Audrey Hepburn As Sabrina Fairchild

"you don't sound silly," dacey's voice was firm as she spoke. she did not believe otherwise, either. perhaps idealistic, but if anybody was going to take the hope from her, it would not be dacey. "and you are no bother. not while there is still packing to be done," she half-joked, gesturing to the disarray of her room and the swirl of activity. "i hope you know you can speak with me whenever you'd like. i am not so difficult to find in winterfell." when she was not isolating herself away from those she did not wish to find her.

we have to convince ourselves that we are something. perhaps maisie would not recognise the effect the words had on dacey. it was a lovely sentiment, but not one she was sure she could live up to. what was there that she could convince herself that she was? the voice in the back of her head said only words of discouragement, all the horrible things it convinced her everyone else was thinking. she wasn't sure what else there was to her. but rather than dwell on it, she merely nodded.

"we sound like philosophers," she offered a wry smile, finally securing her trunk and rising to her feet. "as ready as i can be, i suppose. i don't much enjoy travelling. let's hope the road is clear and safe, for the both of us."

“I sound silly, don't I?” She jokes, knowing that his ideas were a little too idealistic, belonging more to the plane of dreams than reality. As if she were inside a cave and decided to stare at the shadows outside as she pleased, ignoring the truth of the matter “I think I'm delaying your party, I'm sorry” She recalled, Mormont couldn't wait to be inside the icy plains of the North, her true home “Thank you, it's nice to have someone to talk to”

“Don't assume, be sure” she encouraged. Perhaps it was Maisie's way of dealing with things, but she didn't like anyone doubting her own ability or courage, unless, of course, it was the enemy side ‘I don't want to sound conceited or invasive, princess, but we have to convince ourselves that we are something” She frowns thoughtfully “A king truly becomes a king when he recognises himself as one, not just by his title” She sighs, pushing everything out of his mind.

“It's like a fine line, one foot walks in the shadows and the other in the light. I'd like to spend more time in the light, to be honest, but even so, what's light to me may not be to you” Completing Dacey's thought, “Ready for the long journey?” She asks, putting her hands behind her back, a habit she possesses, preparing to leave Princess Stark's presence.

anya could not know it, but her words brought a sense of relief to dacey. most of the time, it felt like she were fighting a losing battle, play-acting at a role that she didn't belong in and the entirety of the northern court could see through. to know there was at least one person she had convinced was a reassurance - perhaps the rest of the world could be fooled, too. "people never really see you how you see yourself, i suppose," she mused. "for good or for ill."

it was something the two had in common. dacey had always been the quiet sort, reserved in her ways and anxious in conversation. it did not easily lend itself to making friends. "i haven't either," she agreed. "it makes me appreciate those i do have all the more." the people she let her guard down for were few and far between, and yet, she did not regret doing so for any of them. a beat of silence fell over dacey then. nobody could stand alone - it was something she applied to others, she realised, always trying to lessen the burden they shouldered, but rarely to herself. when she struggled, she did so in silence. she didn't say that out loud, instead shaking her head in response. "no. and you don't need to, either." the words were subtle, but in them, a quiet hand of friendship was offered.

she let out a breath. the judgement of the west was nothing she could offer comfort for. she could not assure anya that it would not occur, because it would be an outright lie. "they would always have found something to judge you for, though." she did not try to pretend that she could not think why the west may have a harsh view of anya, that her background would be of no consequence here. "i think just being northern would be enough. we can only trust that they need this to go well, and so will choose to keep their thoughts in their head rather than making our time here more unpleasant than it need be."

“You mask it well, then,” Anya mentioned. Dacey had an admirable quality to appear composed, graceful, confident regardless of where she was. By the princess' own admission that wasn't always the case, just the image the lady had of the other woman. “And yes, we endure what we must,” the raven-haired lady replied. It was something she agreed with entirely. Her life had been built on enduring and overcoming.

