Anne stabbed the needle into the thick calico cloth, her grey eyes brewing with a storm. Thick pink cotton outlined a simple direwolf's head on the cloth, and in the center she stitched together through the thick calico stretched taut across her hoop. The grey wool ticks through, leaving small stitches in its place until the couching is done and her cordonnet is in the shape if a snarling wolf. It's still messy, this small body is not as graceful as her old one, her coordination is still something she's working on.
Anne switches her needle and her thread and started stitching slowly between the outline, drawing tight, neat threads together. Over and over, she imagined that she was stitching it into flesh again, the way she had in the days of old. She thought of her Death Dealers, her killers who wore her marks with such pride. None were quite the same and all bore her distinctness.
She had picked each of them out, The most talented, the most loyal, those most deserving. Quinton Taro, River Kelly, Chick Bradshaw and a scant dozen others. Those who wore her lace were known. The most deadly, the most dangerous people in the world. And they were hers. Hers and no one else's.
Now she has noone.
She does not have her Death Dealers, she does not have Jazz or his children. She does not have Taro and his daughter.
Her father and Robb have an army, the bannermen of the North, who will not answer to her unless every man in her family is dead and even then, it's debatable. They wouldn't listen to her without question, not the way her others had.
It's infuriating, and she pours that fury into the image in front of her. Into the wolf. Snarling and grey she stitches her anger into every knot until it it finished.
The scissors are wicked sharp as she carefully clips through the tacking that held it in place on the hoop. In the end she has a small lace wolf, sitting on her hand. It's not her best work, but her fury has faded, sealed in the intricacies of the lace.
Lace had been a part of her for a long, long time.
Their family had been strict, hers and Jazz. She wasn't allowed books that weren't approved, she was allowed to play kickball and she always had to sit out in gym class. She was sick, her mother had said. Her and Jazz both, sickly and weak children. They'd been put in front of old books and sat in only the smallest bit of sunlight. She was allowed to touche only the dullest of needles, none of them able to prick her precious fingers.
How far she had come from that.
They weren't sick, in the end. Neither of them. But if they thought they were, if they felt like they were, if they looked pale and thin and shaky, then their mother could control their lives forever. Dress them like dolls.
Her mother was the first person that Anne Reed had ever killed.
She did it for her brother. She did everything for her brother. Jazz was her whole world for the twenty years it took to take control of her life and the lives of everyone around them. Her brother, and Taro.
Now her world had expanded. Now it included four brothers, two sisters, a mother and father who loved her very much but who chafed at the idea of her fighting. Of her following the path of her namesake.
In the calm that bloomed after she lay all of her anger into the lace she recognized it for what it was. An attempt to protect her.
But Anne did not need protection. She was already subject to a patriarchal society that would expect her to marry a rich and high and settle back to being a lady of a house. Not really in charge, just a pretty trinket an someone who might have influence but only through her husband's voice.
Anne wasn't interested in that. She would be sit back in silence for no one.
By right of succession, she should be heir of Winterfell. But because she didn't have a dick she was, instead of first in line, fourth. Maybe fifth. There were certainly those who would sooner see a bastard as Warden than her as Wardeness.
She should be heiress but she was not. She should be fighting but she was not.
The world was going to change, and not for the better. She needed to be strong before that time came. Not this small girl of six, with no power of her own.
Her door opened.
She looked away from the little wolf in her hand. Eddard Stark stood in the doorway. His long grey cloak hung across his shoulders, though no true Stark ever felt much cold. Eddard's face was long, framed by a close trimmed beard and long brown hair, half tied back.
It was not hard to see where she got her looks from. She had the same hair but darker, so brown it was almost black. Her eyes were the same shade of grey, stormy and intense. From her mother, she got little. A slim frame. High cheekbones.
"Anne," he said, and she had to wonder if he had chosen the nickname because he could not bear to say 'Lyanna' on the regular. "We should talk."
