Maisie Spoke Of Her Loyalty, And Dacey Merely Nodded, A Twist Of Guilt Shooting Through Her That She

july 12th 115 ac - dacey stark is born

the fourth child of house stark was born two moons too early and far too small. as a baby, she barely cried, but was prone to illness, particularly of the lungs. it was not expected that she would be long for this world. infants with such weak constitution rarely do, but against the odds dacey grew. she remained a frail child, prone to sickness, and her childhood was mostly spent confined inside winterfell to preserve her health.

129 ac - the dance begins

as she approached adolescence, a question lingered over what to do with dacey stark. while her siblings began to be fostered or trained for their duties as a stark, dacey remained in winterfell, sheltered and protected in order to maintain her health. with the dance of the dragons breaking out during her teenage years, her opportunity to explore the world outside of the north was further stripped from her. she waits out the next ten years in the north, purposely kept as far away from any conflicts as possible.

140 ac - the dance ends

with the leaders of westeros proclaiming independence from the targaryens, dacey finds her position shifting. she is slow to adjust to the change, maintaining her reclusive lifestyle except when absolutely necessary. she does put her complete faith in her family, particularly owen, and trusts and supports his decisions without question. however, at her core she begins to develop idealistic morals of pacificism, which will begin to shape her personal views and how she reacts to things.

post-dance

dacey continues to rarely leave the north, notable exception being to the vale, where she meets and forms a friendship with guinevere lannister. when the kingdoms are gathered in the north, she is more visible than she normally would be, but still seen less often than her siblings and very quiet publicly. she is a soft-hearted person, however, and does offer support to people she recognises to be suffering, including seffora merryweather, and engages in plenty one-on-one conversations whilst fading into the background in group settings. she remains in complete support of the king's decisions.

northern wars

it is during the conflicts in the north that dacey truly develops her distaste for war and violence. however, she is not foolish enough to voice her pacifism out loud, though when asked, she will always answer as honestly as she can: she knows her ideas are idealistic at best, and unrealistic at worst, but she thinks there is a better path than violence, aggression and fighting. despite this, she still believes the king knows best, and does not ever argue with his decisions or contradict him, either publicly or to his face. she remains in winterfell for much of this time.

death of jon stark

the death of a brother marks the beginning of a shift in dacey. still reclusive by nature, she begins to make her presence more known within the north and quietly attempts to aid her brother the king as best she can. she doesn't quite fill the gap left by jon, but she does try and lessen it slightly. the starks meet to discuss retaliation, and dacey advocates for justice over vengeance.

the kidnap of cassana stark, the deaths of rosalyn arryn, and the disappearance of alysanne stark

when further tragedy hits her house in close succession, dacey becomes more present than ever in order to better support her brother and the rest of the family. she takes the initiative to push herself out of her comfort zone and become more involved as best as she knows how whilst handling her own feelings and anxieties privately.

recent events

dacey attends both king jahaerys' coronation in the crownlands, where she largely keeps to herself, stopping at her blackwood cousins' home in the riverlands on her way back to the north, and the celebration of prince arthur's birth in the westerlands.

Nikos Engonopoulos, from Bolívar, a Greek Poem

{Words by José Olivarez from Citizen Illegal /@fatimaamerbilal , from even flesh eaters don't want me.}

the gesture from lucius was unexpected, dacey's expression warming at his offer. there was approval in his expression, but one she completely misread, not a result of her own protectiveness of her sister, but as a mark of respect for cassana's talents. it never once crossed her mind that it was her own words that put it there. "i won't accept for her, but i think she'd like that. and i would be grateful, too." she blieved cassana to be strong and capable - but under it all, that was still her little sister.

she could see shades of how she felt of cassana in lucius when he spoke of ben, obvious in the quiet but steadfast pride in his words. benjicot blackwood was her cousin as much as lucius was, but she had never exchanged more than a few passing words with the ruling lord of raventree hall. all she knew about him truly was what the songs said, but lucius' certainty left little room for doubt in his abilities. "it sounds familiar," she admitted, with a knowing smile. "all that stubbornness. a trait shared by starks and blackwoods alike." few would look at dacey and assume she was a woman who knew her own mind, but it was not entirely true. in the things she believed in, she was quietly resolute.

