claim that the Queen's family were behind the plot, no doubt seeking to remove her husband from his position of prominence as the Hand of the King, so to more firmly entrap the King with men loyal to the Lannisters themselves.

He frowned at that, ignoring the crinkle of parchment as his hands tightened around its edges. He had no love for the Lannisters – Lord Tywin, the familial patriarch, father of the Queen Consort, and Lord Paramount of the Westerlands – was ruthless and power hungry, but it eluded him why the Lannisters would risk all to kill the man who had been a father both to King Robert and himself – the man who had raised them both as fosters in the Vale, ridden with them to war against the Mad King Aerys when said king had all but demanded both his and Robert's heads... the risk did not seem worth the reward. Jon Arryn was old, and Tywin Lannister's grandson would one day sit upon the Iron Throne, with no need for sinister action.

He shook his head, placing the letter down once more. He knew he had been remiss to tarry on this issue – the grief he felt at the death of Lord Arryn had threatened his wits, and mayhap even now he was unable to see clearly. It had been many years since he had seen his good-sister Lysa – surely she would not name the Lannisters without any sort of rightful suspicion... and just as reasonably, she would be reluctant to go into any further specifics in a letter that was always in some danger of interception. He would take her at her word for now – which brought his attentions to the second letter.

The King was coming to Winterfell. According to the letter sent from the Red Keep, the King and his retinue had left almost a fortnight ago. Such a procession though would take time, both because of the many leagues between King's Landing and Winterfell, and also because protocol would demand that every holdfast and keep, every chartered town and lordly castle offer some show of ceremony and celebration. Especially as the King traveled with the entire royal family, his Lannister queen – Queen Cersei – as well as their three children, Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen, who were of an age between Ned's own children. As well as who could begin to fathom how many attendants and footmen and ladies as southerners were wont to take. Even with only the minimum of necessary stops, such a group would be laden down by the wheel houses and baggage train. No, they would not reach the North quickly, even if the Kingsroad was well maintained and the weather clear.

Which brought him to the most pressing of the three issues, as there was more than enough time that he could not delay a response to the third letter.

Unlike his good-sister's hurried, messy scrawl or the ostentatious penmanship of the anonymous palatial scribe, the letter in front of him was written in a tidy, precise, and tiny hand, almost so small as to be uncomfortable to read. Precise, tidy, and practical – three of the more favorable attributes that could also be held to the man who had penned it – Lord Roose Bolton, one of Ned's principal bannermen and one whose family had a long and at times a violent history with the Starks of Winterfell.

Though this – well if it was not a first, it was something very close to it.

...has returned after spending four years in the softness of The Reach. It is my intent therefore to arrange a quick tour of mine own bannermen and, if you find it pleasurable to your circumstances, our liege lord. I believe your daughter Sansa is of an appropriate age...

He scoffed at that. It was not for Sansa that Lord Bolton suggested sending his heir and only daughter, Dachara, for a sojourn to Winterfell.

His lady wife had been less than amused when Ned had read out the contents of the letter to her, shortly after it had come on the morning's raven.

"This is not the first time Lord Bolton has hinted to you in letters along these lines, and I... he is not a kind man."

Ned had given a grim bark of a laugh at that. "Aye, I've heard him named many things over the years, though few would ever call him kind. He is however one of my most powerful bannermen, and for his private thoughts and... peculiarities... he has never given me public offense. Nothing that would justify dismissing the matter out of hand."

He had given his wife a private smile, "And any way, it is not his own self that he would cleave to Robb."

Catelyn Stark had snorted, amusement clear for a moment in her eyes despite the serious nature of the situation. "No, I shouldn't think so! And I would pray that she is touched more by the Maiden and the Mother than her father is likely to be! But... Robb is still so young. Surely there is still time before we need to think about such things. And surely, there must be so many other girls who could be considered. Ones with less history. It is not something to jump into."

"Hastily, no. But, there are not as many as you may wish, Cat." Ned had replied tiredly. "Robb must marry in the North – for all that you have been a blessing unto me, the Starks cannot be more of the south than of the north. Of northern lords with an appropriate daughter, mayhap there are a half dozen – a dozen at most. Even if we were to include the smaller houses, less than a score – and Robb is almost five-and-ten, near a man grown. We have put this off for too long, you must admit I have the right of it."

"You do," his Cat had sighed, her shoulders tensing as she was wont to do when she had an reservation that she sought to repress. Family, Duty, Honor. Even as a Stark, she retained her maiden words. And though she was unhappy at the thought of Ned even considering the daughter of Lord Bolton – the daughter of a man whose sigil of the flayed man was considered wild and bloodthirsty even by northern standards... she understood at least the need to keep harmony in the North, and Robb's duty as the Heir to Lord Paramountcy of the same.

