Le Comte De Monte Cristo | The Count Of Monte Cristo (2024) Dir. Matthieu Delaporte & Alexandre De La

"of course," dacey nodded. she had no objections to him taking ownership of the pictures, considering the first strip was already tucked away in her wallet, and even if they weren't, she would have consented anyway, if only to make him happy. with ulises, she had gotten lucky, finding herself in a relationship that brought her the sort of peace and stability she had always craved, but as comfortable as she was with him, saying no when he asked something of her didn't come easily.

her fingers laced with his as they walked. "i'm honestly surprised so many people wanted to come back," she admitted. "i probably wouldn't if you didn't want to." school hadn't been awful for dacey, but in her awkward, teenage years, she had made very few friends, spending most of her time with hugo vance, her siblings, or people who knew her through her brothers and sisters. her social circle had widened in adulthood, but not enough that it would have been worth the journey if not to spend a little extra time together, away from the routine of home.

"i suppose it's nice that so many people wanted to be here, though." even if it had taken her until long after school to come out of her shell, there was something sweet about the fact that so many people felt so warmly about it that they'd made the effort. "remind me to ask my family if they want to have dinner while we're all here. it's not often we're all in the same place at once."

Ulises tucked a strand of Dacey's hair behind her ear when their photoshoot was over, helping her make sure she looked okay before they walked out of the booth. Just then, she also reached over to wipe the trace of her lipstick on the corner of his lips, making Ulises smile a little. Simple gestures like these, or bigger ones in their daily lives, they looked after each other.

Once outside the booth, he stood close to Dacey as they saw the results of their second photoshoot. “I love these,” Ulises murmured, a tender smile appearing on his lips. The first ones they took were cuter while these were a bit more playful, and both seemed so romantic to Ulises. “Can I keep these?” he asked. He could already picture having them at one of their bookcases at their place, so the pictures would be more theirs than his anyway.

Ulises' hand slipped into hers and he looked around the fair as well when they walked. “Yeah, a lot of people came here. A lot comes back to this place,” he said, which felt like a massive understatement considering so many of those in their social circle came from this place. It all connected back to this school in one way or another. Ulises wouldn't have befriended Adam if it wasn't for this school, and he wouldn't have met Dacey. “I've seen alumni from so many different years too. I guess that's why it feels like so many of us showed up”. A good sign, he thought. With so many alumni, it was possible the donation efforts would meet their goal.

dacey let out a low hum of understanding. it was a feeling she often felt herself - that something might be about to fall apart, that the winds were warning her of great changes to come. often, it was a result of her many anxieties, the gnawing beast in her stomach that told her terrible things were about to happen. it was hard not to listen to it when terrible things were happening every day. "i still wish it were not so for you." maisie's next words had her thinking about her mother, about alysanne stark, and manal manderly, about sarra karstark and meera reed and rosalyn arryn. "i'm not sure i agree," her voice was gentle, as though maisie might take offence at the mere suggestion.

"strong?" at that, the ghost of a smile flickered across dacey's face. it was not a perspective she had ever taken. "i suppose i always thought of it as the opposite. as though i was allowing someone else to take control of my life." but with a brother who was a king, allowing him to decide what she did and did not do, and who she would and would not marry, was practically a given. but what were her dreams? it was not something she allowed herself to focus on, her fears taking up far more of her headspace. "i suppose i always thought i would be happiest if i were nobody at all. if i had nothing to worry about except where in the forest i wanted to walk when i woke up in the morning." it was simplicity she craved, far more than dreams of love or power or glory.

and maisie was right. people could be cruel, and men especially. and yet, dacey reverted to her base instincts, to believing there was still good ones, because the alternative was too bleak to bear. "there are good men amongst them." of that, she truly believed. "my brothers are good, i think. and your cousins, brandon and aleksander. they cannot be the only ones."

"Not very cruel, it felt like something inside me knew something was going to happen... like an omen that I should be prepared for something important" And it was true, for a long time an agonizing feeling took hold of Mormont's heart, preventing her from closing her eyes peacefully at night; she always ended up waking sweating from a nightmare she couldn't remember. The first few times, she thought it was her lungs failing while she slept, but as the moons passed, the opposite proved true. It really was a foreboding; this was the period when Maisie stood before the Old Gods the most, asking for instruction for what was to come "But we'll outlive her... usually women always stay alive" she joked, although there was a hint of truth in it. In a twisted way, but it was.

