#dacey 001

[saffroninsilk]

setting: flashback to the westerlands event, malee finds a moment of peace in a room of tapestries, and is joined by a northern companion ; starter for @daceystvrk

the lady of the crag stood before a tapestry, her fingers lightly brushing the edge of the fabric. The scene depicted a fierce battle at sea—ships ablaze, warriors clashing beneath storm-darkened skies. the intricate details of the waves, the glint of swords, and the defiant stance of her ancestors seemed almost alive. she traced the embroidered figure of a ser westerling, his sword raised high against a towering greyjoy raider. her lips tightened. they always show the glory, never the cost.

the faint murmur of celebration drifted up from the great hall below: laughter, the clink of goblets, the steady rhythm of a drum. The birth of a prince. a new chapter in the story of the realm. yet, malee found herself here, away from the noise, seeking solace in the quiet narratives of thread and cloth.

she shifted her gaze to the next tapestry, this one softer in tone—a peaceful scene of harvest in the westerlands. golden fields, proud castles, and a sky so blue it seemed to stretch beyond the bounds of the fabric. malee exhaled slowly. how many years of blood and toil had it taken to weave such peace?

her thoughts were interrupted by a faint creak of the floorboards behind her. She turned to see the visage of dacey stark some paces away. she had briefly met the princess of the north on a few occassions, and was admittedly surprised to see her here, now. "your grace." she offered a small bow of her head, looking to the tapestry behind her, then back to the other. "they're lovely, aren't they?" she asked, a delicate finger pointing to the corner of the one she stood before. "i find the technique used for this one particularly interesting."

[naelysvelaryon]

who: @daceystvrk when and where: semi-flashback to the gathering in kings landing, naelys finally meets her years long penpal...all by chance. context: despite once being betrothed to adam, nellie and dacey never had the opportunity to meet. until now.

there were far more seven pointed stars adorned across the majestic, rebuilt halls of the red keep; though what surprised her more was the fact that influence had also spread beyond the halls of the keep and into the streets of the capital. she had been perched upon the velvet recliner beside the stained glass within the velaryon apartments; and when she saw a procession in the distance she was surprised to find it a collection of followers of the faith, adorned in robes of white and with chains and maces in their hands.

they seemed to be whipping themselves, and it was all she could think of as she clutched her hands together in this grand sept, standing side by side with members of her family and her court. why would these people do such harm to themselves, and for what purpose?

the septon seemed to continue to hurl down word after word, and for a while she was managing to ignore it and focus on the vividness of the colours on the glass. that was until the nature of the words thrown from the pulpit began to change, and it were words referring to the sins of lust and fornication that caught her attention. not like a hook, but rather like the feeling of a hand gripping her neck and forcing her to look. and suddenly she found herself listening, half aware that most of the sept would believe the septon was alluding to the oldest of the velaryon sisters - and even that naelys found inherently cruel. it felt as though they were standing, and there was a flame directly over them.

and he felt like he could see right through her, and see the memories of her braavosi perfume and her purple bedsheets. and his eyes, or the sound of her laugh mixing with his own.

she quietly muttered something about excusing herself and finding there were too many people, all but pushing by vhaenessa and deimos as she kept her hands clasped together as she walked; the doors seemed as though they were moving further and further away, and the walls were collapsing in. people knew naelys struggled with packed places and loud noises, or at least she prayed they did. she picked up her pace and let the door slam behind her, not knowing if any saw the slight tears that were sprung to her amethyst eyes.

they were not subtle, they were pools that swum, and threatened to finally fall. and fall they did as she let it in a short inhale of air, wiping her cheeks with the back of her sleeve.

it was not until she turned around and saw another dark haired figure standing outside did she realise she was not alone in standing outside of the sept doors. she momentarily froze, wiping her cheeks one more time in defeat. the lady had seen her. "are you waiting for somebody?" naelys asked, still feeling some wetness on her cheeks as she remained fixed in place. she did not know what to say. "i can go back in and get them for you."

[devotionturns]

who: @daceystvrk where: at winterfell when cyrene arrives home for the first time in years

There were notches in the outer walls. Always had been, always would be. Cyrene found at least some comfort that things in Winterfell would never change. The people who lived within the walls would. Death haunted the halls, but the years did as well. She'd already seen many who had survived the wars that lay in the past, but they had not come out of it unchanged.

Neither had she.

"Don't climb that," she spoke, voice pragmatic and clipped, "That cannot end well."

