Anybody Else Might Have Laughed At Owen's Story, But Dacey, Though Amused, Looked Vaguely Horrified.

dacey let out a breath she had not realised she was holding. she knew little of arron lannister, her nerves at being here in his domain, in the west, were already in overdrive, and she had not fully realised how much they had amplified simply by asking something of him. but it was the softening of his expression, the way his demeanour shifted just slightly, that had some of that anxieties easing.

even so, she knew not what to make of it. wherever she went, she feared the weight of scrutiny, of being weighed and measured and found to be lacking. she had felt it when he approached, whether it was true or not, but the sharpness he had approached with had dulled around the edges, and she found herself grateful for it.

"i am sure she does," she said, quietly, and there was no judgement or mockery in it, simply an acknowledgement of what could not be ignored. "but i am glad to hear that she is doing well. i have often wondered." she could not pinpoint the moment they had began to drift apart, whether it had happened when rowan arryn had died, or if it was already in motion before. it was as though dacey had looked around one day, and realised it had already happened.

she hesitated when he enquired as to their closeness, fingers tracing idle patterns on her palm. it was difficult to say - if they had been close, would they have ended up here? would that not have meant something lasting? "i don't know," she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "not as close as i would have liked to be, i think."

she let out a cough, a small sound to clear her throat, and the small smile on her face turned rueful. "that is probably my own doing," she explained. "it is... difficult for me to get close to people." she did not expand on the point, though it should have been obvious enough, her bearing and stature that of a woman who took little pleasure in being noticed, who shrank when called upon to be social with those who she did not know.

"but guinevere was kind to me," she added, her thumb rubbing circles in the palm of her other hand. "she was... someone to speak with when i needed it. i do not know if she knows how much i appreciated her."

Arron’s sharp gaze softened, just for a moment, when Dacey spoke of his sister. The sincerity in Dacey’s eyes pulled at something buried beneath the hard exterior he wore. His emerald green eyes studied her, assessing her words with the same scrutiny he gave everything, though her request seemed to catch him off guard.

His lips curved, but it wasn’t a smile. It was something quieter, something more contemplative. He’d seen that look before—the wide eyes, the hesitant voice. His sister, for all her bravado, had never been good at letting people get close. She had too many walls, too many layers that even he couldn’t break through. But here was someone who cared.

"My sister is doing well," Arron replied, his voice a bit more measured than it had been before, betraying a softness he had not intended. He cleared his throat lightly, his posture straightening as he considered the way forward. "She has... her challenges, but she’s well. I’m sure she’ll appreciate hearing that you send your regards."

The offer of a favour lingered in his mind, and as he watched Dacey, a thought crossed his mind—an idea that could perhaps create the opportunity for the two women to reconnect. The thought of orchestrating a meeting between them, however indirect, seemed like a small chance to give his sister the companionship she needed without forcing the issue. He could easily arrange for them to meet, though neither of them would likely suspect his involvement. A quiet, gentle way of nudging both toward something that might ease the isolation that hung around his sister.

His expression softened as he spoke again, his voice quieter now, not as sharp as before. "Were you close?" he asked, though the question hung in the air with more curiosity than anything else. He didn’t ask out of a need for gossip; no, he wanted to understand.

May Sarton, Journal of a Solitude

his musings on the gods brought a purse to her lips, a thoughtful look to her eye, and she nodded their head. in king's landing, she had felt so utterly disconnected from the old gods. in the north, she could feel them everywhere, in every bite of wind and whisper of the trees. the further north they travelled, the more at ease she felt, and in blackwood lands, there was a sort of comfort knowing that here at least, they still had power. "then it is all we can do to trust in their wisdom, and hope that we can change with their will, too." she held her faith very privately, but there was an ease to their conversation that made it easier to talk about.

if there was one skill dacey possessed, it was knowing when to stay quiet and listen. lucius did not change his stance, but his words carried enough weight that she did fall into silence, allowing him to speak the thoughts through to completion before responding. "then perhaps there is no luck involved, on either side. you are all simply where you belong." she could almost envy that. so many of her days were spent feeling out of place and out of sorts, trying to contort herself into a shape that fit with something. she did not get the impression the same could be said for lucius, who wore who he was with no frills or compromise, and yet had roots in the ground, a place and a role and a purpose.