"We're girls who put duty before desire, it shows how strong we are. We don't hesitate if we have to suffer" A small, resigned smile appears on her face with a bit of a bitter taste, but it was better this way, knowing what she needed to do rather than deluding herself with silly thoughts "Even though, as a princess, you have to sacrifice more" Complete, Dacey was above her station and even if she tried, she couldn't imagine the huge sacrifices she would one day have to make "Perhaps, but I don't think about it too much, I just let it happen, but what about you, princess, don't you have dreams?" She asks hopefully, causing Stark to open up a little.

"I hope it's not another war, Westeros has already lost too much, we've already lost too much" She swallows dryly and sighs, Maisie really didn't want a war, even though she knew how fragile any veil of stability was "But it only depends on the men and part of me can't trust them completely" She whispers the last part, like a secret and forbidden confession.

"discipline can be learned," there was a softness to her gaze when she spoke of her sister, entwined with something a little stronger, protectiveness present, too. "spirit and talent are half the battle, and cassana has both in abundance." it was something she had always admired about her littlest sister, her strength and her courage something dacey felt she herself lacked.

she did not know her other cousin too well, lucius' own younger sibling. whenever they had encountered one another, talk had been awkward, the two of them never finding anything to connect with. she was not sure why it was different with lucius, but it was. "he'll be all right though, won't he?" despite her lack of a connection with ben, a hint of worry found its way on to her face. "i've heard he's a fair fighter. he'll be able to hold his own?" it was a question she phrased to lucius, as though she were waiting for him to confirm.

her gaze shifted the the opposite river bank. it was indeed a calmer place, and in that moment, dacey knew what he was doing, in directing her attention to it and making it sound as though it was to his benefit. gratitude flooded her expression, and she bobbed her head in a nod, a little too quickly. she was eager to get a little space, away from the feeling of everything pressing in on her at once.

"as long as you don't mind me taking you away from the opportunity to bask in your victory," her smile was almost sheepish. "i think i would appreciate a walk. please, lead the way?"

Lucius let out a low chuckle at Dacey's comment about her sister. “Aye, your sister is talented. She lacks discipline, though,” he pointed out, having made that conclusion after seeing his other Stark cousin's skill with the bow. Though his comment could have sounded stern, there was a faint trace of something warmer in his eyes. There was a quiet pride that his Northern kin could hold their own in a skill he valued so deeply.

At the mention of his brother, Lucius’s gaze drifted for a moment to the grounds where the melee had yet to begin. “No doubt Ben will be bleeding and grinning by the end of it, as if that counts as victory,” he said in a light tease of his little brother. Bloody Ben was formidable, of course, and perhaps Dacey wasn't wrong in thinking the brothers of House Blackwood could earn more than one victory together. “If it happens, it might annoy a Bracken or two, which is always worth toasting about”.

Her confession about the crowds made him nod. Lucius didn't often spill truths about himself, but he understood what it was to feel at odds with such large gatherings. They had different reasons for it, of course. “It can be exhausting,” he agreed, taking note of the subtle discomfort in his cousin's body language. Dacey was very different to Agnes in terms of personality, but the bastard felt a similar drive to protect his kin as he did with his sister.

“Have you ever taken a walk along the other side of the Red Fork?” he asked, tilting his head in the direction he meant. There was a thin wooden bridge that connected the area they were in and the calmer plains on the opposite bank of the river. “I could use a walk,” he offered, giving Dacey the opening to step away from the loud merriment of the festival for some time.

dacey exhaled, the breath coming from her in a visible puff as it met the cold air. it was a heavy burden brandon carried now, and she felt the weight of it on her own shoulders. she looked at him for a second too long before speaking, but it was not suspicion that clouded her gaze, merely contemplation. perhaps with all that had transpired, the cracks in the ice of the northern court, it was a foolish thing to trust him, but she did. when she looked at him, she saw only honesty in his face.