the tension she hadn't entirely realised she was holding on to ebbed away as they stepped towards the bridge. the other side of the bank was, as lucius had promised, far quieter, giving her more room to breathe. the sounds of the river were lighter here, and though the festival was still visible, the sounds of it carrying in the breeze, it was enough of a distance for her to relax. she hadn't realised how much she needed this, a moment of peace and the simple comfort of company that did not demand more than she had the capacity to give. she turned her gaze upward, to where the wind rustled the leaves of the trees gently. "you were right," she said, simply. "it's nicer over here. less... well, constricting." she returned her eyes to him, her smile showing her gratitude to him for suggesting the walk. "thank you, lucius."

Lucius tilted his head slightly at Dacey’s words, the faintest shadow of a smile touching his lips. Her quiet defense of her sister struck a chord with him, perhaps because it mirrored the fierce protectiveness he himself felt for his family. “Discipline can be learned,” he conceded, his tone measured, though there was a glint of approval in his eyes. “But it takes time and patience, and someone willing to teach it. If your sister wishes it, I could train her while your family is in the Riverlands”. It wasn't the sort of offer he gave often, but one he would extend to Cassana because of his appreciation for Dacey.

When Dacey’s concern shifted to Ben, Lucius’s expression grew more neutral, but his gaze remained somewhat gentler than usual. “Ben’s more than just a fair fighter,” he said, his voice steady. “He’s been well-versed in the world of battle since he was a boy”. There was no boast to his tone, only a sort of quiet pride tempered with the harsh acknowledgment of why his brother had been shaped into a fierce warrior so young. “He’ll hold his own, no matter what’s thrown at him. He’s a Blackwood. We fight with every ounce of our pride and heart, even when we shouldn’t,” he admitted with a scoff. “He’ll be fine,” he reassured her, offering a firm nod to quell her worry.

As Dacey accepted his suggestion, Lucius’s smile grew somewhat warmer, though still subdued, as was his way. “I don't care about applause,” he said with a quick shrug, for he did not compete to earn a victory. He competed only to continue to sharpen his skill, to know himself to remain a polished weapon. There was some quiet pride in it too, in knowing every arrow he nocked and released could seed fear, could seed reverence, in the hearts of men. So he extended his arm slightly, motioning for her to follow him toward the bridge. “Come on, then. We can take our time. And during Litha the views from the other side of the Red Fork are lovely”. His words were simple, but his tone carried an undercurrent of understanding. Lucius didn’t press her further, content to walk in silence or speak as the moment allowed. Whatever his cousin wished, he was content to offer.

TRUTH SERUM

feel free to ask anything, in character or anonymously, and my character will be forced to answer truthfully.

Send a question to: dacey - devani - norbie - minty - conall - halima - ben - tion - elia

she did not step forward to embrace lillith, nor did she offer a barrage of greetings and questions. it was not the way of dacey stark, even with those she was closest to, and yet, there was a warmth in her expression that was nothing to do with the hearth they stood at. lillith understood that, and for that, dacey was endlessly grateful.

it was why the tense set of her shoulders relaxed, even as her gaze dipped to the floor. "if only it were not so loud," she said, with a self-deprecating chuckle. winterfell was bursting at the seams with life, but their time here together in their younger years had been spent in quieter halls. dacey far preferred the latter.

she glanced behind her, further down the hall, where voices and laughter mingled with music. "sometimes i think i wasn't made for this," she confessed. it wasn't just sometimes - it was always, forever trying to fit a role she wore uneasily. there was no bitterness in her tone, nor any trace of self-pity, just a weariness she could not deny.

her lips curved into the smallest of smiles, and she nodded her head, a quick, nervous gesture. it was not to do with lillith - her patience, the way she allowed space to exist without demanding it be filled, were often what dacey needed. she trusted her, but she did not trust the ears around them. and so, she saved what it was she held close to her chest, to reveal another time.

she nodded her sympathies. the north was a harsh place, demanding much of those who travelled it. "the weather has been unkind of late. it makes the roads a little more difficult to traverse." she lifted her gaze from the floor, green eyes raising to meet lillith's mismatched ones. "and how fares the vale? ironoaks?" it had been a long time since dacey had visited the mountains of the moon - not once during queen ravella's reign.

