She Looked At Him, And For A Moment, A Profound Sadness Fell Over Her. It Was Not Born Of Grief, Like

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.

dacey's palm was flat against the stone, long, thin fingers red from the cold and where the skin had been picked and peeled around the beds of her nails. the starks were of the old gods; they believed that their nameless deities watched them through the trees, spoke to them through the whisper of the winds and rustle of the leaves and rush of the streams, but in the stones lay the history of man, of the ancestors whose blood persisted in their veins.

these walls had stood for thousands of years, raised by brandon the builder, seen the celebrations when the barrow kings and red kings and marsh kings had fallen to the kings of winter. they had seen the andals beaten back to the south and the wildlings back to the north, had seen the king who knelt and the end of the kings of the north, and had seen them rise once more from the dragon's ashes. they had seen starks born and die and born and die, over and over, and would go on doing so for as long as the sun continued to rise and set.

in between those moments, the ones preserved in the pages of history books, the walls had seen other things, the day to day living that had been lost to time. it was there that dacey's mind turned now, to a girl and a girl and a boy and the three wolves that shadowed them, long enough ago to become memory, not yet long enough to be lost.

"you fell from there, once," her voice was gentle and fond, her breath escaping her lips in small puffs that lingered in the air in a misty cloud. "and you landed on my snowman." it had been one of the first snows of the year. the snow was fresh, soft and powdery, which had been cyrene's good fortune. it had not yet compacted and turned to ice, and so, she had popped out of the pile that had once been dacey's work of art without a scratch.

she withdrew her hand from the wall, brushing it daintily against her furs to rid it of any dirt. "i wasn't going to climb it." it was a reversal from how things had been when cyrene had left for the riverlands, a wild and wilful girl who had balked at nothing, so much so that dacey had wondered if her sister had been born without fear. then, it had been dacey who had called words of caution. that cyrene would be halfway up the wall by now, responding to dacey's warnings with nothing but a laugh.

but things changed. the world changed, and they changed with it. in cyrene, the change was more pronounced than dacey could have ever imagined. but then, the years had not been kind to their kin. distance had not saved cyrene from grief and heartache. dacey did not know how to be with this new sister, who wore the face of the old. not yet.

"there isn't enough snow at the moment. to catch me if i fell."

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."

May Sarton, Journal of a Solitude

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?"

the lady of the crag stood with a quiet grace, her posture poised yet natural, as though effortlessly balanced between decorum and ease. one hand rested lightly at her side, the other brushing the folds of her gown with deliberate care. “you put it beautifully,” she said, her voice low and melodic, carrying the weight of genuine understanding.

her free hand rose in a fluid motion, fingers tracing the air delicately as if painting the sentiment she sought to express. “peace doesn’t shout. it doesn’t demand. it’s quieter, subtler—much like this.” she turned slightly, her gesture extending toward the harvest scene, the golden threads shimmering faintly in the soft light.

a faint, thoughtful smile touched her lips as she studied the tapestry. “perhaps that’s why we forget it so easily,” she continued, her voice taking on a wistful tone. “it doesn’t fight to stay.” she let her hand drop slowly, her fingers brushing the edge of the display as though grounding herself in the moment.

“it’s strange, isn’t it?” she mused, her voice carrying a note of wistfulness. “how a thread can hold a story. a memory. sometimes i think we’re drawn to these because they don’t change. because they stay when so much else slips away.”

she turned her attention back to dacey, a thoughtful expression settling on her face as a flicker of genuine curiosity warmed her eyes. the conversation had settled into a more relaxed rhythm, the formal edge of her posture softening slightly as she allowed herself to settle into the moment. "you're quite knowledgeable of tapestries, your grace. is it a hobby you've taken up yourself?"

"oh," it was an offer dacey very much wanted to accept, and yet, something held her back from a simple yes. "only if it is not any trouble. i'd hate to take you away from something important." her eyes slid to the door of the sept. clearly, the woman had come here for prayers of her own, but perhaps she needed to step away from this place as much as dacey did. "but if it isn't inconvenient, i'd like that very much." the old gods might not be the way of this new valyria, but perhaps the woman might find a balm for her sorrows in its quiet, its peace, as dacey often did herself.

she had not thought to find kindness in a place like this, in a city like this. dacey was not someone who was quick to befriend others, nor find comfort in them, but she supposed that made it all the more beautiful to find it in a place she did not think to look, in the most unlikely of places. there was something about this woman, and perhaps it was simply because she could see herself in her. a more tearful version perhaps, for it was rare that dacey shed them, but the emotions were the same, the overwhelming feeling of it all, the self-consciousness.

and then, she fell out of place beside dacey, coming to a halt in the middle of the street. dacey turned to face her then, and when she saw the recognition in her face, she almost felt disappointed. she might have been the most absent of the starks, but with her title came a recognition of her name that she had never felt comfortable with. it was there her mind went first - that the woman had identified her as one of the princesses of the north, and that was what had startled her so.