"i don't envy the position you find yourself in." owen was her brother, but she would offer him no lies. it would do no good - because despite everything, brandon still knew owen far better than she. dacey loved her brother, and there was little he could ask of her that she would not do, and yet, she could not pretend that she had the measure of him as a man. "if i thought my words held any weight with my brother, i would offer to speak for you. but..." she trailed off, allowing the unspoken to fill the silence. but, it would be best coming from brandon.

and it was strange, how he seemed to want to give her reassurance, when that was the exact thing she was struggling to find to offer him. "oh, it's..." she began her protest, her assurances that she believed that the blame for this did not lie at his feet, but the words died in her throat. brandon faltered before her, suddenly unsteady on his feet, and her reaction was instinctual, moving closer and raising her hands as though he did not tower over her, as if she could bear the weight of him if her fell.

in the end, she did not need to. he caught himself on the wall, pressed his hand to the side of his head, and still, dacey stood there, arms half-raised, hesitating as she studied him. "brandon," her voice was soft, a whisper on the wind as she looked him over, and saw etched in his features something that she could not name. her heart was hammering in her chest, and though she knew the gesture may not be welcomed, she could not fight the urge to reach out, to provide something solid and steady should he stumble again. the vision she had always held of brandon karstark was of a man who seemed so unwavering ; to witness him like this was unsettling.

dacey lowered one arm, but the other stretched out, bridging the small gap between them and coming to rest upon his arm. the fabric of his cloak was rough beneath her palm, but warm, her touch light, but firm, as though her own gentleness could somehow lend him strength. she did not know if she was overstepping, if this was too familiar, but in that moment, it was the last thing on her mind, her thoughts full of little else but her concern. "are you all right? do you need..." she glanced around, looking for somewhere to bid him to sit, before settling on a stone mounting block a few meters away.

"over here," her fingers curled around his sleeve, and she tentatively led him to the mounting block, brushing the snow from it with her free hand before gesturing for him to sit. it was only then did she let go of his arm, though her gaze did not move from his face, scanning for any sign of weakness or pain, or what exactly had come over it. perhaps it was the stress of it all. perhaps he was just tired.

"you're all right," her voice was low, a steady mantra of reassurance. "you'll be all right." she should step back, give him space to breathe, but a part of her remained afraid that if she did, he would keel over sideways. at least it was happening here, with the snow to break his fall and no eyes but her own and the gods, rather than in the overheated hall surrounded by northmen, though that was a small mercy in the grand scheme of things.

♞

the cold air outside the hall bit at brandon karstark’s cheeks, but he barely noticed it. winterfell’s great halls had been stifling, crowded with people and their endless voices. out here, beneath the wide expanse of a pale sky, he could think clearer. speak clearer. though dacey stark’s presence made his words heavier than he liked. she had a way of looking at a man like she could see the cracks in him, even if she didn’t mean to.

she stood before him now, bundled in furs, her cheeks flushed—partly from the cold, partly from the unspoken weight of their conversation. she was anxious, that much was clear. he could see it in the way her hands twisted at the edge of her cloak, the way she glanced at him like she wasn’t sure whether to trust his words or doubt them.

brandon exhaled, his breath a plume of mist. he’d been taller than most his whole life, but now, with his beard grown thick and wild, and the weight of years etched into his features, he felt like a shadow looming over her. he shifted, trying to soften his stance, though his voice remained gruff. “aye, i want to speak wi’ him,” he said, his words slow, careful. his karhold accent roughened each syllable. “but it ain’t about what i want, is it? i’ve got no choice but t’ clear me name and karhold’s name. them rumours o’ the true north are spillin’ too close me and my kin. if yer brother thinks i’m stirrin’ rebellion... well, that’s a noose i won’t wear.”

he glanced down at her, noting the worry in her eyes. it wasn’t just for him—there was a weight there, tied to her brother. to owen. “but yer right,” he admitted, his voice softening just a shade. “i don’t know how he’ll take it. things’ve been… strained.” he rubbed a hand over his beard, the motion slow, thoughtful. brandon had made his choice in refusing to attend the ceremony in which nasir manderly had taken up the position of hand; for the principle of it all. he too had not listened to the true wants of the north folk, and instead had been a champion.

perhaps even an instigator. it don't matter, not when the walls of white harbour remain high and they continue to become all the richer.

“but it’s a talk that needs havin’. and better it comes from me mouth than through whispers or knives in the dark, aye?” he watched her shift on her feet, unsure. she was trying to decide if she agreed, trying to decide if she even wanted to agree.