"you'd think i'd be used to the cold by now, but it still catches me sometimes," she laughed again, the sound a little lighter now. "the trick isn't to stand by the hearth, but the walls. the hot springs under winterfell provide heat to them, and the stone spreads it." she looked back towards the fire then, watching the flame twist and dance. "but i suppose it is only human to seek out the fire instead."

lillith stood beside the princess, the warmth from the hearth pulling at the edges of her gown, but it did little to thaw the chill that clung to dacey’s frame. it was always the same—no matter how close she stood to the fire, her hands remained cold. lillith could see it, could sense the quiet unease in her friend, and a small part of her wished she could somehow fix it. but she knew better than to offer empty words of comfort.

“i’m glad to see you too,” she murmured softly, her voice barely above the crackling of the fire. she took a small step closer, her presence a quiet reassurance, though she gave dacey space to remain within herself. lillith didn’t need to speak often, not with dacey; they had always shared an unspoken understanding.

when her friend shifted slightly, as if to gather herself, lillith’s gaze softened. she could feel the heaviness in her friend’s silence, the weight that hung just beneath the surface, something too deep to put into words right now. lillith wasn’t one to push, but the concern was there, palpable in the stillness between them.

the other's words, displacing her question for another moment, elicited a nod of understanding, and an offering of a faint smile that was both comforting and respectful of the boundary the other had set. there was no need to press. “of course,” she said quietly. “i’ll wait for the time when you’re ready.” she was always happy to bear the burden, even if unspoken.

her fingers brushed the edge of her gown, the fabric soft beneath her touch. “the journey here... it was long.” she admitted, never quite mincing her words, but her tone was not in any way harsh, simply, it was.

lillith had grown used to the chill, even in the colder months of ironoaks, where the wind could howl across the moors. still, it was a different kind of cold here—more biting, more oppressive. she could feel it in her bones, no matter how close she got to the fire, and she knew dacey felt it too, despite growing within this place. "the chill makes one want to simply leap into the hearth, huh?"

"it's an artform i'm familiar with." there was a sort of quiet contemplation in dacey's expression. a hum of agreement at malee's words. "it is a kind of magic, i suppose." the magic, though, was in the fact that they were looking upon the fruit of someone's labour. the fields of gold and skies of blue clearly mattered to the weaver to pour such care into their creation, every thread a deliberate act of preserving a memory. to dacey, that told more of a story than any tales of battle and conquest.

"i think i favour it because it is so peaceful. there is no need for embellishments or ornamentation. it speaks for itself, and it is enough as it is." the battle piece demanded attention and awe, but this earned it, gently and quietly, it's true grandeur only revealed the more she looked at it.

or perhaps it was because dacey simply did not have the stomach for war and battle. so often, she heard people around her speak of the vision of peace, as though it was something they strove toward, only for it to be broken almost the moment they had it. "if only we could treasure peace whilst we have it, instead of relying on reminders when it is threatened."

her cheeks flushed. she didn't know why she said that. her throat cleared, and she readily jumped on the change of topic. "the stories tend to be that of our histories, as i'm sure yours tell your own. the weaves are quite different, though. northern tapestries are far heavier - the cold demands it. and the colours... it is rare to see a sky so blue past the neck, and we weave what we know." it had been a long time since she had seen white harbour, and she tried to recall what hung on the manderly's walls.

malee inclined her head at the winter princess' words, a soft smile playing at her lips. “you have an eye for it, your grace,” she said, her voice even and measured, though there was a warmth beneath it. “not everyone looks beyond the grand gestures to see the smaller threads that truly hold a piece together.” she gestured lightly toward the tapestry of the harvest. “it does seem to breathe differently, doesn’t it? as if it asks us to pause, rather than march forward.”