There were not many friends in Anya's life. There had never been many she counted as close to her, and the situation continued to be the same. Her circumstances were entirely different at present, and yet there remained the underlying feeling that she needed to protect herself, to be cautious, to keep others at arm's length out of a sense of self-preservation. Noble courts were different grounds from those she's known as a lowborn bastard, but dangerous all the same. “I've never been very good at making friends, I'll admit,” she mused in a lower tone. “Silly of me. No one can stand alone, after all”. She did not have the sort of charming, gentle or enticing personalities that drew in others to her. For most of her life, she'd been challenging, jaded, and much too prickly to let others get too close. Those she'd let in, she'd lost in one way or another.

At least we are here together, the princess said. Anya did find some comfort in that, finding herself in this place with fellow Northerners, It brought a sense of safety, in a way. A home away from home, indeed. “I will remain vigilant. I generally find it difficult to let down my guard,” she shrugged. Another consequence of the way she grew up, she supposed. “I will try to enjoy the trip. However, I am wary of the social events and some of the gatherings that will surely take place. I don't usually care much for the judgment— I try not to care for it, that is. But I know I will be judged more harshly here,” she dared to say, for it felt safe to admit this before Dacey.

Le Comte de Monte Cristo | The Count of Monte Cristo (2024) dir. Matthieu Delaporte & Alexandre de La Patellière

dacey's gaze lingered on wylla, her niece's small face full of curiosity and unspoke questions dacey was half-hoping she would not ask. the ache in her chest was an unfamiliar feeling, equal parts yearning and hesitation. cyrene's words were gentle, in contrast to what had felt like a reprimand before, but gentle words had done little to ease the knot of insecurity tightening within her. braved than she seems. braver than she'll let you believe. green eyes drifted over cyrene for a moment, trying to deduce if the words were supposed to be comfort, challenge, or mockery, and unsure she would find a definite answer to that.

it was almost second nature, the way her hands clasped before her, so much so that she did not realise she was using her nail to scratch at the rough skin around her other thumb, the outward manifestation of her lingering doubts. the voice in the back of her head was telling her that wylla would not like her, that she did not know how to bridge the gap between aunt and stranger, and it would be an embarrassment to try. the thought had been gnawing at dacey since she'd first heard of cyrene's arrival, and now faced with the girl herself, she felt utterly unprepared for any of this.

cyrene's patience was, too, something dacey hadn't prepared for. it were further proof that the woman who returned was not the girl she remembered. cyrene wasn't pushing, wasn't teasing, wasn't testing dacey's limits. there was no sharp edge that she had anticipated.

finally, dacey crouched to meet wylla's gaze at her own level, skirts gathering in the snow that covered the walls. her movements were slow, as though afraid to scare her off, but the small, hesitant smile on her face remained, her voice soft when she spoke. "it is nice to meet you after all these years, wylla." she wondered if her northern accent sounded strange to a child accustomed to the riverlands, who would have only heard such tones from her mother on a regular basis.

her eyes flicked back to cyrene briefly, as though looking for approval, or permission, and when she turned her attention back to wylla, she released her hand from her own grip and extended it, palm up, leaving it in the space between herself and wylla for the little girl to decide what to do with. "i think you must be a wonderful explorer," her voice was a little firmer now, as though she were trying to find something to latch on to. "it is not everyone who can find their way out to the walls. it's so high." a pause, and dacey swallowed.

"i've spent some time exploring winterfell myself. learning it's secrets." her voice lowered, as though she was sharing one of those hidden secrets now. "if you'd like, i can show you all my favourite places. the ones nobody else knows of."

Cyrene watched Dacey with a careful eye, noting the quiet that had always defined her younger sister. It was the same quiet that had once driven Cyrene to provoke her, to tease and cajole in the hopes of coaxing something louder from the girl who seemed to carry the weight of the world in her stillness. She had always wanted Dacey to roar, to be the wolf Cyrene believed she could be, rather than the shadow of one.