“listen, princess,” he said, his tone warmer now, though no less rough. “i ain’t leadin’ no rebellions. i don’t want yer brother’s crown, nor his throne. but what i do want is t’ make sure my folk don’t pay the price fer things i’ve no hand in.” he looked away then, out toward the snow-covered trees beyond the walls of winterfell. “yer kin matters t’ me. not just karstarks, but starks too. that’s why i’ll talk t’ him, no matter how he feels about it. he needs t’ hear it, and i'll leave it for da gods to decide..”

when he glanced back at her, his eyes softened just enough to ease the sharp edges of his words. “ye’ve got nothin’ t’ worry about, dacey. this ain’t somethin’ i’d leave unsettled. not when yer've been dealin wit....” there was a slight blur in his vision, and it showed in the fact his dark grey orbs seemed to flicker for a moment, becoming unfocused; he found himself reaching out against the stone wall, as though he needed to steady himself before losing his footing beneath him. it had come in a sudden wave, and his hand moved to his temple.

percival asked her to forgive him, and for a moment, a flicker of confusion crossed dacey's face - until she realised just how short her words had been. guilt gnawed at her, her head shaking. "there is nothing to forgive, my lord." she offered him a small, genuine smile. "in fact, i should be offering you my apologies. i did not mean to be short with you." her hands clasped before her, as they often did when she was trying to ground herself. "i am sure you can understand it's been rather a lengthy few days. long enough that i seem to have forgotten my manners."

he approached the tapestries, and dacey followed, looking upon threads she was so familiar with. "this one," she pointed to the relevant hanging, the one that told the tale of the night's king and his dead queen. "the man in the centre, in the night's watch armour, is the night's king. the armies approaching him are that of king brandon the breaker and the king beyond the wall. it is a story every northern child knows." it was one that had given her nightmares for weeks the first time she had been told of it, though she had never told anybody this, simply endured the dark circles and stifling yawns through her lessons as a girl.

"he was supposedly a brother of the night's watch who married an other and declared himself king of the nightfort, with his corpse queen at his side. he reigned for years, using dark magics to bend his sworn brothers to his will, until the two kings joined forces to defeat him." she lingered upon the tapestry for a moment, then turned to look at percival. "or he saw a pretty girl, manipulated the watch into following him, and the rest was embellished in the retelling over the years."

The tale of Adam Stark, the Giantslayer had reached the Vale, of course. It was a grand act that a man like him could admire, for it was the sort of tale that could echo in time to become a legend. His own mind was often geared toward legacy and what was in his hands to ensure the name Templeton remained as high as possible, soaring close to the name of Arryn in relation to the Vale. The Knight of Ninestars hummed lightly as the princess gave a very short recounting of the giant's head her family showcased. “I will make sure to ask him, then,” he said with a nod. “Forgive my curiosity, princess. I'm a knight, I'm sure you can imagine a man in my position can only admire what your brother did”.

It was not hard to miss that Dacey Stark felt more keen to speak of the tapestries, and the knight showed his eagerness to listen to those tales. The Knight of Ninestars walked closer to the wall to examine the detailed work of one of the pieces. The embroidery and weaving displayed imagery that was not so different from the paintings in his keep about the Battle of the Seven Stars, with the Templeton army on the side of the Falcon Knight, Artys Arryn. Battles and wars were the making of the world.

One thing caught his attention, though. “The Night's King?” he asked, turning to look at the Northern princess. Some knew it, some did not, but Percival Templeton did not believe in gods. He did not believe in dark forces beyond the Wall either. “The story of the Long Night and all that? Forgive me, I'm only vaguely familiar with that myth. I never gave much stock, or attention, to it when I was little,” he admitted as he glanced from the tapestry to the princess.

if dacey was more confident, more sure of herself, she likely would already be dancing without waiting for invitation from hugo vance of the riverlands. she would not care if she looked a fool, would not worry that people may look at her and laugh. 

but unfortunately, she did care. she didn’t want to embarrass herself, her brother or her country, and worst of all she didn’t want to embarrass the poor man who had asked her to dance. for a second, she wavered, considered changing her mind to spare him having to go through that. 

but then he spoke, with a self-deprecating joke that mirrored her own, and that was enough to banish doubts and set dacey stark at ease. She exhaled a quiet breath of laughter at his words. “either we are about to make a wonderful pairing, or the worst westeros has ever seen,” she mused. “Shall we find out?”

