Anne was sitting her mothers solar, going over the days expenses in the big book of sums spread out across the table. Catelyn was hard at work balancing the expenses of war with the need to finish filling the grainery and call all of the vassels into castles proper for the winter.

The first men were clever. Brand the Builder knew that if he built his castle atop the natural hot springs that bubbled underneath the earth he could run hot pipes through the walls and heat the castle even in the dead of winter, when the snow fell over the heads of men and babes froze in their cradles. A result of this was not only that the people in Wintertown would flock to Winterfell as the first flurries of snow started to fly, but so too would all of the people in the neighboring villages.

Their holdfast was a veritable mecca for the people of the north when winter came, and they had to plan for it. They had to find a place to put their people, had to have food to sustain them and water inside.

Every winter that came they had hundreds of new people to house, and feed, and take care of for gods-knew how long.

Anne was already picking up on what needed to be done.

She had not grown up in a time where winter meant immediate death, or when starvation was commonplace for any but the truly impoverished, and even then it made for a fine tool of hers. Starving people would do almost anything to get food, and Anne could provide that. For a favor or two.

Here it was different. Here it was their duty to take care of them and theirs, in turn, to serve them. No one had any choice in the matter, and in terms of a social latter Anne had been born on one of the highest rungs. Which made things easier, and harder.

Anne sat on her mothers knee, watching her finish up for the day. She was growing heavier with Arya by the day, and so Anne helped her when she could. People were not inclined to trust her, being a child and all, which was going to rub her the wrong way for years and years to come.

Though Catelyn didn't know it yet, they were going to have more than one new mouth to feed by the time Ned came back, for he would be returning with another child.

Anne leaned back against Catelyn, thinking on the subject of Theon Greyjoy.

He was a traitor to her brother, his best friend. Or he would be, given the chance. A chance she endeavored to keep from being presented at all. Nonetheless, he was a traitor.

And she was left with a choice.

Find a way for his first winter in the north to be his last, or take the chance and let him grow up.

Anne was not a fan of killing children, she would have rathered made use of them, or given them to Jazz to weaponize and craft into whatever they needed them to be. But, if it had to be done it had to be done.

So, did it have to be done?

On one hand, he had also saved Bran from Osha. Saved Sansa, or Jayne, one or the other. And in his defense, he had been a prisoner since he was a child, told over and over again how grateful he should be for his imprisonment itself. He was torn between his homeland and the land that had a chance of being his home, between the North and the Iron Islands.

Unreliable, dangerous, but she could get to him before all of that set in.

On top of that…

If Anne recalled correctly, Theon had a desperate need to be wanted. To belong somewhere, with someone, when he was being pulled in half by his families.

And that, that desperation, of a third son suddenly made heir, stollen from his home and shoved into a frozen, frightening place-

That, Anne could use. And so the Greyjoy boy could live.

With a plan in place Anne left her mother behind and went off to find her embroidery kit.

Jazz eyed the streets outside their apartment speculatively.

They were crowded with vendors and shoppers, and shadowed by pickpockets and thieves. Regular streets, all things considered, and though he saw men that walked like Taro did and girls who moved like River, none of them were half as good and none of them were trailing the trio.

The apartment he had put coin down for sat above a bakery. It was hot, and wet, and smelled eternally like sourdough and raspberry tarts but it was cheap and unassuming, and the baker had a soft spot for little Dany and her wide lilac eyes.

They looked less out of place now, closer to blue than purple, once he'd finished combing the dye through her pale hair. It stuck like nothing else and there was no chance of it washing out. He would have to touch up the roots here and there, but there was nothing to be done about it.

Dany had been excited over the prospect of the change, barely sitting still while it set in until he let her rush off to the copper looking glass to see what she looked like.

Viserys was less happy with the new arrangement.

"We shouldn't have to hide ourselves!" he hissed, voice too low to be heard on the streets or down the stairs. Dany had run down to try and beg treats off the baker again.

"No," Jazz agreed, stirring up the bowl that held the dye, "But we do. So we shall. The best hiding is hiding in plain sight and the best lie is one that's not really a lie. Most people in Essos don't know much about Westeros, so to them we can say whatever we please, permitted it's not the truth. But a Westerosi? Much more difficult to fool. We tell them we're exiles, because it's true. We tell them we're from Westeros, because that's true too."

"Why green?" Viserys scowled at the bowl like it had personally offended him.