But time had worn that impulse down. Dacey’s silence wasn’t weakness; it was something harder to define, something solid and unyielding. It was courage, though Dacey would never claim it.

Cyrene glanced down at Wylla, her small hand still clinging to her mother’s fingers. She felt the weight of her daughter’s curiosity as Wylla’s wide eyes flickered to her aunt. And still, Dacey said nothing.

“She’s braver than she seems,” Cyrene said softly, her words meant for both her daughter and her sister. The irony of it struck her. She had spent so long wishing Dacey would break her silence, only to now realize how much strength it carried.

She crouched, steadying Wylla as the girl peered up at her aunt with quiet fascination. “This is your Aunt Dacey,” Cyrene said, a smile tugging faintly at her lips. "She’s braver than she’ll let you believe, I'm afraid.”

Her gaze flicked to Dacey then, searching, hoping. She didn’t tease this time. Didn’t push. Cyrene had learned to leave some silences unbroken.

Truth serum: Would you say that you are pleased with your life as it currently is?

"no." the answer was quick, decisive. dacey was an empathetic person, she could recognise that there were others in a far worse position than she was. even that was a source of guilt, that she should feel such sadness when there were others that were dealing with just as much and worse, but still, she could not say her life was something she was pleased with, or proud of. "i miss my brother, and my sisters. i worry for the siblings left to me. i regret that i have spent so many years isolated from so much of the world. no. i am not pleased."

dacey did not relish in being perceived, the idea of someone seeing her for what she was filling her with a sort of anxiety she couldn't truly voice. she was more comfortable when she could slip into the quiet places between conversations, existing in the periphery while others took to the centre. with lucius, though, she did not mind so much. perhaps it was the fact that she knew that any judgement he had of her would be spoken aloud. there was an honesty to him that she appreciated, even when he laid what she saw as her own failings bare before her in that simple, straightforward way of his.

"it is," she admitted, a sheepish sort of smile crossing her face. "it's not... it isn't that i don't like people. i do, very much. but like this," she gestured first at herself, then at him, wordlessly indicating that it was the smaller, more personal interactions that she enjoyed. "there's something about being part of a crowd that makes me feel like i'm out of place." her eyes fell on the river, water surging gently forward. "it's like everyone is watching me trying to hold water with my hands, and laughing that it keeps slipping through. does that make sense at all?" there was a flush upon her face as she looked at him, and she could not recall the last time she had tried to put those thoughts into words, nor if anybody had ever asked.

lucius had already offered his own thoughts on the matter ; but even if he had not, dacey was not clueless enough not to be able to guess at why he might not enjoy crowds of people, even if it did not come from the same place that her own need for quieter spaces did. his mention of performance, though, surprised her, for it was at odds with the vision that she held of him. "and yes. the performance of it," she paused for a moment, as though weighing up whether to say more. "i wouldn't have expected that to be the same for you." it was not a question, but phrased lightly enough for him to elaborate if he wished to, or ignore if he did not.

Lucius nodded, making a mental note to talk with Cassana, extending his offer if the younger Stark wished to take it. His eyes flickered to his cousin, a touch of amusement present in his usually stern expression. “Aye, stubbornness is in our blood,” he agreed, letting out a subtle scoff. It was certainly not a trait the bastard attributed to whatever line his mother came from, but something he was sure he'd gotten from Samwell Blackwood and his kin. Only rarely did he wonder what traits he might have gotten from her because the bastard knew him himself to be Blackwood blood through and through. And Dacey, despite the air of introverted gentleness that she carried herself with, was a determined young woman, from what he'd gleaned in their past interactions. A stubborn nature could manifest in many ways, and both Starks and Blackwoods were a testament to that.