"i'm glad of that. i will be awfully embarrassed if you reduce me to tears," as quickly as they had grown serious and candid, the tone once again shifted, a rapport that was more convivial. "westermen, valyrians," she raised a hand and made a gesture, as though dismissing the idea of both. "conversing with either feels like they are trying to catch you out on something so they may use it to condemn you. at least there's a candour to stormlanders i can appreciate. i would rather be slighted by honesty than find comfort in treachery."

Dacey was certainly reserved in what she said, how she phrased things, and her diplomatic demeanor. He detected some disdain in her words, though, or what he believed to be disdain toward the newly crowned Targaryen king. He could respect that she was not immediately inclined to be a boot-licker about it, as so many seemed to be when it came to the mad House of the Dragon. “Stranger things could happen still,” he mused, “the gods continually will for the world to change”.

Lucius glanced silently at the princess as she complimented his presence in the Blackwoods' lives. So often it was perceived in such a way. His siblings were lucky to have him, someone who would always raise his bow and fight for them. A different thought crossed his mind, though, one that was rare in Lucius' mind. “I'm lucky to have them,” he found himself saying. The bastard's stern demeanor remained, despite the vulnerability he perceived in saying something like that out loud. It was best to focus on the practicality of it all, rather than the emotional side of things. “Not everyone welcomes someone like me into their families. I suppose I was fortunate my father always claimed me, even if he didn't give me his name”.

The bastard actually found himself smiling a little at his cousin's last words. She spoke in a similar upfront manner as Maggie did, somehow never crossing a line into cruelty or becoming offensive. It was a talent he didn't develop so graciously. “Fret not, I've no evil plans to do so, Dacey. I do pity you if you've dealt with worse,” he said in a more light-hearted manner. “Who was it? A Westerlander? A Stormlander?”.

wherever she went, dacey stark did not dress to be seen. she garbed herself in the quietest tones she could find, because it was easier that way to keep herself on the sidelines, where she was comfortable. it had the opposite effect today - amongst the bright colours of the west, her gown of navy blue, trimmed with the grey of a hazy sky, only served to make her more visible that she had ever intended.

the call of her name had her head turning to face it, her shoulders holding a careful sort of restraint, and there was arron lannister, a man she knew only by name, and nothing more. her hands clasped before her, nail of her thumb tracing patterns on the skin of her index finger, the skin there already reddened as though this was not an unfamiliar habit for her.

"prince lannister," she greeted him, the smile on her face polite as she dipped into a brief curtsy. there was a look in his eyes that she could not place, and did not know what to do with. a lion's curiosity, perhaps. "it is us wolves who should be thanking you for your hospitality. you have been most gracious hosts." her words were quiet, as her voice usually was. her eyes flicked briefly to the crowd around them, but when she glanced back at arron, the lion's gaze had not strayed.

"if i may, my prince?" it was not like dacey to be bold, to ask things of others - but there may not be another chance. there was nobody else to ask. and so she did not wait for a response before speaking, a red flush in her cheeks and slight waver of her voice a dead giveaway to her hesitancy to do so. "i was wondering if i might ask of you a favour?"

she paused, shaking her head a little. "it is silly, really. it's only... your sister." she allowed the words to linger for a moment, not because she was trying to place any emphasis on them, only because she was trying to figure out what to say next. "we were friends. or at least, we were friendly with one another, during her time in the vale. i am not asking for you to tell me anything of her life now, or to ask her to write to me, or anything like that."