"Unless you're about to say 'come outside and pick up a sword' I don't want to hear it," she said flatly. She lay the wolf on the table near her. She was not angry, but she was still right.
"I'm not saying that," he told her, "Lyanna, you're a Lady of House Stark. You have to behave in a way that is… fit, for such a title."
"Like Sansa?" she asked archly. "You want me to pretty little doll to impress all the lords and ladies, and when I'm old enough you'll sell me to whomever you believe will be the best fit."
"You can't believe that," Ned looked hurt. Anne wanted to pull her words from the air as much as she wanted to spit more fire and acid into his face.
Instead she bowed her head, looking at the pale blue of her dress. A winter dress, though it is still autumn. The Stark words always come true. Winter is coming.
"Anne," his voice softened enough that she looked back up at him. His face had softened, concern creasing him and replacing his grief and anger. "I will make a deal with you. When the time comes for you to marry, you may decide, that if he is not noble or kind or good, you may deny the match. I cannot promise you can marry for love, but I can promise you your choice. And you must promise to relinquish this idea of sword fighting."
Anne narrowed her eyes at him. She mulled his words over. Finally, she nodded.
"If you promise that we wait until I'm as old as mother was. That I not marry until I'm seventeen, and that we do the same for my sisters. And I'll never ask Ser Roderik or you, or any other man to teach me to use a sword." She picked her words carefully. Made sure that it would be easy to slip through the cracks of them. Not a man but maybe a boy, or a woman. Not a sword but perhaps a spear or a knife or a bow.
Ned Stark, honorable, true Ned Stark dissolved into a smile and placed a large hand on her dark hair.
"That's my girl," he soothed. "The King has summoned me south to stop a rebellion from the Greyjoys. I shall return as soon as I am able. Until then, mind your mother and watch over your brother."
Anne leaned in to hug him, ignoring the sting of guilt that came from lying at her father. What ever did her parents do to deserve her?
Jazz tapped his heels lightly against the side of the horse, sending it into a swift canter. Dany, sat before him in the thin Volantese saddle, let out a whoop of joy. She threw her little hands into the air, almost smacking him in the face, and waved them in the air.
The horse, a small mare that he had won in a game of dice, was a beautiful red with a mane the color of wheat. Her gait was smooth and even, perfect for long distance riding and her temperament was gentle. At his side Viserys sat unsteadily in the strange saddle. The Volantese, and indeed many in Essos, had saddles with low pommels and short stirrups. They were very different from the ones in Westeros, designed for knights and lance warfare. In Westeros the cantle's were high to brace a knight on when he charged to kill, the stirrups were long down so he was standing in the saddle more than he was sitting.
During their time with Ser Darry they had all stayed within the high manse walls, safe from prying eyes but in a cage. In their own gilded dragon pit. Sometimes, when Dany was napping, Jazz had smuggled Viserys out a servants exit, drawn a hood across his silver hair and taken him out to see the streets.
He showed him beggars and magicians, and pickpockets and taught him about how Rhaegar had taken him from the Red Keep like this growing up, and Jazz would dance while Rhaegar sang and they would buy their dinner with the coin they earned.
Now, outside the manse for the first time in Dany's young life they moved from one bolthole to the next. Jazz would let them stay no longer than two months time, enough time for word to reach the capital of where they were before they moved again.
Jazz procured money. From working odd jobs, to lifting purses, to gambling. Whatever it took to protect his brother and his sister.
Viserys dreamed of retaking their homeland and killing Robert Baratheon for what he'd done to their father.
Jazz, who was a king by their mothers words alone, would take back the throne if he could. He would tear them out, root and stem, but not for a desire to rule and not for vengeance for his brother, his father, and sweet Elia, but for the safety of his sister and his brother.
He wanted them to be safe, he wanted them to have stability. The throne would not give it to them but it would end the assassins on their tail.
