✧ Interaction ╱ Sabiha Zalyne - Blog Posts
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.”