what was it dacey was asking for? she wasn't even sure she knew, anymore. "will you tell her that i send my regards?" she asked, wide eyes finding his in a way that betrayed the utter sincerity of her request. "and that i wish her the best."

who: @daceystvrk when: flashback, the westerlands event what: the open market

The marketplace in Lannisport was alive with celebration, its vibrant streets bursting with color and energy. Stalls lined the cobbled streets, draped in crimson and gold banners that fluttered in the sea breeze. Merchants shouted their wares—perfumed oils, finely crafted jewelry, bolts of rich fabric, and steaming trays of spiced meats. Musicians played lively tunes on pipes and drums, their melodies weaving through the hum of the crowd, while children darted between legs, laughing as they chased each other.

Prince Arron Lannister moved through the throng with a regal bearing that set him apart from the revelry. Clad in the finest Westerland fashion, he wore a doublet of deep crimson, its golden embroidery shimmering in the sunlight. A heavy cloak of gold-trimmed crimson hung from his broad shoulders, fastened with a lion-shaped clasp. His boots, polished to a mirror sheen, struck the cobblestones with purposeful strides. The crowd parted instinctively as he passed, whispers following him like a shadow. The Smiling Lion, they called him when they weren't warning the king's rage was on his way, though the faint curve of his lips held little warmth today.

His sharp green eyes swept over the market, taking in the faces of the gathered nobility and common folk alike. It was then that he spotted her—a figure draped in the cool, muted tones of the North, standing out starkly against the riotous colors of the West. Dacey Stark, the Princess of the North.

Arron’s expression didn’t change, but a flicker of curiosity lit in his eyes. The North and the Westerlands had never shared friendly relations, and the presence of a Stark at such a celebration presented opportunities Arron always searched out. “Princess Stark,” he greeted, his deep voice cutting through the bustle of the market like a blade. He inclined his head slightly, a gesture that was polite without being subservient. “The North graces Lannisport with its presence. I did not expect to see a wolf among lions today.”

He smiled then, though the glint in his eyes suggested the smile was less about warmth and more about probing curiosity. “How are you enjoying your time in the Westerlands?”

she looked at him, and for a moment, a profound sadness fell over her. it was not born of grief, like her sadness often was these days, nor of pity, because there was never a time when she looked upon him with pity. she had never seen him as anything but strength, and while she had long understood that he carried the weight of a crown, she looked at him now and saw the weight of the world. the politics of it all made her head swim, and she could not imagine how much worse it was for owen.

"sounds exhausting," and not just for owen. the arrival of more women in court would mean more women she would have to talk to, when she already only found herself comfortable in the presence of a select few.

dacey nodded her assent. war was an ugly thing. she knew there was supposed to be honour and glory found in it, but while she could look at those who fought and think them brave, she could not see it as anything other than a tragedy. "in that, you have my support. anything to prevent further bloodshed." if there was any cause she would dedicate herself to, it would be that one.

their conversation oscillated from politics to personal, and while it was the former dacey struggled to immerse herself in, it was the latter that owen was reticent to discuss. "i understand, but i am your sister." a ghost of a smile flitted across her face. it was easy to forget that she could be stubborn. "and my duty to my brother is equal to my duty to my king. when you have some hours to be owen, then i will make time to be dacey."

"If someone can get a king to marry their choice, they stand to gain a great deal. If it's not from the King himself then they stand to gain from the Queen. There will be an influx of courtiers, many who haven't left after the end of things with Rosa's funeral are sending for women to join them here." And he would share this with her but they were hoping he would sleep with their daughter or their sisters and then the Lord would show up and demand a marriage. With the beginning of responsibility brought on the end of what he enjoyed these days. Women.

"I grow tired of war, sister. Let us do everything we can o prevent one from happening and perhaps look beyond our realm and our connections." He dragged his fingers through his beard, he would have to shave soon. He would have to do something to ensure he presented himself as someone that wore the crown of the north. And not the images of Kings from times long ago. Ages of heroes. No. He would look like a King.