[paradoxofpresence]

setting: the winter ball, lillith attends as some other ladies of the vale do, but her reason for the journey is to see an old friend ; @daceystvrk

the great hall of winterfell shimmered with icy splendor, lit by countless candles and adorned with evergreen garlands laced in silver ribbons. snowflakes dusted the stone floor, tracked in by the nobles who had braved the northern winds to attend the winter ball. lillith waynwood stood at the edge of the gathering, her fingers lightly brushing the fabric of her dark green gown, which she had trimmed with myrish lace. she watched the dancers twirl, a faint smile playing on her lips, though her mismatched eyes betrayed a touch of unease. crowds had never been her forte. the northerners had a way of making their cold halls feel alive, though she still felt like a misplaced piece in the tapestry of it all.

a sudden warmth bloomed in her chest as her gaze found dacey stark. standing near the hearth, her cheeks pink with the fire’s glow, dacey had grown into her strength. lillith felt a familiar pull, a warmth that erased the time between they last saw one another. the princess looked well—stronger, brighter, a far cry from the sickly girl lillith had spent so many hours trying to tend to with herbal teas and whispered stories in their younger years.

the lady of ironoaks approached with quiet steps, her presence announced not by sound but by the faint scent of lavender and sage. when the other turned and their eyes met, lillith couldn’t keep the small smile from curling her lips.

“your grace.” she murmured the formality with a small bow of her head, mainly because it was not just the two of them, and because this was dacey’s own home. “i almost didn’t recognize you, even with only a few moons since we last saw one another” she said softly, her voice like the wind through leaves. “you look vibrant. have things been well since your return?”

[nasirofmanderlys]

✯

he was all too aware of the fact there was a quietness that settled between them, and whilst nasir usually could appreciate moments of silence and stretches of quiet, whenever it settled in the space between them he found himself wondering if he had somehow misstepped. whether his words had been too direct and forward, and had resulted in him somehow offending her.

she had always been the quietest of her siblings, seemingly softer than the rest of them - he was sure she had muttered something under her breath, and he had not heard it. if he were not overthinking, he would simply have ignored it - and yet, nasir did not want her to think he was ignoring her to her very face. why could she not just speak louder?

"…did you say something, your highness?" nasir asked, looking over at her again; and again, his expression always came across far more serious than he could ever truly intend.

perhaps he had only put her off their upcoming journey, and yet it was imperative that the woman in the most amount of power in this northern court understood the reality of where they were going - if not for her to coach the rest of the northern ladies in the court. they could not be too casual with their tongue, they could not find false friends in those who were more foe.

"perhaps that was the reason." or perhaps manal would have found the princess entirely dull and unbecoming; they were striking different, manal able to command the centre of attention - whilst, well, the difference was obvious enough. again, he sounded almost borderline dismissive of dacey's idea of her perhaps getting along with his sister - though not because he actually thought that, but rather because he'd rather not discuss his sister at great length. too sensitive a subject, no doubt.

"i think it would best if you did…i know my limits, princess." he knew what he was good at. gift giving, had never been one of those subjects.

nasir spoke, and dacey fell silent, though her gaze remained fixed upon his face. she was listening, taking everything he said to heart, regarding his words seriously and thoughtfully. there was a wisdom to his words, she thought, one that she should have expected, but made it clear in her mind that owen's decision to name the elder manderly as his next hand had been a correct one. and it were not that she had doubted that, as she had never doubted her brother's vision, but to say there was not uncertainty within her about the change in the north would be untrue. yet, things could not be how they were. they would all need to look to the future, in order to ensure the north was all it could be.

but his guidance did not soothe her, he spoke of hate, and that made her nervous. fearful they would hate her simply upon the sight of her, anxious that something she could do would incite that hatred further. "and so around it goes," she murmured, more to herself than to nasir. she possessed such little capacity for hate in her own heart, and she could not understand those who held it close to them. was it not exhausting? how was it that they were not so weighted down by it that they found it in them to hate even those they purported to hold as allies?

but the same could be said of the north, she supposed, though instead of hating the west or the reach, it seemed to her that they would rather hate one another, as though the war had taught them nothing. she thought of her sister, the princess saoirse, who had clung to her own grudges so hard she left claw marks behind before she had vanished.

"i would not mind if you did." despite her personal issues with nasir manderly, he had spoken to her plainly and granted her insight and truth, and that she could appreciate. "i am grateful for your council, lord manderly. we are stronger when we know what to expect." and she said we, because in his capacity as the new hand of the king, whatever either of them did would reflect on the north.

the north had seen much grief, and house stark had not been untouched by it, but out of everything, even the loss of her own kin, perhaps it was manal manderly's death that felt the most tragic, the most horrifying. her instincts were to offer words of condolences, but what words could there be that could be enough? there wasn't any, and so though her expression softened, her tension and uneasiness giving way to something gentler.

"maybe she thought i would not have accepted?" in truth, there was a high likelihood that she would not have. it had taken her own losses to shake her out of her solitude, an isolation born in her childhood but maintained only by dacey herself. "i did not know your sister well." everything she knew about manal came from what others had told her - but she was yet to find anybody with an unkind word to say about who she was as a person, and how she treated others. "but i think i would have liked her very much."