Jazz made certain that Dany never saw them. She was young an innocent and precious. He did his best to protect Viserys as well, but he was older, a teenager now and a tempermental one at that. He was not as much of a fool as Jazz had feared he would be. He had a tenency towards anger, but Jazz did not see it as the same as their father's had been. Not yet.
Jazz gave the mare the reigns and they swept through the green grass, Viserys shouting at their backs. They moved smoothly, burning across the fields besides a stream the bubbled and burst at their side. Viserys struggled to keep up with them on his small dun, laid down with their luggage. They travel light, but in the next city Jazz will get them a good sturdy pack horse, so they can keep more than just the bare essencials with them. As it is they had food, enough money for a modest house, and the clothes on their backs. Mother's crown is safe in Valon Therys, it is one of the few things that Jazz was unwilling to sell.
Jazz didn't pull them to a stop until they came unto a split in the stream.
He dismounted and caught Dany when she slid off of horse so he could set her in the grass while he went to refill their water skins. Viserys caught up with them, looking dishevelled and agitated.
"You could have waited for me!" he scowled at him and slung down, almost falling flat on his ass. Jazz shot him a smile and went back to the river.
"Clean your hands, V. We'll have lunch before we go on our way," Jazz told him. "Dany! Don't wander so far!"
She had all but disappeared in the tall grass. They were getting bit too close to the Dothraki Sea, and the grass was almost as high as her head. Still, he could see the silver of her hair waving above the green stalks as she chased a dragonfly along the banks.
The sound of hoofbeats made him look up, and what he saw made his head sink.
"Dany!" he called again, voice sharp enough to draw the childs attention. He rarely raised his voice, but a pair of Dothraki on horse back were riding towards them. They brandished no arakh's and sounded no war like shouts. Still, Jazz touched one of the knives hidden in his sleeve.
The little girl came running back to her brothers. Viserys stood by the horses, his lilac eyes huge as he watched Dothraki aproach. One was a short man who wore no vest and had tanned dark in the sunlight. The other was younger, Jazz's age if not a couple of years younger still. His braid was already long and his dark eyes were intense as the pair of them aproached.
"Hello," Jazz nodded to them. He had made a point to learn as many of the languages spoken in Essos as he could, while he could. He knew High Valyrian, Low Valerian, and the bastard tongue sprouted from it. He knew trade talk, and he knew Dothraki, though his accent was horrible.
"You are a long way from home," the smaller man said, looking them over.
"Exiles from Westeros. I am Jazz, this is my brother, Sery, and my sister, Dany. Who speak to I?"
The younger man cracked a smile.
"I am Cohollo. This is Drogo."
Jazz drew his shoulders back. Drogo. His eyes flickered to the young man. The future Khal. "Son of Bharbo?"
"You know me. You know more than many foreigners. "
"I like to think so. What brings you so far from the Dothraki Sea? There is no Khalasar that I have seen."
"We travel, to the Rhyone. You do not need to know why."
Well, Jazz couldn't argue with that. Cohollo was right, he didn't need to know. Probably, he didn't want to know. While they were talking Dany slipped out of the grass and walked right up to Drogo's stallion. They were smaller an swifter than the draft horses employed by knights and used in western war, but still much bigger than a five year old girl. His stomach turned with fear.
"Dany," he warned, but she was unpurturbed. She marched right up to the horse, that leaned down to see the little slip of a silver haired girl.
"We came because I saw ghost grass. But it was only a girl," Drogo spoke and his voice was not low like a mans yet. He really was young. Had his father even died yet?
Dany touched the war horses soft velvet nose and blew into it, like Jazz had taught her a few months ago. In return the horse blew into her face, so hard he almost knocked her to the ground. But Dany stood tall and started talking to the horse, in Old Valerian of all things.
Drogo looked down at her and a small, phantom smile appeared on his face.
"Will you eat with us, Drogo and Cohollo?" Jazz offered. "What is our is not our for yours."
