The houses of the North are scattered.

Loyal, stubborn, yes they are all of these things but the Northern Houses are united only by old vows and tenacity. They do no foster each others children the way they do in the south, and that, to Anne, is foolish. It means that they are not united, as they should be, though all will swear to follow the Starks the connection isn't personal. Not the way Ned's connection to Jon Arryn is, and his love of the Eyrie with it. Not the way Robert Baratheon is loyal to Ned Stark. Its a familial bond, built beyond blood.

Anne has seen it before.

The look in Ned's eyes when he regails them with tales of Jon Arryn is the same one that once haunted the brown eyes of River Kelly, talking about her father.

For Anne, to whom true loyalty is everything and mere words will not be enough, this is a problem.

She can remember so well, that Karstarks marching. Turning back on Robb. The Boltons and their treachery. The bloody battle of the bastards.

She would not tolerate all of that.

If Anne had it her way, and she would have it her way, none of that would ever come to pass. She had no control over the south yet. She couldn't stop Lysa Arryn from killing her husband, or interfere in Little Fingers plans. She couldn't stop Robert from coming from her father, and truthfully nothing could. But the North was hers, now, and she would not allow it to fall into civil strife.

So she planted the idea.

It took a couple of years, during which time she spent more effort than she'd expected dragging Theon into her fold, but eventually she and Robb and Ned Stark took off on a tour of the north.

Two years old and Arya was already a little terror, throwing her temper tantrums and getting into everything. Bran, barely a year younger than her was bright eyed and curious little boy. Sansa, at five, was sweet and eager to please and already mastering her duties as a Lady in ways that Anne, with her strange thinking and stubborn viciousness, never could get quite right.

Right before leaving Anne made a point of hugging Theon tightly around his middle.

"Watch over the girl, won't you?" she asks, pulling back to peer up at his sea-green eyes. Theon is older and taller than her and Robb. the best archer in the keep, too, his shoulders are broad and readied. His hands, calloused, though not from rough rope work the way an ironborns aught to be. She never addresses that.

Theon rolls his eyes at her, but pats her head with a descent fondness. If nothing else, he is resigned to her antics. To her affections, despite her mothers disapproving gaze.

"I'll do what I can," he says simply. Not a real promise, but Anne knows that when she comes back he will have helped keep Arya reigns in and Sansa entertained, if only for long enough for a story or a half censored sea shanty.

Theon was, when he wasn't being a boy cocked up in his own pride, rather good with children. Anne had gentled enough that he would sit with Sansa if he was asked, or amuse Arya when she started to become too much for Catelyn. It was amazing what one could do with a frightened hostage if you showed them a little kindness and a little faith.

Thought few would ever guess it, it was, in the end, faith that had won Anne most of her most loyal followers. Faith, and truth, so hard to find in a life like hers had been. She was honest, when she could be, and honest always with those she worked directly with. You don't con your own crew, and she needed their loyalty to be full, uncracked by guarded secrets or separated by thick shields. Taro knew her every move, her every thought, and she his. Jazz could talk circles around her but she struck to the heart of matters when others fluttered like butterflies afraid to land.

There were not many butterflies in the north, she had noted early on.

Even as they, her father and brother and her rode down the kingsroad with their entourage, there were no delicate wings beating the air. No butterflies to make those oh-so-famous ripples in the winds. No stones tossed carelessly into ponds still thawing from a brief summer snow.

Only wolves, prowling towards the ruins of Moat Cailin, and beyond that the marshes and their friends that live within. It will be the first time in seven years that Ned Stark has seen Howland Reed.

The farther they go from winterfeel, and the closer they draw to Moat Cailin, where the crannogman are set to be waiting for them, the more humid it becomes. An uncomfortable heat and bone deep cold, Anne longs for the comforts of home.