she let her fingers trail just above the fabric, careful not to touch the fragile threads. “it’s a kind of magic, weaving a story from nothing but wool and vision. there’s honesty in it, even when the tales themselves are embellished.” the soft hues of gold and blue seemed to glow in the dim light, a stark contrast to the crimson chaos of the battle scene.

the lady of the crag turned toward dacey, her expression thoughtful. “i admire your honesty, your grace,” she said after a pause. “it’s easy to speak of glory when surrounded by reminders of it.” her lips curved into a faint, almost wistful smile. “but you’re right to prefer this one. it feels... truer, somehow. a reminder of what we fight for, even if it’s fleeting.”

she exhaled softly, almost to herself. “sometimes i wonder if we only appreciate peace once it’s become a memory.” there was a heavier meaning to her words, with the tension lingering in the air, kingdoms who held their own firm opinions, a dislike of what the lion king has decreed in his lands, it felt as if the small bit of peace had already come unraveled, a thread fastened with haste and a lack of care. "are tapestries so similar in the north? i mean, i imagine the stories are similar, but do you find the colors or weaves to be different here? i did not have the privilege of seeing the tapestries white harbor had to offer during our court's time there." she questioned, adding, almost wistfully, "i suppose that seems so long ago, now."

dacey fell quiet as malee spoke, a small smile playing upon her face. there was something lovely in it, the way she described the way in which obligation slowly gave way to joy. her eyes fell upon malee's as they moved, recognising the pattern in the way her fingers traced through the air. it was a weaver's motion, familiar and repetitive as it was elegant.

"we have work from yi ti. in winterfell." she was always a little in awe of it, how different it was from what the north created both in style and substance, and yet there was always something so captivating about them, a beauty that spoke all on its own without any need for adaptation. "i've always admired it. i can see why it made an impression on you, when you were there."

it was the wonderful thing about tapestry. without it, the tales of yi ti would have been lost to dacey, stuck behind words she could not read or understand. "i love how they need no translation to understand. as though history and tales have been woven into a form anybody can look at and feel," she confessed, before letting out a soft laugh. "silly thought."

she shook her head. "please, don't apologise for speaking about something you're passionate about. it isn't every day i get the opportunity to talk about weaving, myself. i should be thanking you, really." there was no need for apologies - not when this was a conversation dacey was very much enjoying having.

"it was a little different for me," her lips pursed a little in thought. "it was never an obligation. never something i had to learn to love. but it started as a distraction from... well, everything, really. i was quiet the frail child, and none thought it a good idea to allow me to spend much time outdoors or away from home. it left a lot of lonely hours to fill, and weaving became something to pass the time."

it was different now. dacey was no longer the fragile child who needed sheltering, and yet, she had never broken the habit of sheltering herself, regardless. "i suppose for me it's always about the process and the rhythm of it all. there was something grounding about it to me, as though it was anchoring me to the world." it sounded silly, now she was saying it out loud, but she continued anyway. "i liked having something intentional. every colour, and every knot, it's a choice i could make when it did not feel like i had many choices."

she looked down to the ground, something akin to embarrassment in her features. "do i sound completely ridiculous?" her voice was self-deprecating in its softness.

the lady of the crag shifted her weight slightly, standing beside the tapestry, her hands clasped together in front of her. she looked down at the delicate threads and the intricate patterns, her gaze softening as she continued.