Jazz wasn't totally sure what he said, but it was enough to make Cohollo laugh at his clumsy Dothraki. Drogo denied him though, and took nothing from them nor started any fight. He stayed still long enough for Dany to finish petting the forelock of his stallion before they left them be.
Jazz almost collapsed from relief.
Both of those Dothraki warriors could have killed all three of them without trying. Viserys was not much for a sword, and Jazz was a diplomat as opposed to a true warrior. He had always been a temper for Anne. He knew people and she knew bodies. He knew mind and she knew blood. But now there was no one could balance him.
His was tilted.
There always had to be a balance. And Jazz had none.
Though his mother was loathed to his affections the fact of the matter was Quinton, Joffrey, or whoever the fuck he was adored Tyrion Lannister.
The Imp was now only a foot or so taller than Quinton/Joffrey/whoever-the-fuck. He was not a handsome man, not the way Joff had always like them with their fine features and sharp smiles. All the same, he was not ugly either. His brow was defined and well pronounced, his nose was small, and his limbs were far too short for his torso and his head.
Joff liked his eyes. His mother thought they were unnerving, but Joff like the black and the green struck together. He wondered if anyone here knew how heterochromia worked, and if they're told him he'd eaten a twin in the womb.
That would be fucked up.
He didn't ride much, instead preferring to travel by wheelhouse or litter or something to the effect. It made it hard to sneak anywhere or go about discreetly. So when he arrived from Casterly Rock into Kings Landing several months into the Greyjoy rebellion Joff was already in the yard waiting for him.
Sandor stood over him, a grim shadow at eighteen with a horrific scar. Joff was sure that regular toddlers would weep at the sight of him. Joffrey, contrarily, told him his helmet was pretty when they first met and asked if he could see clouds from his height.
Hateful little fucker or not, he was still pretending he was a three year old.
When the litter came to a halt in the courtyard and Tyrion walked out on a little step ladder Joff went running to embrace him kind, clever uncle. Both of his uncles were kind, though one of them was really his father. His mother was kind to him, and she would be kind to Myrcella and Tommen as well, but no one else. Her love was reserved for her children.
"Uncle!" he cheered. It felt good, to be filled with joy.
If he was lucky, Robert Baratheon would die in the rebellion and they would be over and done with the Fat King's reign.
Joff didn't know what the hell he would do as a king, but if Robert died then his mother wouldn't get beaten. The Lannisters could hold the kingdom. Stannis wouldn't press for the throne if no one told him that he was a bastard, and Renly had a poor claim and, in any case, adored Joff who had once called Lord Crakehall a 'homophobic cunt' to his face.
It was largely dismissed as a mispronunciation of a two year old, and Lord Crakehall went on his way, but Renly thought it was the best thing he'd heard in years.
"Nephew!" Tyrion hugged the little boy to him. "You're getting so tall! Soon you'll be as tall as your father."
"But less Fat!" he laughed, pulling away. "How were the roads? How is the fighting?"
"The roads are awful and the fighting is worse. Where is my sister, the queen?"
"Mama stayed inside. Jon Arryn is holding court while the king is fighting. She's with him. Jon Arryn says she should wait in the Keep but Mama won't. Is Grandpapa mad?"
"My father is furious, after the razing of Lannisport."
"Is he gonna kill the Greyjoys? Or only some? Or just the king?"
"Knowing my father he will likely kill as many as he can, and knowing your father he will likely do the same. Ned Stark might keep the bloodshed to a minimum though."
Another thing that Joff appreciated about Tyrion was he didn't treat him like a child. Oh he teased him, and laughed at him, but he talked to him as a small person, not someone incapable of thought or understanding the world around him. And to the rest of the world Joff must have seemed like a intelligent, if not temperamental child.
Funny for a guy who never graduated high school.
"My father is very good at killing," Joff said sagely. He did not tell him that he was good at killin too. Or that he had been, as Quinton Taro. Being a hitman renown across the world was very different from being a prince. Fuck all knew what it would be like to be a king in comparison.
Where was Anne when he needed her?