But on they march, a gaggle of northmen bound for the farthest south she had any intention of going. She wanted nothing to do with the Iron Court, and its vipers nest of disloyal, treasonis snakes. Not unless she was going there to declare Norther independence and burn Kings Landing to the ground. The North was hers, and having to know that a man like Robert Baratheon claimed it to be hers rubbed her exactly the wrong way.

Moat Cailin, when it came into view, was a decrepit old thing. Half fallen away, broken and haunted with summer mists that chased their way through the trees that stabbed their way out of the dark waters. Their were tumbles of stone that had slid halfway sunken into the marsh around them. Anne had never seen anything quite like it.

She remembered, vague and unpleasantly soured by her first mothers perfumed smiles and bitter, powdered pill oatmeal, a night when they lived in louisiana. They had never stayed long. They couldn't afford to, or someone might get too suspicious about the two deathly ill children with doctors notes as long as their arms. They moved once every three years, but from the time they were five to the time they were eight they lived in Louisiana, just outside of Montworth. There wasn't a swamp in the backyard, but there were trees that hung low and heavy with spanish moss.

It whispered with the winds and danced like ghosts in the dark nights.

Anne had been afraid of them, clinging to his mother and brother and crying when the wind picked up, thinking they were phantoms come to take her life.

Now, as she rode through the marshes with a different parents and a different brother she was no longer afraid. Why should she be? They weren't phantoms, for all the Crannogmen seemed to act like them, and all the Ironborn knew them as devils.

Anne was excited to meet Meera, and Howland, the man that had allowed his daughter to fight and hunt and live.

She had wanted to stop in Wintertown on the way south, but that plan was dashed now.

All the same, it could wait for another time. This, she was much more excited for.

They were met at the edge of the causeway by a flat bottomed boat that had appeared out of nowhere. Sitting inside were three show, tough looking people with curling hair and strange green and grey clothes that reminded Anne vaguely of a gilly suit.

Smart. Hard to track. Good folk to have on your side, and the loyal Reeds were sword to the Starks, and Howland was one of her fathers greatest friends.

Once the boats came into view, the horses were abandoned to be taken to Torrhen's Square, and the three of them ghosted into the trees of the marshes of the Neck. The trees hung low and the humidity rose until even Anne, northwoman that she was, started to feel the cold.

She always hated humidity.

It made her feel sticky, and gross, and unclean. It reminded her too much of the years outside of montworth, with poison in her blood and a head as foggy as the swamp.

The greenness of the swamp closed in slowly around them, and the rest of the world disappeared in a curtain of fog, moss, and tall, stubborn trees.

Taro hadn't always had a talent for violence.

He wasn't born with it. So few people ever were. He was born with a talent for music, but that was for queers and people who didn't know how to use a shovel. Violence, that was something that he learned. Pain, and then hatred, and the only way to get rid of that hatred was to lash out, to hurt other people. It would drain, like an infection, but the pus always came back and it would never leave that way.

He'd learned that too late. Much, much too late.

By the time he understood that there was no peace in violence it was too late. He was too deep, and too far gone, and the government was shit and he had no one to turn to. His parents? A joke. Friends? Dead and gone.

Everyone else would tell him what he wanted to hear. Or the same things that he had heard over and over and over again.

'Thank you'. 'That was so brave'. 'I could never'.

Lies.

If they were thankful it wasn't thankful enough for him to be sleeping indoors. If it was so brave why had he pissed himself the first time he's stared down the barrel of a gun, why had he puked the first time he'd killed someone? If they could never why was the world so filled with people who did?

Everyone lied to him, except for Anne.

She told him, right away, what she wanted from him. What she expected of him. And what he would get if he listened to her.

For Anne, for her honesty, he killed. It was easier than killing in the desert on a lie stuttered out by an idiot who didn't know what 'nuclear' even meant.

Taro had not been born with a talent for violence.

Joff had.

He had a head that moved faster than his hands, instincts that rivalled even the most experienced of the Kings Guard. He took advantages of weaknesses and in the training yard he was without mercy. It was the dread of every squire and even the shorter knights to face him.