"i don't think babies like very much," for the first time since the conversation began, a smile found its way to her lips. "and this particular baby is a prince of the west. he will want for nothing." that, at least, she was certain of. "something symbolic would be most suitable, i think. if you would like, i would not mind taking the responsibility for putting something together." it was a small gesture, but it was only in the small gestures that dacey every felt like she could be useful.

[clawsbcared-a]

though her family is loyal to house stark and her father had made many trips to visit winterfell - both for pleasure and business - dacey had been only a handful of times, the last of which saw her ridiculed by strangers for muttering beyond her comprehension. each time lead her to the same dark place, the CRYPTS.

her bare feet had carried her from her guest chambers, through the snow covered courtyard and down to the holding place of starks long past - it would have been a scandal for anyone to find the eldest mormont daughter in nothing but her night shift, but fate had it that she ghosted over winterfell unnoticed. "the wolf passes in the night, the pup's cry is heard by the moon . . . " her voice mumbles the phrase over and over and over softly until the shuffling of @northsrose brings her back to reality. "oh dear . . . my feet are cold."

[scfeerah]

event starter: @daceystvrk setting: hollywood glamour night. context: dacey and saf dated in the past. they have not seen each other since they said goodbye in the airport.

most of safeerah's life had been lived wherever she pleased and with whomever she pleased. she went where opportunity was, or wherever the last person to capture her heart was. it was her favourite thing about her line of work. the freedom it gave her. most of her life fit inside two suitcases. it had been during her travels that her path crossed with dacey, and they had spent half a year together until life happened, and they had to say goodbye. it was one of the few times that she felt bound by to take certain opportunities. the two women had parted as friends, but it had been one of the relationships that she had mourned the most. now it seemed their paths had crossed again.

she spotted the woman from across the hall, instantly recognising her, and excused herself from the little group. she got a hold of two glasses of champagne before making her way over to dacey. she stepped out of the crowd with a carefree smile. “i had a feeling you might be here. it's so lovely to see you again.” for others, it was awkward running into an ex, but she had always prioritised ending as friends. well, with almost everyone. she had dropped the ball with deimos. safeerah gave her a careful hug, afraid to mess with her dress or hair in any way. she took a step back to admire her. “you look absolutely beautiful, dacey. it's like you stepped out of one of those old hollywood movies.”

[clawsbcared-a]

perhaps if she were wylla then dacey would have lashed out, screamed until her throat was cut and her lungs were empty, but she wasn't wylla, nor was she a woman of rage and privacy. she was dacey, the bear maiden, the dancing ghost of bear island, the mother of cubs and babes alike. soft-spoken, the eldest daughter of gawen mormont gracefully pulls her underdress back up her body before reaching for a robe hanging limply on the end of her mother's bed. pulling it tight over her shoulders, she turns. scars hidden, and a wistful set of features, some may say she resembles something ethereal under the candlelight of the room, others may curse her to be a ghoul of cruel intentions. both were neither false nor true these days.

"my mother believed it so, she would scold me for venturing out too close and away from the hunting parties, but . . . she found joy in my stories, wonder and magic in tales of mothers catching fish upstream and feeding them to her cubs." joining jeyne by the fire, a gentle smile forms along rosy lips as she watches the flames - her mother was no bear through blood, so of course she had been wary, but her mother was a curious woman. always had been. "do not leave, i fear now i have company the voices will come back once you leave . . . i may bathe later." the smile never falls from her lips.

Would she ever feel comfortable in the North? Once upon a time Jeyne had naively thought so: everything had seemed so easy, those first few weeks with Robb, the long winding ride back to Riverrun; frightening, yes, of course, and the guilt had been crushing watching the Freys gather their men and ride out of the great gates, kicking up furious dust - but Robb had reassured her. My mother came up from the South, he said, and now she is beloved by all the North. Catelyn had warned her that it would not be easy, but it could be done: with hard work, and respect, and grace, they could be won over, these fierce Northerners who scared her so deeply.

But that was months ago, before all the battles and death, before Robb had had to fight his way up through Moat Calin, before they had reached the burned out remains of Winterfell and she had watched him kneel in the ashes, white faced, tight lipped. It was not her fault they had lost the North, no more than it was Robb's fault that it had taken so many men to win it back, but she felt the very land beneath her reject her footfall all the same. And here, so far North that it felt like a different world, on Bear Island, it was only too apparent how different she was. Are you their Queen? Jeyne asked herself, as she dressed in boiled leather, an iron studded jerkin, comfortable riding breeches, and almost didn't recognise herself in the mirror. She fastened the wolf's head clasp about her neck to keep her cloak in place and touched the thick dark braid that fell down one shoulder. Your mother would not recognise you.