The pair walked on the quieter side of the river and he glanced at his cousin, his eyes lingering on the soft gratitude she offered him. Hers was a gentle warmth that stood in stark contrast to the steeliness of his own demeanor. There was commonality between the cousins, as they spoke about earlier, but for the most part, Lucius Rivers and Dacey Stark were almost perfect opposites. Despite that, he found himself at ease in her company. “You don’t like crowds,” he observed. Lucius’s gaze was sharp, perceptive. A lot of people saw only a big brute in him, but he did see more than most gave him credit for. More than once he'd run into his cousin as she walked on her own. “Too many eyes, too many voices. And the endless performance. It's exhausting,” he stated, offering his own perceptions on the matter, his own reasons for wishing to oftentimes stand on the side of it all. He did wonder what was the part that caused his cousin to trail away.

IL DESERTO ROSSO (RED DESERT) 1964 | Michelangelo Antonioni

maisie spoke of her loyalty, and dacey merely nodded, a twist of guilt shooting through her that she felt the need to justify her position. not to dacey, at the least, and yet, perhaps this was the price of her increased presence at court, that the people who surrounded her would not find themself scrambling to provide her with explanations, to discuss politics she did not wish to involve herself in beyond what was necessary. and underneath the guilt was worry, a concerned look shot to the westerlander serving girls helping the princess to pack. they had been sweet and obliging, but dacey trusted them not. discussing the fractured state of the north in the midst of the lion's den was not something she would indulge in. "perhaps this conversation is better left for our return, my lady," despite her attempts to keep her voice casual, it shook a little, betraying what was going through her mind. "though i am sure my brother will be glad to hear of it."

she had intended to let the matter rest there, but when maisie brought up encouraging brandon to do something, dacey stiffened, an unfamiliar protectiveness for brandon karstark shooting through her at the insinuation. "i don't know," teeth came down over her bottom lip, fingers moving to scratch the the sore red skin around her nailbeds. "lord karstark has been through much of late. but he is your blood." stark and karstark were ancient kin, but the blood he shared with maisie ran far thicker. it was not for dacey to involve herself in matters of family. and in any case, brandon already planned on speaking with the king, or the hand, if their last conversation held truth.

the change of topic was rapid, but one dacey jumped on, anything to distract from the northern fracture. marriage and children was her duty to the north, one she herself had yet to fulfil, but she was one stark princess in many, and knew not what plans her brother had for her hand. it was different for maisie, who had the fate of house mormont to consider. "have you a mind to take a husband?" she queried. it was a happier topic than that of alicent hightower. "suffered, and caused suffering in turn." she pointed out. "do not forget that she sowed the seeds that tore the realm apart, and took many lives with it."

❛❛Yes, my cousin... Brandon❜❜ Maisie cleared her throat in a silent cough as she affirmed, tilting her head a little and biting the bottom left corner of her lip. It was obvious that she felt Dacey's gaze on her face, as well as the countless questions that filled the princess's mind; Dacey had always been sweet, friendly, but very worried and afraid of everything around her, one part of Lady Mormont understood her completely, the other wanted to give her a little push so that Stark would blossom for good; ❛❛I'm loyal to the Starks, I always will be,❜❜ she assured quickly, trying to calm the princess's doubting mind. ❛❛There's only one true north for me, the one you and I know,❜❜ she sighed and slumped her shoulders, trying to look as relaxed as possible.

❛❛He's my family, the only one I have left by blood. I just want to convince Brandon to do something about it, or try to... I don't feel like I have that much of a voice yet.❜❜ A smile appears on Mormont's face at the memory of the family time she had, she misses it ❛❛It's just...❜❜ She shakes her head and arches her eyebrows ❛❛I hope it really was a bit of fun with wine, beer and random conversations❜❜ She says, remembering a little of the amount of alcohol she had consumed, much more than she normally did, something about western wine was different from northern wine.