His mother said, proudly, that it was inherited from his father, and if the rest of the court that was Robert so be it.

Joff knew better.

What he did came from years of practice.

He missed, sometimes, the days when he could walk into a room full of assholes who thought they were hot shit, say his name, and watch them piss themselves and run.

Most times, though, he was glad for it. Otherwise he wouldn't have been about to tote Myrcella around and show her off to all the Lords and Ladies, and brag about how sweet she was, how high she could count, that she was going to be an amazing queen.

He was reminded, gently and often, that he would be king and she would be princess.

He ignored all of them.

When he was five, he decided that his handwriting was nice enough to start writing letters to his kinsmen.

He began with the ones he saw the least of. The Baratheons of Dragonstone, with his uncle Stannis having gone to tend to his castle full time and his daughter only some few months in the past. Even when he'd been in the capital, Joff had seen little of him.

Stannis Baratheon, of Dragonstone.

Hello uncle. I wished you were in Kingslanding more often so I might see you and your family more often. I've heard dragonstone is all black and looks like its made of dragons. Is it frightening? How did you catch it? Does it have any secret passages?

Joff

He didn't care much about Stannis. He really did have the personality of a lobster. But he was supposedly family, and Joff was getting better at acting.

Selyse Baratheon of Dragonstone,

Hello aunt! I know uncle leaves you to run his keep while he is away, so he must trust you quite a lot. I heard you had a daughter a few years ago. I hope she can come visit me and Myrcella sometimes. Or maybe we'll visit you.

Joff

Shireen Baratheon of Dragonstone,

You may not be old enough to read this yet, or maybe you're a genius and you can, but I'm your cousin, Joffrey. You can call me Joff, all family does. What do you do on Dragonstone? Are there other people your age there? When you come to court, I want to show you the gardens. I bet you don't have any of those on Dragonstone.

Joff

Renly was always at Court, even though he was technically the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, he was only fourteen. At sixteen he would tour his holdings, march off to rule his lands, but Joff had a feeling that he didn't like Storms End.

He'd never spoken of it, but every one knew that he'd spent a whole year in the Siege of Storms End. They'd been attacked, harried, and starved to the point of eating rats. They had almost eaten each other, too, before the Onion Knight had saved their lives.

Taro knew the kind of damage that could cause to a child. It had taken years of him constantly feeding River, promising her she wouldn't go hungry, at least for long, and not without him doing the same. It had taken until he'd brought her out into the woods and showed her how to skin an elk before she finally stopped stocking cans of mandarin oranges like a goddamn squirrel.

Taro hadn't been a whole lot better after he'd got back from overseas, but even the war didn't compare to what his own mother had done.

He started his next letter.

Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock.

He stopped. Tywin was a proud man. He would probably prefer being referred to as 'Lord of Casterly Rock'. Oh well.

Grandfather. Mother tells me often of her home, your great rock keep and its impossible defenses. She's told me about Lannisport, and her time growing up as a lady. Uncle Jaime has told me about the training you put him through, and how you ensured his position now. Uncle Tyrion mentions little of you. Everyone speaks your name with reverence, and thinks you the cleverest man in Westeros. If I am to be King, I suppose I must be cleverer still, or lose my throne. With luck I inherited more than your hair!

Joff

That should be a good enough start. Joff was well aware that he wasn't a very charismatic person. He was brutally good at his job, he was kind when he was able, but he hadn't drawn people to him like magnets. If a civil war broke out, he had no idea what would happen.

He knew his first instinct.

Sneak into their holds in the dead of night and kill everyone before they knew he was there. Walk in the front door and cut down anyone who got close enough and hunt his enemies down.

That was what Taro would have done.

But Joff didn't think he could do that here. He didn't have the magic he'd been given by his love. He'd left that behind to his daughter. He didn't have decades worth of reputation and fear to clear half the way. He had guards, and soldiers, but he had never liked sending other people to do his dirty work. It left him with his skin crawling unpleasantly.