She had known many of the Mormonts through the long winter of the war, but she was distant from them still. They were a different species to her. She tried to imagine Dacey at the crumbling Crag, underneath the tattered seashell banner, and found she could not. She tried to imagine her grandmother, Maggy, tasting the blood of the bears, and could not do that either. Bear Island did not want her here; it whispered to her at night, brought goosebumps prickling over her arms until even Robb, caught up as he was in the rounds of feasting and drinking and oath swearing, noticed her discomfort. You are not of the North, it whispered to her. Go back to Essos, Maegi.

The maid led her to Dacey's chambers without a word, though her dark eyes scanned Jeyne curiously. Royalty did not travel this close to the Wall often. It was to escape those curious eyes that Jeyne opened the door without waiting for an answer to her knock, and she immediately flushed with embarrassment, cursing herself. "My Lady - I am so sorry, I should have waited, I -"

She stopped, words dying in her throat at the sight of Dacey's back, the smooth skin marred by stripes of long-healed wounds. Instinctively Jeyne's hand flew to her own side, the only place the thin reed cane her mother had used on them as children had ever scarred, imagining she could feel the raised ridges through her layers of clothes; she knew that was impossible, but they tingled nonetheless. She relaxed a little at Dacey's reassurance, and closed the door behind her, then turned her back, facing the fire to give Dacey a little privacy. Claw marks. That made her think of Robb. "A dangerous hobby," she said, "though I am glad to hear no one deliberately hurt you." She hestiated; it was clear that the Lady was distant, distracted. "Forgive me. I only came to see if you wished to accompany me to dinner. I can leave you in peace."

[shcbear]

&& TASK 001

STATISTICS.

full name: Dacey Jeora Mormont

moniker / nickname: Dace, Corporal, She Bear

gender && pronouns: cis female, she/her

dob && age:  april 23rd, 1990 && 30 years old

zodiac sign: taurus

ethnicity: Red River Métis-Cree, Chinese, White

sexual orientation: pansexual

romantic orientation: panromantic

mafia affiliation: The Wolf Kings && Stark

occupation owner and teacher at Bear & Claw Martial Arts Gym

financial status: while the mormont family doesn’t come from wealth per say, they do come from status, having been respected members of their community for centuries, giving them a certain amount of privilege in their area.  their old connections to the starks, earning them the title of ‘old friends’ did as well.

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE.

face claim: Jessica Matten

height: 5′9

physical build: tall and slender, almost willowy

eye colour and shape: brown and almond 

hair colour and style: black and generally straight, parted slightly to the left side and usually tucked behind ears (naturally somewhat wavy)

usual expression:  massive case of RBF

accent and speech style:  sharp and sarcastic toned, barely noticeably accented

clothing style:  almost uniform like, always wearing some form of jeans, boots, t-shirt and if the weather necessitates, a leather jacket.  there are some variations, but not many.

jewelry and accessories:  some jewelry that pays homage to her routes, but nothing that could get in the way (such as earrings, which is a big no-no in any form of hand-to-hand combat), Smith & Wesson 6 inch blade tucked in her boot

FAMILY:

father: UNKNOWN

mother: Maege Mormont (alive)

siblings, if any: Alysane, Lyra, Jorelle, Lyanna (all alive)

extended relations: Jorah Mormont (uncle, status unknown)

significant other(s): N/A

children: N/A

household pet(s): a cane corso/pitbull rescue mix named Bear, that accompanies Dacey almost everywhere she goes, and is absolutely the gym’s mascot.  but don’t let it’s friendly nature fool you, it’s a fiercely loyal guard dog at heart, and you’ll get no warning barks or growls, only teeth if you step into Dacey’s space uninvited.

FAVOURITES.

colour: forest green and earthy brown

weather: rainy (especially in the fall)

food item: she is a human garbage disposal and will literally eat anything you put in front of her (other than shellfish), but always prefer fresh foods over anything else

beverage: dr pepper

time of day: twilight

television genre: anything vaguely cheesy/small town/without high stakes.  she has enough of those in her daily life and wants to wind down with something the opposite of her life.  

PERSONALITY.

hobbies: martial arts, boxing, hiking, camping, fishing

pet peeves:  phone ringers (honestly, who still has their phone volume on?), unnecessary waste (of any kind really; life, food, water, energy, etc)

phobias: thalassophobia (which was...unfortunate considering she grew up surrounded by water)

allergies: cats and shellfish

mbti type: ISTP-A

enneagram type: 98% the skeptic, 87% the challenger,  62% the investigator

positive traits: loyal, versatile, determined

negative traits: brash, blunt, head strong

morning routine: fairly regimented; wakes up at five, goes for a 5 mile run with Bear, feeds Bear, takes a shower, eats something fresh, goes and opens the gym at 8.

beauty routine: tends to stick to more holistic products, and is more likely to use ‘raw materials’ than she is to buy something off the counter, but overall keeps it fairly simple, she’s a simple girl.

sleeping habits:  Dacey used to sleep like a rock, always spent from an active day that she would fall into bed and remain unmoving until the morning, but with her new position as corporal, there are a lot of long nights, or nights interrupted by important calls of important (and violent) tasks needing to be dealt with.  so she tries to hit the hay as earlier as she can, knowing it could be interrupted at any moment.

living space && home: neither clean nor messy, but obviously lived in.  she always prefers to buy second hand or hand made, always hating the look of brand new furniture and couldn’t stand to have an ikea retrofitted apartment.  lots of earthy tones, objects from back home.