❛❛It's very strange to say that all this has made me wonder if I'll ever have children, I mean, I need to, but... you get the idea❜❜ He laughs a little as he fumbles with his words, but then closes his face as he remembers the terrible scene that took place ❛❛I wouldn't have liked to have seen it either, hasn't she already suffered too much for them to still be targeting her? It reminded me that the climate of war is still there, I don't like it❜❜

dacey had been sitting at the far edge of the hall for longer than she'd meant to. she was trying, but close to giving in and retreating for the night, reasoning that she had been seen and spoken with enough people to count it as owen's birthday gift, and none was notice if she slipped away. a cup of wine sat untouched at her elbow as her gaze swept the hall, lingering nowhere for overlong, but taking it all in. she wasn't meant for crowds like this, and that was what kept her rooted to her seat rather than brave trying to battle her way through it to reach the safety of her chambers. her first instinct, upon hearing a voice addressing her, was to brace herself, but the words were not sharp or intrusive. unfamiliar, but gently spoken, and that was enough to lower her defences just slightly, enough to look at the woman who had spoken with a small smile on her face, barely there, but present all the same.

"you may, my lady," she nodded at the chair beside her, her voice quiet but sincere when she spoke. "please, join me. i'd be glad of the company." it was only a half-truth. whilst she wasn't overfond of crowds, she enjoyed one-to-one conversations perfectly well, even with those she had never met. her presence wasn't unwelcome, even though dacey hadn't sought it out.

the woman was not a northerner, no daughter of any of the houses she had grown up learning the sigils and words of. by her accent, she might have been braavosi, but dacey had never had much of an ear for that sort of thing, and so she did not ask, lest the woman be from pentos and find being accused of being braavosi a grave insult.

she let out a soft laugh, her gaze returning to the crowd. "it's quite the river, isn't it?" the metaphor amused her, because it often felt that way, like a particularly quick-moving river she could never quite keep up with without slipping under the water. "the river moves a bit too quickly for me, i'm afraid, though my brother seems to be enjoying himself." this was owen's element, wherever he had found himself.

she folded her hands in her lap, her fingers brushing idly over one another. "i hope the cold isn't bothering you too much." it was the closest she would get to asking where the other was from, if it was a place that was used to the chill or not.

setting: winterfell, the king's birthday celebration. as sabiha becomes acquainted with westeros, she travel's north before going to the reach. starter for @daceystvrk

the hall of winterfell was a fortress of warmth against the ice outside, yet even here, the air clung to sabiha’s sleeves like frost. fires crackled in grand hearths, casting long shadows over the banners above, but the cold was still threaded through the stone beneath her shoes. it reminded her of the night markets back home, when the wind blew in off the black canals and everyone pretended not to shiver.

she moved carefully through the crowd—measured steps, polite nods, eyes always observing. northern feasts were not so different from those in braavos: the food was heavier, the laughter louder, but the politics still swirled beneath the surface like undertows.

at one of the long tables, she saw dacey stark. not adorned like a southern lady might be, but unmistakable, there was something of her mother in the chin, her father in the eyes. sabiha had studied the family line, not of just the stark's, but of many prominent families of westeros, absorbing all of the information she could in preparation for her journey. it was not out of necessity, in truth, but because patterns repeated themselves, even in bloodlines, and that fascinated her.

the lady approached with a quiet grace, her dark gown trailing like a shadow of silk behind her. she had only heard the name in passing, mentioned in careful tones by those who spoke of winterfell's quietest daughter. a lady of needle and song, not steel and saga. a contrast to the wolves around her.

sabiha approached without pomp or pause, footsteps light. she stopped just beside the bench and offered a bow of her head, measured and sincere, not the sweeping kind merchants performed when hoping for favor.

“your grace,” she said softly, the formality folded into calm. “forgive me. the hall grows louder by the minute, and your corner seemed the only place still holding its breath.”

she offered a small smile one of a gentle companionship. "i thought i’d ask if you might allow another quiet soul to share your quiet.” she glanced toward the merrymaking, then back to dacey. “sometimes it’s better, i think, to watch the river from the bank than be swept into it.”