"Very well," she said after a moment. "I will of course support your decision. I suppose it won't do any harm to at least welcome the girl to Winterfell," she finished with a nod. "And if it means putting on a mummer's farce that Lord Bolton seeks to introduce his daughter to Sansa, and present herself to her father's liege, so be it."

Ned nodded. "I will write to Lord Bolton, granting permission but begging he make haste: it would be best if she come quickly, and we have the matter resolved one way or another before the royal party arrives. For when the King arrives-"

"When the King arrives, you cannot guarantee that you will be staying when the King departs." his lady wife shared his thoughts.

"Aye. And I will speak to Robb – while he cannot escape the burdens that come with lordship, I will give him some choice and foresight in the matter. If we or he find the girl intolerable, I will write to Lords Karstark, Manderly, Lady Mormont... I will not leave for the south without having this issue settled."

It had been more than that. In truth he feared that the King was coming to request he go to King's Landing and take the position that Jon Arryn's death had rendered vacant. Though he had been loath to express such thoughts to his wife, they both knew his brother and father had both gone to King's Landing at the summons of another king, and had not survived the experience. And while Robert would never intentionally do him harm, he was certain, the murder of Jon Arryn spoke of things afoot in the capital, and a city of the size and scope of King's Landing was a cesspit of intrigue at the best of times. It would be many times worse if the Queen herself were actually involved, as Lysa's letter had suggested.

If he were to go – and he would not shirk his duty to the King should it be asked of him, and certainly not out of a craven fear of premonitions and old hauntings – then he would at the very least leave the North best suited to endure his absence, with his son's right and ability to lordship unquestioned and the issue of succession clear and sundry. The Northerners were a loyal but fractious lot, and better now to solve the issue – and endure whatever protests the Karstarks, Glovers, Umbers, Manderlys, Flints or even Bolton would voice for their own women being passed over in favor of one of the others – than to leave the issue unresolved when hot blood and hot tempers might interfere at the worst possible time.

He chuckled. And anyway, Winter was Coming... and it was good for a young man to have a full bed to occupy himself during the cold nights!

Arya

Everyone was stupid! Stupid Sansa with her stupid friends and the stupid Septa with her stupid lessons about stupid things that Arya cared not a whit for while the stupid boys got to spend their hours in the tiltyard fighting with swords and bows and listening to the old war stories of Jory Cassel – the Winterfell Captain of the Guard. And to be fair yes they had to endure lessons as well with Maester Luwin, learning history and their numbers and other boring things but even that was better than endless amounts of dancing and singing and sewing. Sewing. With a scowl, she jabbed her needle through the linens once more, continuing her line of serviceable – just! - line of stitches, like a ragged line of pikemen. She smiled at that. Yes, pikemen. Now she would do a line of archers, no two lines, because archers had to stay behind the pikes to keep them safe from the cavalry that were... well she, would add them later. Maybe -

"Smaller lines, Arya," Septa Mordane interrupted, face chiding. "Take a look at your sister's needlework, how the spacing between each stitch is constant. And gentle, it is a needle, not a sword."

Well, and to think the lesson had almost been bearable for a turn. And now Sansa had a stupid little smile on her stupid pretty face.

Even worse, Sansa had a new friend, who would probably giggle (stupidly) about how wonderful Sansa was, and how pretty Sansa was, and how much better she was at everything than Arya.

She had been delighted when her father had told them a few nights ago that the Leech Lor- that Lord Bolton's daughter – would be visiting Winterfell for a half-turn of the moon. If any girl was likely to be interesting, who would understand that Arya would prefer to climb the walls and towers of Winterfell with her brother Bran or watch (or if she had her druthers, join) her older brothers sparring, surely it would be a girl from the Dreadfort. This side of Bear Island, at any rate!

But, no. Daracha Bolton had been polite and soft spoken and boring. And she played a harp and sang and her stitches had not been criticized by the Septa.

However... she did not giggle along with stupid Jeyne Poole, had not in truth japed at her expense at all. And she didn't talk about stupid girly things. Much. She was quiet, except when she had been asked to sing and in that, if not in her stitching, she had outdone Sansa, Arya thought smugly. So, she admitted silently to herself, a tad grudgingly, that perhaps Daracha wasn't entirely rotten.

She wasn't as fun as the boys though, and when Septa Mordane turned her back, Arya bolted from the lesson room.

She wondered first through the Godswood, knowing from experience that the Septa would not enter, and would soon enough decide that Arya was a lost cause for the day and return to help the other girls, like they really needed to be told that they had even more sewing to do! No doubt her mother would be informed, but that was a bridge Arya would cross when she came to it – for now, she would enjoy the dying light of the afternoon for another turn of the glass and then find her bothers: Bran had recently begun training to use the bow, and Arya enjoyed listening in on his lessons, as when Robb or Jon fought – or their family's ward, Theon Greyjoy – they were less inclined to exchange anything about how to fight but rather tell one another the same handful of bawdy japes. Which were also an education of sorts, though not one their lady mother would be pleased to discover; either that the boys were discussing or that Arya was listening in on.