[mymelancholiesblues]

001 ASoIaF

– Favourite character: Robb Stark! But honestly, Sansa is very close to the top together with him so I’d be lying if I didn’t say it’s both;

– Least favorite character: It’d be too obvious to say Ramsay Snow, Roose Bolton or Littlefinger because they’re written in such a way that you can’t possibly sympathize with them, so I’ll go with Daenerys Targaryen for this one. Her messiah complex coupled with the boring way Martin has been writing her POVs just deeply irritates me;

– 5 favourite ships (canon or non-canon): Ned/Ashara, Jaime/Brienne, Tywin/Joanna, Oberyn/Ellaria and Jon/Ygritte;

– Character I find most attractive: Robb Stark – my forever king in the north;

– Character I would marry: Jon Snow. Even though he comes off as cold and rather distant with his exterior demeanour, he’s so soft and caring and kind, he’d make the perfect mate in that sense;

– Character I would be best friends with: I would be the mom type of friend to the Stark children since I love them so much and always hoped for their best;

– A random thought: I’m not very interested in Jon’s parentage. I think the books are very clear on that matter (R + L = J) from the get-go so I really couldn’t care less about that mystery? Therefore, I hope Martin keeps that “reveal” subtext only since it’s an overdue plot-point;

– An unpopular opinion: Well, Game of Thrones is a misogynist crappy excuse of a TV adaptation and I profusely hate it;

– My canon OTP: Probably Ned/Ashara? There���s something in the way Martin flashes them in the subtext that only subtly feeds our imagination for what their brief romance was that it’s just… gorgeous. I find it to be very appealing because their personalities contrast reminds me a bit of my other OTPs’ dynamics that I dearly care about;

– My non-canon OTP: All my Stark kids alive and safe and happy;

– Most badass character: Catelyn Stark. I mean, the way that woman fought for her family till the very end and even after, goddamn! Little Cat is the most powerful direwolf in this book series;

– Most epic villain: Littlefinger. The guy was capable of setting the whole Westeros against itself and is in the root of all of the conflicts that ensued in the plot. Literally the Devil in Plain Sight;

– Pairing I am not a fan of: I dislike most pairings in ASoIaF, bt all the ones with Sansa tend to bother me the most;

– Character I feel the writers screwed up (in one way or another): I think Martin has no idea to what he’s doing and going for with that Dorne plot, so I’d say the Martells;

– Favourite friendship: Davos and Stannis – that absolute loyalty that verges into devotion breaks my heart. Oh, and a special mention to Dacey Mormont and Robb: she is his last dance, she gloats about fighting every battle by his side – I’m just very emotional about them, okay?;

– Character I most identify with: I just can’t relate in that level to any of ASoIaF’s characters. Maybe Sansa, but I never went through anything that even remotely evokes the experience of being forced to go under the “Rose to Jade-Colored Glasses” process to see life;

– Character I wish I could be: Asha Greyjoy – be a BAMF pirate in Westeros? Really dig that.

[clawsbcared-a]

"stability, perhaps. mind? never." her voice is wistful as she leans back against the plush fabric of the chair, head falling back and tilting to face the redhead, "whispers of my mind have been around since the day i could first speak, my lady." though she seems to dodge around the idea of melancholy, admitting one to be full of melancholy and almost on the verge of overflowing felt too much for new company.

sitting straighter, the mormont daughter peers down into the cup, as if reading each ripple and speck of colour within the tea cup - though before her mind could waver and the voices pull her from the moment at hand, abrogail broaches one of her most favourite subjects. her bears. rosy lips curl into a soft smile as she looks to the red haired woman, "i speak of them as if i own them, but we do not. they are family, old friends from centuries past. you see it in their eyes . . . the history of the island, the first men, the andals . . . all of it. they have seen it all and are aware of where we will step and what we will say." a hand releases her cup to press against her shoulder, hidden scars lying beneath the fabric of her dress, "they attack when threatened or scared, when unsure or confused. the younger are impulsive, like wylla . . . much like wylla."

A slight frown pulls at her features as she takes that in. "Do you feel unwell of mind and stability?" she asked curiously. "As in, do you feel overwhelmed and overcome? Melancholic?" She struggles with trying to find the words for the feelings she was intimately familiar with. "As if a great sadness would consume you whole into the ground?"