"It's the style of White Harbor, in the north. It draws attention away from the eyes, and Northmen are a strange bunch as is. Most will never leave the North itself, let alone the continent, so the chances of being discovered are slim. Now come here, V, and let me see your head."

"This is wrong," he said again, but sat on the chair in front of Jazz. "We shouldn't have to hide. We should raise an army and take what is ours by force, not run and hide like mice!"

"Even a mouse bites when cornered," Jazz said sagely. He dipped his hands, covered in leather gloves, into the dye and dunked Viserys' hair into it, carefully working it over. He wanted no stray strands of their dead-give-away silver. For them, it really might be death. "We have to bide our time. We have no army, and few allies in Westeros. The Dornishmen will fight with us, but they don't have the numbers to win. The Lannisters, Starks, and Baratheon will fight us to the last man, if they must. The Tyrells were loyal, and may be again. The Arryns will not be. So we must gather an army to bolster us here, in Essos."

"The Gold Company," Viserys said immediately. "They're the best."

"Mmmm. They are good, but a man who fights for gold will never fight so hard as a man who fights for love. Remember that, Viserys. Love is the strongest force in the world."

Viserys scoffed. "That's stupid."

"Is it?" Jazz tugged on a strand of his hair sharply. "It was love that started the War of the Usurper. It was love that mother died for, and Rhaegar, and Elia too. It is love that drives me to protect you and Dany. Tell me, what would you do for the two of us?"

"Anything, I suppose," Viserys closed his eyes, brows furrowing.

"Anything. Love binds people to one another, and it gives strength and weakness in equal turns. Don't forget. If you remember anything I say to you, remember this; Love is what we live for."

Viserys didn't say anything to that. Jazz didn't expect him too. He was a teenager, prone to fowl tempers and rages, and who thought that silly things like love and laughter were for songs and women. But, he listened to Jazz and that was all he could really ask, in the end.

"You're done," he announced, letting Viserys up at last. "When we leave here, we'll dye it blue, and pretend to be Tyroshi."

Like their cousins in the Golden Company that Viserys liked so much.

Viserys finally turned to look at him.

"How to we get an army in Essos to love us?" he asked at last.

"Us?" Jazz repeated, a smile flickering across his face. "It won't be easy. It will take years, and we must stay together, no matter what, understand?"

Viserys nodded, slowly. "Why must we, when they are off with others?"

"Because. Rhaegar knew this, so I'll tell it to you too. The Dragon must have three heads. So we three must stay together, no matter what."

"Rhaegar only had two children," Viserys reminded him. The name still sounded bitter and sorrowful on his tongue. Viserys was daddy's little boy, compared to Jazz and Rhaegar who had known what he was, and had tried to protect Viserys from the truth of it all.

"He would have had another, but Elia was of poor health. A delicate beauty."

"Dany will be pretty. Like mother was," Viserys said offhanded. Whatever grief came to him with talk of their father redoubled when he was reminded of their mother.

"She'll be prettier, and stronger. A mother of dragons."

"Who will she marry?" Viserys asked. Jazz tapped the edge of the bowl in thought.

"It is marrying brother to sister that made mother frail, and resulted in so many stillborns. The Maesters say that I almost died in the cradle, not even a full year old. Our brothers died, and Shaena was born still. "

"The dragon blood must be pure!" Viserys argued fiercely.

"The seed is strong, sweet brother. We must spread it, or we risk dying out by our own hand instead of that of the Usurper. Dany will marry another. Someone rich, or of old blood, or a powerful general. You, we'll wed to a fine lady in Westeros, with money and lands to her name."

"What about you?" Viserys asked suspiciously.

"I am spoken for, tragically."

"To whom?!"

Jazz laughed quietly at the look on his brothers face.

"Allies, V, but we mustn't speak of it. Hold your tongue on the matter for now. Information is a dangerous thing."

"You're scheming," Viserys accused.

"Of course I am. Now here," he pulled off his gloves and handed them carefully to Viserys. "It's my turn. I promise I'll tell you everything, but not yet."

"If you don't tell me, I can't help," Viserys complained. Nevertheless he took care of Jazz's hair for him.

"Sweet brother. I'm asking you to trust me. For right now, we must survive. Later, we will play a game, and win a throne, and get our lives," he promised. "Okay?"

Grudgingly, Viserys agreed.

"Okay."