"oh, no, please..." she began, quickly, wanting to assure her that there was no need to stand on formalities, but then came the half-whisper of her name. dacey. her name, not her title, and it spoke of familiarity where it should not have existed. she was sure they had never met, but why did it seem otherwise?

i've written to you. in an instant, the confusion cleared from dacey's expression, replaced with a recognition of her own, of understanding. she recalled words on a page, the thud of anticipation when a letter arrived, graceful handwriting and flowers drawn in margins. here was her ink and paper friend, a woman who had existed only through words, now made flesh and blood.

"i..." she began, her voice soft and uncertain. the din of the city seemed to have silenced. all there was, was two women, who knew each other so intimately, and yet not at all. "but of course you are. you're naelys."

for a moment, dacey did not want to do. the correspondence between the two had been a source of solace during the best and worst of times, a safe place in which to confide the doubts of her heart that she spoke to nobody else. her hands twitched, as though to reach out, but she stopped herself, instead clasping them together.

"thank me? oh, no, thank you." her own cheeks coloured faintly pink. "your letters were - you were - a friend when i needed it the most. i don't know that i can put into words how grateful i am for them." perhaps not verbally, at least. it was almost laughable how her first instinct to metting naelys in the flesh was to write to her about it in a letter.

"and now you are here," a tentative smile broke through her expression. "when i thought about what it might be like to meet you, it was not... like this." she briefly released her right hand from the grip of her left, and gestured to the city around them. "shall we continue to the godswood? it might be easier to talk where it is quieter."

¿

naelys’ breath felt shallow as she lingered on the steps, the heavy air of king’s landing pressing down on her. the woman’s voice had been soft, a kind of balm against the clamor in her mind, but the words themselves barely registered at first. it was the tone that drew her—the quiet understanding, the gentleness of someone who knew what it was to carry the weight of an unwelcome world.

she clung to that tone as she focused on her breathing, her fingers restlessly tracing the silver lace of her corset. her mind wandered to the past, to the long evenings spent writing letters by candlelight, pouring her heart out to someone who existed only in words. that correspondence had been her anchor. how strange, then, to feel a similar warmth in the presence of a stranger.

the mention of the godswood stirred her from her thoughts. perhaps this is a chance, she thought, to offer some comfort, even if i can hardly find it for myself. her voice was quiet when she spoke, almost tentative. “if you’d like… i could walk you to the godswood. it’s peaceful there—quieter. you deserve a place to pray that feels right.” she wasn’t sure why she offered. perhaps it was the familiarity she sensed in the woman, though naelys couldn’t place it. it wasn’t her face—she was certain they’d never met. but the way she carried herself, the gentle self-deprecation in her tone, felt like a note struck in harmony with her own being.

as they began to walk, naelys listened to the woman speak of the north. the descriptions painted vivid images in her mind—stark landscapes, fierce wolves, ancient trees. it sounded so unlike the gilded, suffocating halls of king’s landing. she felt a pang of longing, not for the north itself, but for the sense of freedom the woman seemed to describe, a freedom naelys had never known. when the woman mentioned winterfell, something shifted. the word felt heavy, like a stone dropped into still water, rippling outward.

winterfell. her mind darted to her letters, to the friend who had shared fragments of that very place with her. her heart began to race, her thoughts scrambling to piece together what now seemed so obvious.

naelys stopped mid-step, her fingers tightening against the lace of her corset as she turned to face the woman. “winterfell?” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. “you’re... you’re not—?” naelys’ breath hitched, and for a moment, she could only stare. her voice trembled as she spoke, barely able to contain the flood of emotions surging within her. don't cry, don't cry more. don't be foolish. “dacey,” she whispered. “it’s you. oh, gods. i... i’ve written to you for years, and now...”

for some reason, she bowed her head. people usually introduced themselves properly when meeting in person? "hello...i am lady naelys velaryon, your highness." naelys felt her cheeks flush, a mix of embarrassment and vulnerability taking hold of her. she swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet dacey’s gaze. the words spilled out unbidden, her voice tinged with disbelief and wonder. “you don’t know how much your letters meant to me. they were—” she hesitated, her gaze dropping to the ground. “thank you for them."

dacey offered a quiet laugh, soft but genuine. "there are always some eager to prove themselves." on his comments on the brackens, she said nothing. the age-old rivalry was well known, but not hers to fan the flames of. it may have been blackwood blood in her veins, but dacey was every inch a stark, and even if she was not, it was uncommon for unkind words to escape her lips.