She pours the ginger mint tea into the thick cup and presses it into Dacey's hands with a warm smile. "I'm sorry you feel such a way. I understand. The Keep can be quite lonely, especially when you are so incredibly far from home, my dear." She cocks her head. Bear Island, she assumes, surely has a large bear population. "Tell me about them. Your bears."

[clawsbcared-a]

"i'm not sure bobby cares to speak with me right now, i believe i spoke something harshly to him the last i spoke . . . something about a useless blade and a rat's arse being sharper." a soft giggle falls from soft lips as she tilts her head slightly, allowing dark locks to tumble into the warm water of the bath. it was strange to think of anything harsher than a yell coming from dacey's lips, but a few have met the bear maiden's wrath on day's some said she channelled that of her own mother. "no bother, lia. the bear's need to test us, to mark us as their own before they can truly build their trust . . . i do not mind such scars, such wounds. it is all for the greater good."

joffrey had been born mere weeks after the birth and death of her own illegitimate child, arys, and so the visits to the woods become mroe frequent - more-so than before her birth - as in some small part of her believes the old gods brought her child back to her in the form of her family sigil. "go ahead, my dear." her tone is wistful as lips curl into a dreamy smile, her mind drifting to the image of her strong bear cub extending his claws and letting a growl rip through him. "i am used to our routine now, lia, you do as you need and i will comply as willingly as a maester to their lord."

"i do wish you would be more careful , my lady ," lia says in a concerned but non-judgemental tone ( words she often spoke to lady dacey , unable to help herself ) — "perhaps you could speak with your smith and have some mail made to wear beneath your dresses?" she doesn't really understand why dacey keeps returning and tending to the creatures that can and have hurt her so much ... but she does understand the gentleness in her heart ; lia is too timid to tend to a bear , but she has done so with birds when at home in red lake. even when they nipped at her fingers , she would smile and love the feathered creature even more. she supposes it's the same feeling lady dacey gets. she gently peels away the reddish-stained cloths from the slashes , depositing them in a wooden bowl by her as she then gently dabs a numbing salve over the ragged claw marks.

she smiles tenderly as lady dacey speaks about the growing bear cub , as if talking about a child of her own ... it's sweet despite the bloodiness that is often accompanying the interactions. "i must begin stitching now , my lady ," she warns as she gently tests the skin to ensure it isn't as tender and the numbing agent has helped. "you will have to rest tomorrow , and after your bath i'll need to wrap bandages around you before you retire to sleep ..." sometimes her night antics involved the mormont lady tossing or turning , and risking pulling open stitching or rubbing away salves. "but i am happy to hear he is growing strong , i hope he doesn't mistake you for a meal though."

[clawsbcared-a]

a flush of embarrassment dusts across pale cheeks as they are cupped, the mormont girl relishing and relaxing into the warmth of myrielle's touch - it was rare these days for dacey to feel warmth from anyone, nevermind in the red keep where she lay captive. if they had their mother growing up, dacey was sure that wylla would be that of mirrored to myrielle, soft and gentle and strong, the sister dacey could understand and aid without confusion.

"i feel as though i must thank you anyway, you have kept my mind clear and occupied whilst the war begins outside these walls." her voice is soft as lips curl into a smile, "you are my sister, myrielle, as close as sisters ones can be without blood shared."

into the woods sentence starters / accepting ! @clawsbcared requests an audience: wait a minute ,  i never thanked you .

upon her countenance, myrielle wears an expression that cannot quite be placed though her lips curl into a small smile. " silly girl, " the blonde begins with a soft tone to her voice, the gentlest of hands coming up to cup her cheeks. she has grown quite fond of dacey, and far more protective than she would ever want to openly admit. there had been a bond formed ; some sort of sisterhood that myrielle cherished as she was an only child and her only family being those who visited court.

" you do not need to thank me. i can assure you that you have done as much for me as i have for you. "

[devotionturns]

Did something happen between you and Lord Frey? "No." Her tone was gentle, reserved for the moments Adam's own got serious and she knew any sort of teasing on her part was entirely out of place. He meant it. And she meant it, too. She snorted, then. Cyrene did not mind his no having compliments for her husband. Not in the slightest. "No," she repeated, this time more apologetic. Every time Adam had visited her children, when they had still been younger, she enjoyed seeing her brother spend time with the twins. "Wylla did. But Mako... Well, you can imagine. He insisted." The boy stayed behind at his Lord's insistence. A ruling lady should never be too far for too long from her estate. An heir should never be too far at all.

The embrace was more than welcome. Her arms wrapped tightly around Adam and her eyes fluttered closed, the tips of her fingers digging into leather and fur alike. She wondered how life had changed such an awful lot in a relatively short span of time. Growing up, Adam and Cyrene had never been close. And yet, he had been her anchor in the rocky sea that her marriage had proved to be.