Taro spun the practice sword around in his hand, a steady and pointless flair.

His body was small and weak, pudgy with puppy fat. He didn't have real muscles yet or the motor functions for much at all.

Sword. He wasn't big on them, but they were the weapon of the time. He couldn't make a gun, he wasn't a smith. And if he was being honest, he didn't really want to introduce them to Planetos. It felt like a bad idea.

If he could have he would have gone for straight hand to hand, but that was a lot harder with suits of armor than it was with jeans and occasional kevlar.

Say what you would about him, Taro was adaptable.

There were few boys in the castle his age. Almost none, if he was being honest. So he was left to shadow box until he was tall enough to reach more than the Hounds hip.

Even this young Taro had already figured out that he would never be as he once had been. He had been tall, broad and strong, not unlike his faithful bodyguard. Built like a brick wall, with a talent for violence and predisposition for vengeance. While he still had those things, he knew now that he wouldn't have his body the same way.

Joffrey was destined to be lean and tall, more fit to be a dancer than a fighter.

Taro would have to adapt to that.

His daughter, River, had been small, graceful, with a frightening power hidden in her slim body and a mercilessness that never touched on cruelty.

He wished he could see her again. He wished he could have said more to her in his last moments, as she held his dying body, a smoking gun tossed recklessly into the corner. He wished he could have lived, if only so she wouldn't have cried.

Joff thrust the sword forwards into the belly of the practice dummy. It did him no good to wish for his daughter. It did him no favors to remember his loss.

"I think you've killed him, sweetling."

Joff looked away from his straw opponent, the furrow of his brows smoothing into a smile. His mother, golden and beautiful, stood at the edge of the practice yard. She was alone, her ladies-in-waiting absent for once. Joff rushed to her, throwing himself into her skirts while she swept him up into her arms. Cersei cradled him to her, kissing the crown of his golden head.

He wondered, idly, what she would do if he dyed it crimson.

"Mama!" he looked up at her, smiling an happy. The part of him that was the child Joffrey rejoiced at his mother and the part of his that was Taro, who had lost his relationship with his mother, was happy to have a mother at all.

"Don't practice too hard. We wouldn't want you to hurt yourself," she smoothed his wildly curly hair out of his face.

"Play with me, mama?" Joff asked, wriggling out of her arms. She set him down and he grabbed up the practice sword once more.

"Alright, my sweet. What shall we play? Will you be the dashing prince, sent to rescue me from a dragon guarded tower?" she teased, her green eyes sparkling. She was loving for him, soft and kind, and Taro lived knowing that she would do anything for him at all. And he, in turn, would do anything for her. The love was unconditional.

"No way! We should play knights! And we'll go on a quest to find the Apple of Discord!"

"Joff, a woman can't be a knight," she told him gently.

He huffed, sticking his nose up. "That's stupid. When I'm king, I'll change that. But we're only playing a game, so you can be a knight in that can't you?" he turned his green eyes up at her and watched her will break entirely in face with his greatest weapon yet.

Puppy dog eyes.

"Alright. But we'll have to do it inside. Come along," she ushered him along. Joff grabbed another practice sword and ran after her, the Hound bringing up the rear in an odd parade.

Joff followed her all the way up to her royal apartments, and watched Sandor push the furniture out of the way for them.

"Hound, you'll be the cursed prince stuck in the tower," Joff commanded, ushering him to stand on a raised step where his mothers bed was. He plucked the gold circlet off of his head and pushed into the Hound hands.

"I'm not wearing this," he told him gruffly.

"Well you always tell me you're not a knight, you can't be a knight with Mother and me-"

"Mother and I," Cersei corrected mildly.

"Mother and I, so you have to be the prince. And princes wear crowns."

Sandor looked down at him, stubborn as a mule, but even he caved to Joff, with a great deal of grumbling about it.

Joff handed his mother the sword he's taken from the yard, wooden and harmless. He cocked his head when she held it like she knew how.

"You've use a sword before!" he realized, looking up at her in surprise. He remembered distinctly that on the show she had talked about not understanding why Jamie learned sword play and she didn't.

"Once or twice," she admitted. "When we were children your uncle Jamie and I looked so much alike no one could tell the difference. Not even our father. I dressed up like him and took lessons from the master-at-arms while Jamie went and played in the woods."

Joff grinned. "Then this really will be fun!"

Without more warning, he lunged and the games began.