She didn't say Princess and it made him wonder how he should greet her. Hugo knew that as a Stark of Winterfell she was undoubtedly a Princess of the North. Far more regale than he expected, soft features and nothing about her said she was a Northern woman. She didn't look ready to don a leather jerkin and go into battle. No. She looked a lady, a Princess. And that made him even more nervous.

Hugo Vance was going to fall over and crack his head on the floor, he just knew it. He knew that he would embarrass his kingdom. But, when the fall didn't come, he trusted himself and decided he would address by her title for she was a Princess and he'd yet to meet a Stark that did not have their title.

"The pleasure is mine, your highness. And so is the honor."

He smiled at what he would assume was her jest. "No worries, I've two right feet, so together we may make up for the others shortcomings."

Charles Bukowski, "no title," from What Matters Most is How Well You Walk through the Fire

there was something disconcerting about being in the westerlands. that gnawing feeling of unease had been blooming in the pit of dacey's stomach since the starks had left the crownlands, notably absent two sisters. she had thought of little else in the days since, spending her nights obsessing over their fates, wondering if there was more she could have done. she hadn't wanted to come, but she could also not deny that she would feel the same anywhere. it didn't matter if she was in winterfell, or the west.

still, she was on edge, but the sight of one familiar face offered relief. margaret blackwood looked like dacey felt, and she could not blame her for that. house stark was suffering, but so too were her cousins. she had heard the news of merindah's death, and was so intimately familiar with loss herself that she knew exactly how the other woman must be feeling.

the greeting was unusual for margaret, but dacey caught on quickly. she nodded her head, returning it with one equally formal. "lady blackwood," despite the rigidity of her tone, she reached out one hand, fingers briefly making contact with maggie's own and squeezing in a way she hoped communicated all they were not saying aloud. she wished this was a more joyous reunion.

she struggled for a moment to think of the right words to say, but there were none. instead, dacey elected to throw caution to the wind. she could not pretend. "i am very sorry. to hear of your sister. if there is anything i can do..." she trailed off. what could she do? what support could she offer? "how are you holding up? and your brothers?"

setting: the kingdom of the westerlands, when the other kingdoms begin arriving, margaret runs into her cousin ; starter for @daceystvrk

steps that once felt so confident and airy felt entirely too weighty for the lady of raventree, who could not help but be hyper aware of her surroundings in the westerlands. she could not tell if it was this kingdom in particularly that unsettled her, or being, once again, in foreign lands after her sister’s passing. even now it felt too quiet without the younger blackwood chittering in her ear. she recalled praying for a more silent journey to her next destination, but now the silence haunted her.

the great hall was bustling with guests, she recognized some faces from the other kingdoms, but not the names. she catapulted back to their time in king’s landing, but she knew it were important to either impress, or go by unnoticed, for their own soon to be queen was a princess of these very lands.

margaret found some reprieve in one of the many corridors, intriguing artwork lining the walls, and she placed herself in front of one of the paintings in an attempt to look as if she were doing…*something*. hazel hues turned at the sound of footsteps, and she found relief in the sight of her cousin. “d-your grace.” she greeted the other, offering a bow of her head in respect of the woman. she would normally resort to more informal greetings, but maggie felt she could not be too careful, here. “i hope the journey was well, for you.”

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?”

closed starter for @northernglorie

the hour was late, and dacey's quiet footsteps echoed against the stone walls, reverberating through the silence. there was once a time when she could count on being the only one awake when night fell over the keep, but now, it was more and more common to find that she was not alone in it.

more often then not, one who could be counted on to remain awake was glorie. and on nights where solitude was too much for her, dacey found herself here, approaching glorie's door with a warm drink and the hope that the night would end a little less lonely.

"i brought you something to drink," she placed the cup carefully on a clear spot on the table, careful not to interfere with glorie's work. there was a quiet admiration for her good-sister, and she liked to think that glorie knew it was there, that it showed in these small gestures. "and some candles. i wasn't sure if you had enough."

"and my company, if you'll have it."