She let go only when she heard footsteps approaching the godswood. When she spotted Dacey, her smell fell the slightest bit. Froze, more like. And she despised that it did. Their first meeting had not been at all the way she'd imagined it to be. That did not mean Cyrene did not still hope it could be. "You weren't," she softly said, stepping back from Adam a little.

Another one of their family decided to join, then, muddy paws and looming frame pressing into the front of her dress. Cyrene did not mind dirtying herself. Not for family. Smoke panted in excitement as she laughed, ruffling his fur. Owen was not far behind. The direwolf dropped away at its bonded's orders, but nonetheless alert as it looked between the Stark siblings that were present. "Wouldn't be a secret club if we met out in the Godswood, would it now?" she responded, teasingly. Her gaze betrayed a rare fondness, looking at Owen now. Cyrene did not think it was a secret that she adored her brother like any other of her siblings. The way they fought at times could have fooled even the best in Winterfell, though.

And then, at last, Cassana arrived as well. As though it had been destiny, for all of them. To find one another here, together. Tala, her own direwolf, had not yet made an appearance, but Cyrene was satisfied with their presence nonetheless.

"I don't think anything is a coincidence with you," Cyrene said, grinning at Cass. "Well, then. You are all here. And you seem unharmed. My soul is at peace, at last." There was a certain sense of mocking in her tone, a jab that none of them had answered her letters to Cyrene's satisfaction. At the same time, there was relief. Unbridled, unadulterated relief.

@adam-stark

His brow furrowed at her response. It was an odd thing for the princess to abandon her station as Ruling Lady of the Twins and come back to her family home without notice. His initial concern brought an unpleasant sensation to his stomach. “Did something happen between you and Lord Frey?” he inquired quietly, holding her hands somewhat tighter. Are you unsafe? Did he harm you? Those were the questions interlaced with what he had actually said out loud.

From what Cyrene had confided in him through their letters over the last few years and Adam's own experiences with Lord Frey, he had formed a judgment about the lord that was most unfavorable. He did not trust the man in any capacity, not even to ensure the princess would be safe and unharmed within the halls of her own keep in the Riverlands.

“Apologies that I have no compliments to offer to your lord husband,” he answered with a subtle scoff. Though Adam usually reserved his thoughts on the man for a time in which he could speak them, rather than leave a trace of them on letters. “Did Mako and Wylla travel with you?” he asked then, for he relished the opportunities to see his young nephew and niece. Despite bearing the name of a man Adam didn't particularly like, they were Starks by blood and his care for Cyrene extended to her children as well.

It had been most unexpected to find Cyrene here in Winterfell without a prior word of her arrival, and it was without a doubt a very welcome surprise. “Gods, it is good to see you, sister,” the prince said after a moment, offering his sister a smile before going ahead to pull Cyrene close for a warm embrace.

The sound of footsteps on the snow announced that they were no longer alone. Adam pulled away and turned back to see who approached. The soft expression on his face remained, for the pack was gathering in the godswood on this day, it seemed.

[wintervsuns]

♞

such was the reality when there was fracture between stark and karstark; those, even not present in the room or the situation to begin with, find themselves dragged into it by the startling realisation of great change. brandon did not consider himself any mightier than the other great lords of the north, his roots remaining humble regardless of the power he found himself having. there was much power in being hand of the king, but greater power still when it was a man that was trusted; beyond all reasonable measures and scope.

"probably not, princess." he responded, his harsher accent wrapping around each of his words still: the karhold accent was thicker and rougher sounding than the other parts of the country. that, added to his towering nature and his strength, painted a picture of brandon karstark that was not entirely true. he would not involve himself in matters of dark magic for the sake of the starks...not again. 'you may want to start with the court widsom." the men who replaced maesters in owen stark's north.

even in the feeling of being blindsided and betrayed, cast aside like dust to the wind, he understood entirely that it was not the responsibility of the princess that stood before him. families needed to stand side by side, and despite the ongoing conflict and tension that came in the new chapter of their family's long association, there was not a part of him that thought to somehow take it out on the woman who stood before him.

and yet, that did not mean he would find himself doing more than what was expected: it his the hope of every family that their king finds a trusted companion, one who would sacrifice his own life to save the other, one who sought for the stability of the realm rather than his own personal advancement. and still, brandon did not consider that the princess may be feeling a sense of worry or apprehension regarding the power vacuum that has been left in brandon's absence: he only continued to stand before her.

at the mention of there being something he was holding back, his dark grey gaze flickered upward to meet her own eyes. there was indeed something he was holding back, something of far greater detail; and yet, he chose to keep it firmly to himself rather than disclose any further information about what happened that night. it was unlike him to do, and yet, with the new walls that had been built up and circled him, he knew it was for the best.

he would not disclose what he had found alysanne doing one night, for the last thing he would have, is one thread of responsibility being linked to karstark and karhold alike.