"cassana may have given you a run for your money in the archery, i think," there was a hint of pride that tinged her voice. "but i fear i've lost track of them since i arrived here." perhaps they were visiting with their sister, the one who had become the lady frey and lived apart from them in the north - the one dacey was avoiding, because after years of not seeing one another, it felt far too monumental to change that. "i did see your brother had his name down for the melee. perhaps we will see a double victory for your house."

she hesitated before answering his question, as though trying to decide how truthful to be. normally, she would not speak of her own discomfort with crowds and people, but in lucius, she had found an unexpected kinship. they could not have been more different, and yet, she thought he might understand, not ridicule, where she was coming from. "crowds have never been my favourite," she confessed. "sometimes it's all a little much to take in. but it's joyful, tonight. i don't dislike it. and i am glad i did not miss your moment of triumph."

Dacey Stark was one of the few people whose company Lucius did not simply tolerate but actually happened to enjoy. Beyond her appearance of frailty and quietness, the bastard had found someone earnest with a kind of subtle steadiness, a sort of subdued strength. The calm wolf before being provoked to bite.

Lucius gave a simple nod in response to her good wishes for Litha and then went ahead to let out a slight scoff with her next comment. “Well, you never know. There's always a proud upstart looking to claim new titles, or a thickhead Bracken looking to embarrass himself,” he said, his tone casually disdainful.

“I did not see your siblings compete,” he mentioned, not having seen a Stark on the lists earlier. Lucius had yet to form a close enough relationship with his Northern cousins, and asking was more a formality than a real inkling to know about them or what they were up to here in Riverrrun. He looked at the princess then. “How is the Litha festival suiting you?”.

dacey nodded. her social circle had been small at school, and ryon wyl had not been part of it. she knew little of him to know if it had been a sporting and spirited action, or if hugo was being polite, as he often was. "either way, you look fine without it," she assured him, with a slight nod of her head.

"thank you. i'm a little embarrassed to say this was all panic-bought at the airport." she had forgotten all about it until they had gone through security, and scraped together what she could. she let out a laugh. "somehow, i'd completely forgotten about ugg boots. i'm not sure what we were thinking with those." she'd definitely had a pair or two of her own in her youth.

a gasp left her, and she shook her head. "oh hugo, congratulations. i'd have sent a gift if i had known." mentally, she added it to her to do list for when she arrived back home. "i'd love to meet her. how long have you two been together, now?" it might seem strange, being on such friendly terms with an ex-boyfriend, but dacey was nothing but happy for him in that moment. "i'm well. my partner and i are living together now, and i finished my residency this year, so i suppose i'm a proper doctor now."

"Oh no, it's fine, Mr. Wyl is sporting and spirited if anything." Hugo spoke with that same smile he always wore. Some would say he spent a lot of time in his political form and while that could arguably be true, he was also the kind of man who knew it was better to start with a smile. His mother always told him that people remember a man with a warm and welcoming smile.

Hugo spoke to the bartender and then put his attention back on her. "You look inspired if I say so myself. Personally, I find myself disappointed there's not a single Ugg boat in the crowd." Hugo laughed at his own joke as he finished his drink, glad for the new one coming his way.

"I'm quite well. I don't know if you've heard but I've been elected MP of Greenwich. Quite an accomplishment, well on my way I'd say. I would introduce you to Ellie Swann, she's somewhere. Perhaps speaking to her brother." He turned back to her. "Tell me how you are."

GENEVIEVE GAUNT on INSTAGRAM

closed starter for @lucius-rivers setting: on her way back to the north from king's landing, dacey stops in the riverlands and meets with her cousin.

dacey travelled slowly, if she travelled at all. she had left the north to make it to king's landing, her first time away from the lands of her own family, and expected to arrive home after the rest. it wasn't ideal, but having never been so far from home before, she didn't want to wear herself out, but did want to ensure she was making the most of her trip.

lucius rivers was not a man she knew well, but he was blood. that was what mattered to dacey. her mother's kin was a subject of curiosity for her, but she had always cared for them from afar. it made her a little nervous to be here.

swallowing her trepidation, dacey tried to still her hands, which were twisting together in her lap, and offered a tentative, but sincere smile.

"i'm sorry i didn't get to spend time with you in king's landing," she began. "i think this is better, though. i didn't care much for the city, but the riverlands is beautiful. you are lucky to call it your home."

Frances Ha (2012) Lady Bird (2017) Little Women (2019) Barbie (2023)

WRITTEN BY GRETA GERWIG