So he needed to talk to his family. To endear himself, or at least keep reminding them that they were family. Whichever one worked best.

Qohor had strange coins, Dany thought.

They were triangles, with a great goat sitting in the middle of the coin. Dany always thought it was funny, how different places made different coins to use. Jazz had taught her lots of coins over the years. For Volantis and Lys, and Qohor too. It was a nice enough city, but Dany had seen lots of cities in her young life. The only really interesting thing about Qohor was the street magicians, and those were all fakes. Jazz liked to lean down and whisper to her about what they were doing and how they did it. Flash papers and hidden sleeves and misdirection. Dany didn't think there was anything Jazz didn't know.

She wouldn't need the Qohor coin for much longer though. Jazz told her that where they were going coins weren't worth much of anything. Still, she would use this one, and the other ones in her purse, to buy a horse for the journey.

It was the first time she was being allowed to pick her own mount.

Viserys was pink with envy, he'd been a teenager before he'd been allowed his pick, but Dany had ridden more horses, and was better in the eastern saddles than her young older brother was already. She made sure not to mention though, or Viserys would get mad and yell and wave his arms around. He never struck her. She'd seen brothers strike sisters before, and neither of her brothers had ever laid an unkind hand on her. They loved her.

Dany walked by Jazz in the horse market, watching the big animals mill around in their sturdy pens. There were browns, greys, and black horses all around her. Jazz had a bright eyed mare, and Viserys kept his dun in good condition. Dany climbed up on top of an overturned crate so she could see the horses better, her lilac eyes narrowed in concentration. She kept her hair, once silver but now an eye catching red, tied firmly behind her ears in tight twists that wouldn't come easily undone. It was short enough she could have been mistaken as a boy from a distance.

Up higher, she could see the horsemen walking in front of gates, talking to customers, showing off hoofs and teeth and eyes to their potential buyers. Most of the horses were in good shape. There were some older destriers standing tall amongst the rest, but they were not what Dany looked for.

She kept her eyes sharp for a refined head with mostly a straight profile, and long ears first. Once she found those she looked for a long back, lightly muscled, coupled to a flat croup and long, upright neck. Sloping shoulders would ensure a smooth ride, too.

She found them. Their fur wasn't shiny, kicked up by the dust and sweat of other horses, but once she saw the head she knew they were what she was looking for. Dany jumped down and ran into the crowd, Jazz weaving behind her quickly.

Viserys was back at the small apartment they'd taken in Qohor, along with the three girls. Expendables, Jazz called them. A word in a language that Dany didn't understand. They were like her handmaids, Jazz had told her once. Young girls, her age, to tend to her and take care of her. Tish and Keladry, two girls that Jazz had found on the streets two years ago. They were desperate, bruised, and hungry, with gaunt, hollowed faces and sunken eyes.

It had taken almost this whole time for them to trust the three siblings. Only in the last month had Tish told Dany how Jazz had found them in the first place. They were both born in a pleasure house, and their mothers had given up to the madames to be raised there. They'd grown up together, along with a handful of other girls from when the moon teas failed or their mothers were foolish, or those that were simply sold off. Neither of them had wanted the life, so they had run. They'd been forced into stealing for food, and when they were caught the punishment was to lose a hand.

Jazz could talk a cat out of it's coat, and he'd managed to get them away from the guards and offered them a place at the Targaryens table, as long as they didn't mind working for it. Regular work, women's work. Not what they would have had to do in the pleasure houses.

Dany didn't know exactly what happened there. Anything called a 'pleasure house' sounded like it would be fun to her. But people talked about the 'whores' inside of them with revolt or something far worse, older men with leering smiles.

Viserys had gone to one once, and sworn her to secrecy so Jazz didn't find out. Dany was sure Jazz knew anyhow, but she'd kept her word and not told on him.

Tish and Keladry shared a horse between them, a spotted gelding that could take them halfway across the continent without stopping, and manned the mule that carried their belongings. They rarely kept much of value, besides food and water. Jazz always found a way to get more money wherever they went, and they left their old money behind in the houses and apartments.