there was no reaction to words of trust, apart from a nod of his head, and his hands remaining clasped together before his own furs. he did not know whether or not she should trust him - it felt as though, for the first time in a long time, he did not know what his purpose was. he did not know if he could even trust himself. "was already at the door, princess." he responded, again, his words almost brushing off the small words of sentiment that no doubt seemed to come from the princess. she was the picture of grace, of the blue rose of the north: it was only expected.

his mind remained on her reluctance to tell owen. gods knew he would be furious when finally informed, for not knowing the entirety of the facts. a part of him wished to open his mouth and remind her again, of the importance of the king knowing the full picture. but he did not. instead, his bowed his head slightly, before raising to his full height. "i'm due to be spendin' the next month at my seat." almost as though to tell her, he no longer wanted to be involved in this conversation. in this subject. not when he was home. home was sacred.

how he longed to see the green lights dance over the sky, and watch the sun do it's dance once again. how it mad everything feel as though nothing at all had changed. "may you get the answers you be seekin." he waited for her to dismiss him.

a stab of guilt twisted at dacey’s gut when she looked at him. he was already a man burdened - you did not have to possess any great level of empathy to take note of that, and here she was, bringing more struggles to his door. she should have left him alone, should have found another source for the answers she sought.

but then, would anybody else be able to grant them? who else, if not brandon karstark? not for the first time, worry sparked in her, an uncertainty of what they would do without him when his presence in the stark’s lives had been so constant for so long, but that was something to turn over later, when she was alone without the distraction of standing in front of him.

they were speaking as plainly as dacey knew how, but there was still so much that wasn’t said - by her, and certainly by brandon. they were avoiding the inevitable conversation. she wasn’t sure if that would ever be addressed between them, if it was even her place to. it was an unscalable wall, and she wasn’t mentally prepared to climb it. she would not be the one to reopen wounds that had not yet begun to heal.

“no.” she agreed. “not in the way my sister was.” but there was a fundamental difference between alysanne and dacey. where the elder of the two invited such things, dacey was seeking to put an end to it. to rid winterfell of everything dark and dangerous, and hope that was enough. she didn’t know much, but she could not rid herself of the suspicion that doing so would not be the simple task he was posing it as.

she took a breath, small, but audible, as though steeling herself to say something she didn’t want to. “but i do want to be rid of all the things she’s left behind. i don’t think that will be so simple as casting them upon the fire.” she looked at him, half a moment away from begging him to tell her that she was wrong.

it wasn’t in dacey’s nature to lead the charge when trouble presented itself. she could scarcely remember the last time she had been involved in matters of the kingdom, save for her quiet, steadfast support. but times were changing, and she was tired. too much had been lost, and the eyes of those she would normally trust to handle things like this were either turned elsewhere or gone forever. and so, it fell to her, the wolf who had never found her howl nor bite.

she heard his warning, considered it, then nodded. “there’s something you’re holding back.” it was a statement of fact, devoid of confrontation, spoken with nothing but concern. “and i understand. i don’t expect…” she trailed off, mind racing to find the right words. “i trust you.” any bad blood between stark and karstark would not find root in dacey stark. perhaps it should have been easier for her to put distance between them, when more of it existed to begin with than with owen or alys or cassana, but that wasn’t so. “and i’m sorry. for bringing this to your door.”

[saffroninsilk]

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?”

it was rare dacey had conversations like this with others, even with those she held dearest to her. those who she called friends knew of her enjoyment of weaving, of spinning stories from thread, but she had long since suspected beyond the appreciation of her handmade gifts of wall hangings and rugs, they cared little for the technicalities, the actual art of it all. not in the way the two of them were speaking now.

her eyes traced the graceful movement of malee's hands, listening intently to her thoughts. it struck a deeper chord in her than she cared to admit - the idea that peace was so fragile. it doesn't fight to stay. time and time again, that had proven to be true. no matter how they strove for it, how many wars were fought for it, how much blood was spilled to hold it for a moment, it was shattered all to easily.

"you're right." she admitted, carefully. "it doesn't fight to stay. but i think that makes it all the more important to hold on to." but if it did not fight for itself, then who would fight to preserve it, rather than just achieve it? "i think the artist was fighting for us not to forget it's value." her hands folded loosely in front of her, thumb idly rubbing circles against her own palm.

"does it hold a memory for you?" she asked. fields of gold were not a common sight in the north, but perhaps here, in the west, gold could be found above the ground rather than simply in the mines. she liked the idea that this might be so.

her gaze return to malee at her question, smile tugging at her lips. "it is," she confirmed. "I find peace in it. the weaving." there were nights where the creation of something became something close to prayer for dacey, peace to be found in every stitch. she was not a woman who found her words easily. it was in thread that she truly found her voice. "there is something special about seeing something come together that you created, with your own hand. do you weave yourself?"