A Game Unchanged
SUMMARY
What if Robert Baratheon and Rhaegar Targaryen both died locked in combat at the Battle of the Trident and left Ned Stark to take the Iron Throne?
CHAPTER ONE
EDDARD
"The morning had dawned clear and cold, with a crispness that hinted at the end of summer."
~A Game of Thrones, Chapter Two, Bran
The king lifted one hand from the reins to catch a plump, soft snowflake in his gloved palm. The wetness seeped in between the fibers of the moleskin and gave him just the chilly welcome that he had desired from his ancestral home. The land itself seemed to embrace him as his retinue headed further north.
"Is winter coming, Your Grace? Now I understand why the Starks are always the first to know," the eunuch tugged his borrowed furs tighter around himself as he complained, obviously wishing for a speedy return to King's Landing.
Eddard of House Stark, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm decided that his desire to groan at his councilor would have been unbecoming of a man of his rank. After all, without the eunuch's scheming he would still be at court, sitting uneasily on the Iron Throne.
I will be able to sit on the Iron Throne more comfortably upon my return thanks to Varys. I must not let my annoyance be too noticeable.
"This is nothing more than a light summer snowfall. Winter is coming, but I believe our most recent efforts will save us in the years to come."
"I see that your speech is improving. We would not want word of the new flames in your hearth to spread."
Eddard turned to Lord Varys in reproach only to realize that the eunuch's tone was not sarcastic. The king was genuinely surprised to see the flash of honesty reflected in the grave, piercing eyes of the normally guarded eunuch.
He is just as earnest as I am.
The realization stunned Eddard Stark, the First of His Name, into silence as he contemplated the plan that he, Lord Varys, and his Hand had labored over for years. He let the gentle motion of his horse comfort him as he reexamined his concerns one by one.
"Your Grace, when was your last visit to Winterfell?" Lord Varys shattered his state of reverie in an obvious attempt to distract him.
"Four years past. I have a son that I have yet to meet. Queen Catelyn named him Rickon."
"After your lord father?"
"Not directly. She deemed it… inappropriate."
"Rightly so. Any outward bitterness towards the Targaryens would only serve as fodder for your enemies, especially in the months to come."
The two exchanged a look of mutual agreement.
"I did not warn you before, however; my little birds tell me that Your Grace's normal chambers are not as secure as once thought."
The king dreaded the response to his next question, "Can birds fly into every nook and cranny of Winterfell? Is my wife waiting to greet a mute husband?"
Lord Varys tapped the side of his nose with two fingers, "Do not fret, Your Grace. Birds may fly, but wolves can dig and burrow."
After a moment of contemplation, the king realized exactly what Varys was suggesting.
Thank the Gods.
Eddard needed the comfort of his wife's calm, unwavering logic more than ever.
"I only hope that my children are ready for the storm to come."
"For winter is coming…" The facetious smile that Eddard had expected to accompany Varys's last recitation of his house's words appeared and, to all outward appearances, they were merely the King of the Seven Kingdoms and his Master of Whisperers again, forever at odds with one another as they strove for what each considered to be the surest path towards ensuring the survival of their people, "…and all we can do is brace ourselves against the cold."
The king gave his advisor a wry smile, "A hearty fire will chase away the chills."
"Only if we can keep it burning bright."