“yes, but, i didn’t love weaving at first,” she confessed, the words quiet and almost introspective. “it was just something I was taught to do, something expected of me. my mother insisted on it when I was young, as something a westerling woman should know. but in those early days, it was just another task—like learning to play the harp or proper table manners.”

she over to dacey, her expression gentle but thoughtful. “but when we stayed in shenlong, yi ti, during the dance, something shifted. the people there, they wove stories into their work, legends, histories, even prayers. they weren’t just weaving to create beautiful cloth or tapestries; it was a way to preserve something deeper. something that might be forgotten otherwise.”

malee paused, her hands subtly moving as if she could feel the weave in her mind, the rhythm of it, the care it took, tracing over the tapestry in front of her. “at first, i didn’t understand it. but with time, i began to see how the technique itself was an art—how the pattern and the thread told a story beyond the surface. and that’s when I began to love it, when i saw how much meaning could be woven into something so simple.”

hand fell back to its place in front of her, fingers interlacing once again. “now, every piece feels like a small act of creation—something i can control, something i can pour a part of myself into. i don’t think i could ever stop weaving now.”

she gave a soft, almost apologetic smile, her hands unconsciously smoothing the fabric of her gown. “i’m sorry,” she said, her voice a little softer now, tinged with a slight self-consciousness. “i didn’t mean to speak so freely about it. i suppose weaving has become more personal to me than I expected." she met the other's gaze, offering a small, apologetic smile before continuing. “and it is rare to find someone who appreciates the technique as much as the final product. so, thank you for listening.”

she took a half step closer, her tone gentle but eager. “when did you begin weaving, your grace? was it something you’ve always enjoyed, or did you find the joy later on, as i did?”

willow wearing tiaras (3x10 / 4x10)

dacey held no ill will towards amir manderly. he, and his entire house, was trusted by owen, and that was good enough for her to trust them too, even if there was no personal ties to them. that was more her own fault than anybody else's. not for the first time in her life, she felt a pang of regret for the years she had spent shuttering herself away from the world.

but despite the fact that owen trusted him, despite the fact that she was, genuinely, pleased to see him safely returned home, despite the fact that not a single part of her felt any sort of negative feelings towards amir manderly, dacey felt herself tensing at his words, felt her fingernails begin to scrape at the freshly healed skin around her thumbs, and felt a flash of displeasure shoot through her that she didn't entirely know what to do with.

"contemplating?" she repeated, dully. "but likely to come to pass. am i correct?" if it did happen, it wouldn't be amir's fault. she had asked him a question, and he had answered it true. she could not place the blame at his feet for giving her an answer she had sought. and yet, to dacey's shame, this was something she had to remind herself of.

"it is not my safety that i'm concerned about." she was certain that amir meant the words kindly, but she felt herself bristle at them all the same, just a little. did he think her the type of woman who cared only for her own skin? "if there is to be war, then my brothers will fight in it. my sister, too, probably." her mind went to cassana, and the thought of it made her feel queasy. "i've no wish to see another stark go to the grave before their time." it was not just the starks. the north had seen far too much death and bloodshed. she was not ready to prepare herself for more.

❅

historically, amir of house manderly had maintained a healthy distance with the ladies of winterfell; which had come into greater use when they became princesses of the north. there was nothing questionable that they would have heard about him, nothing that was not written in those foolish pamphlets; meaning the king trusted him to speak with the princesses. he still did not maintain a closeness with them however, and the more he thought about it, the more he realised he never had.

"your highness." amir greeted, lowering his head before straightening back to his full height.

it only fed further into the thoughts that swirled in his mind, the thoughts of being the other in the north, the thoughts of not belonging and that they would always be this way. the ones to blamed, for their obvious power and wealth. he found himself wondering what this princess wanted. he did not want to hear talk of more grief, he did not want to talk about manal, or anything else; he did not want to talk about the grief that lingered over both of their houses.

because amir thought owen stark was in the right. because, when people were comfortable, they refused to change. to become better. the callouses on his hands were a sign of his own work ethic: his willingness to make himself uncomfortable. people did not do that unless you forced change upon them. his opinion was very much the minority in the realm though. "his grace remains contemplating, but it will not be as you think."

two sides meeting on a battle field. skagos was officially belonging to the north anyway; it was just about bringing them to heel. he did not want to go back there, but he would. he would rain down fury on all those who made him feel this way. like he did not belong - because he did not. "it will be on their front, rather than our own. you should be safe, princess."