She could hear them now as she walked towards Winterfell's barracks, the clash of metal as Robb and... Theon, today, went at one another in a practice melee, though they seemed to be coming to their end, as they lowered their swords, both panting and heavily laden with sweat even in the cool, crisp air of the dying day. They were walking over to where Jon and Bran were practicing with the bow, the elder assisting the younger from time to time with his posture and shot. On tiptoe, she crept closer before squatting in the dirt to eavesdrop.

"Not a bad shot," Robb called out as Bran's arrow flew more-or-less true, hitting the outer edge of the target. Arya smirked – only yesterday had their father berated the older boys for mocking Bran's arrows, reminding them quite bluntly about their own mishappenings when they had been first learning to use the bow.

"Thank you. I'm getting better." Bran replied, defensively.

Jon nodded at that. "You are. It is a question of consistency. When you are in a fray or hunt, you cannot afford to be uncertain in your shot."

Bran nodded solemnly at the pronouncement, but Theon snorted at it.

"What does a bastard know about a real fight? The arrow in your hands is as green as the arrow between your legs."

"And I suppose you have bested a score of men, twice your size," Jon bit back.

"I've been in a brawl or three in the taverns of Wintertown," Theon boasted. "And I've whet my weapon there as well."

Arya could not see it, but she would have bet a silver stag that Jon rolled his eyes at that.

"Of course, they say that castle-trained makes the best weapon handler, and there's a new-"

"Shut your gob." Robb hissed. Now that was interesting, normally it was Jon that grew short with Theon first while Robb tried to play maester between the two. Arya edged closer, this could be fun.

"My father would skin you alive if he heard you speak so, if he didn't hand you over to her own father instead."

Jon snickered at that. "Do you think the girls of Wintertown would look fondly upon you if you showed up without a coat of skin?"

"All right, I jape," Theon said, a sulk creeping into his voice. "We all know why she's here, any way. Don't we, Robb?" There was no mistaking the lechery in his voice now.

Better and better. We, in fact, did not all know why she was here. Arya held her breath.

"I have not noticed much," Robb said, his voice far too airy to be sincere. "She is good with a harp, and well mannered. I suppose she is comely enough, if she is your type."

"I've seen prettier," Theon jibed. "Bedded prettier too. With much bigger teats." He boasted.

"You also bedded worse," Robb grumbled.

"That's certainly true." Jon added.

"I do wonder though, do you think in the Dreadfort they teach a girl how to flay you with her teeth?" Theon asked with an air of well-rehearsed innocence.

Arya did not know what that meant, but the boys winced at that, except Bran, so clearly it was something she didn't know, and something her mother would prefer to keep that way. She would have to ask Jon later, when he was alone.

As she was reflecting on Theon's riddle for a second time, she heard her father's voice, calling out to the boys. Silent as she had arrived, Arya departed – mayhap there was time sneak into the stables before her mother came to search for her. It would be better if she were "found" in the usual place, after all.

Notes:

Hello! This is my first foray into Game of Thrones, so consider this a bit of an experiment. I am a fan of alternate history so I've got the big picture all plotted out, but I'm afraid I am still trying to feel my way regarding tone. Criticism welcome!

There are obviously a few interlocking points of divergence, and I have played fast and loose to some degree with the time-line. First, Domeric is now Daracha, a name I chose because it is Scottish, sounds suitably Westerosi bizarre, and begins with a "D". Hopefully the oddness of it does not contribute to Mary-Sue vibes. At least Roose isn't sending Aurora Violet Theodora Nymeria Bolton to Winterfell... The sex change has many implications – small and large – that we will delve into in future chapters. For now, it suffices that Daracha, unlike Domeric, was not a squire in The Vale, but a Lady-in-waiting in The Reach. The time line of their respective returns to the Dreadfort is not the same. Also, Daracha had less inclination to seek out her bastard half-brother, and Lord Bolton had a greater incentive (and as it would be unthinkable for a lady to go off unchaperoned, greater opportunity) to prevent such a meet-up under any circumstances, Daracha's choice or no. So where Domeric is dead, Daracha is not. The other significant PoD is that Ned recognizes that his son and heir is 15, he himself may be leaving the North for an extended period of time, and Winter is Coming... the issue of the Stark line needs to be addressed. Obviously, this will cause significant butterflies. How they will play out, we shall see.

Do not think this 'solves' the Frey/Bolton mess though. Ramsay still exists. Roose Bolton and Walder Frey are still Roose Bolton and Walder Frey. This is not a straight forward 'fix-it'. Half the fun of alternate history is breaking something that never broke for every pitfall avoided.