Or, as Dany was about to do, spent it before they left. Strong hands grasped her skinny hips and she was lifted up, onto Jazz's shoulder. His once pake hair was dark green, almost black. They were pretending to be from Tyrosh, so her hair was a stunning pink with purple at the ends. Dany had liked Tyrosh. There were so many colors and bright people about, and everyone was friendly to her in the streets they'd lived in.

"That one," she said to Jazz, pointing to the horse in the center of the rest. Her head curved in Dany's direction, as if summoned by her voice. Dark brown, with darker still around the mouth. The coat lightened into a rich amber around the sides and back, before fading back into the darkness. Deep brown eyes watched Dany with a gentle intelligence. Horses were smarter than people, she thought sometime. She didn't tell Viserys such things, or even Jazz. They would think she was silly.

"You sound so sure, sweetling. Did you see her hoofs? Her teeth?" he challenged. Dany cringed. She'd gotten so caught up in finding the right shape she'd forgotten age and feet. Still, Jazz got the attention of the horse merchant and asked to see the faded mare. Ombre, Dany thought. Like the hair. Fading from one color to another. Ombre.

She climbed from Jazz's shoulder to the ground, standing with him while he showed her the animals teeth, how to see how smooth they were and check for sanding. The hoofs, too, were sound and no stones or thorns were in the delicate flesh within the semi-circle they made.

Dany was clever enough to realize that Jazz was at once teaching her about horses, and showing to the tradesman that they would not be easily fooled by any flattery that he laid at their feet. Viserys was bad at seeing when he was being played, something Jazz scolded him for often. Dany tried to do her brothers proud. She tried to be smart. She wanted to be strong and powerful, like Visenya. She wanted to be sweet and loved like Rhaenys.

Jazz had teased her once that if they were as their ancestors were then he was Rhaenys, Viserys was Visenya, and she was Aegon himself.

Dany thought Jazz was crazy. Viserys had rolled his eyes, but hadn't butted into the talk.

"Twelve gold," the horseman said at last, breaking Dany from her musings. She was not a dragon rider, but a horse was good enough for her.

Jazz gave him a very calm stare. "Eight."

"A rip off!" the man barked. "Eleven and none lower!"

Dany bit her lip. She tugged at the tradesman's pant leg, drawing his eyes down to her. She held up her purse to him, mostly copper and silver. She wasn't the best at sums, but she was almost certain that she had enough to make ten gold total.

"Please, sir?" she widened her violet eyes at him. Before her his disposition cracked, crumbled, and finally he let out a sigh. He took the bag from her and opened it, counting through the coins. His brows furrowed before, at last, he nodded.

"It'll do girly. But don't go us'n those babe-eyes for sour dealin's, hear me? The gods look down on it."

"I won't," she promised seriously, though she wasn't sure she knew what he meant. She did know it meant that she got the horse. The mare was brought out of the pen with the others and Dany introduced herself politely, blowing into her nostrils. The velvet of her nose pressed against Dany's cheek, making her giggle, until Jazz scooped her up again. He deposited her soundly on the horses bare back and grasped the lead rope.

"What will you call her, sweetling?" Jazz asked, tugging the mare along carefully. They squeezed between people, moving through the marketplace until they popped out of the city entirely. Viserys and the girls stood outside, next to the road, waiting for them. Dany had thought they would go back to the apartment, but they were leaving already. Her lemon seeds pressed against her skin under her split skirt, breeches underneath protecting her from the bare back riding.

"Ombre," Dany decided at last, running her fingers through the mares black mane.

"Ombre," Jazz nodded, once. "Alright. She'll carry you on our journey. Be ready, sweetling, and you too, V, girls," Jazz added, picking up his voice as they drew near. "We're about to go to very dangerous places."

Dangerous, Dany thought. How dangerous? Our lives are already in danger.

How dangerous was Vaes Dothrak?