Owen looked at her when she asked him about how he was feeling and he thought for a moment. Raised his mug, finished his beer, and then refilled it before looking back at her and then towards the window. "If we start talking about that I fear we'll be here for hours and I can only be Owen so many hours a day."

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.

she hesitated only for a beat, before nodding her head. "thank you, my lord." she'd never been entirely comfortable at events likes these, unsure how to act or behave for the best, and had not found it easier with age. in many ways, it only got more difficult. had percival not been there, she likely would have taken an extra second to steel herself at the door before walking through it. that was not an option with him standing there, and so, she hoped her reluctance did not show as she stepped through it.

she had expected that to be the end of it, courtesies exchanged at the door before he sought the company of his sister, or a friend, but then he spoke again. dacey turned her head, and a part of her was grateful he had initiated conversation. she was far better suited to one-to-one talks, and having this to focus on would prevent her from once again getting overwhelmed. "the honour is ours," she responded, a small smile crossing her face. "the vale are our allies. you are welcome here."

she did not know if this ball would come to anything, if owen would find a bride here or not, and whether it would be better if he did or did not. frankly, it was a trail of thought that made her head begin to ache, and so, she put it from her mind, and trusted in her brother's choices, as was often the easiest decision. things changed so quickly, and sometimes it felt like she was the only one remaining still.

"i know who you are, lord templeton," she said, then, worrying that it sounded rude or dismissive, was quick to add on to that statement. "but it is a pleasure to meet you properly, all the same." should she introduce herself? he clearly knew who she was, and yet it seemed presumptuous to not counter his introduction with one of her own. or would that just make her look a fool?

"i hope you and your sister have found yourselves comfortable."

The King in the North sought another bride after darling Rosa's untimely passing. It was anyone's guess if the Stark king would seek to pluck another fine woman of the Vale once more of if he sought something entirely different from the jewel he once had at his side. The Knight of Ninestars saw the king's ball as an opportunity for himself, as every situation tended to be translated in his mind. An opportunity for connections. An opportunity for alliances. Perhaps, an opportunity for more than just one man to find a future wife.

Used to living at heights of the continent, a Valeman's sights were usually high. Within his reach, nothing stood higher than a princess. So it was fortunate that his path led her to one of the beauties of the North as he was walking back into the great hall. “Apologies, your highness,” Percival spoke almost in unison with Princess Dacey Stark. “What sort of gentleman would I be if I walked in first? Please, princess,” he bowed, extending a hand to let her walk in before him. “I insist”.

The Knight of Ninestars didn't wish to let this incidental —and fortunate— encounter end at just that; a few words exchanged and the princess walking away. “His grace has hosted a beautiful event. I'm honored that me and my sister were considered to join your family as guests tonight,” he mentioned once the princess walked in and he did too, after her. It was usually so for the House of Ninestars, with Percival and Ginevra on the forefront, present at every social event, while Harlan and Elinor easily forgotten in the mediocrity of the cards they'd been dealt in life.

“Pardon me. Where are my manners? I'm Lord Percival Templeton, your highness. I don't believe we'd ever had the chance to be properly introduced,” the Commander of the Vale's Queensguard introduced himself with a pleasant smile, a polite gesture that easily bordered on being charming.

TRUTH SERUM: It's time to make the 8! What one person would you bed from all the different regions of Westeros?

dacey's face flushed a deep scarlet. "that is not a question i am comfortable answering." even if she was not so private of a person, this would still feel far too personal. "certainly nobody from the westerlands or the crownlands." there was not a single person in either court she could see herself taking to bed. "hugo vance was kind to me, so perhaps he would not be objectionable." this was proving a very difficult question for her to answer. she found herself wondering who would be kind, and who had honour. "wylliam swann. percival templeton. ravi martell. brandon karstark."

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

Genevieve Gaunt in Knightfall (s2) as Princess Isabella

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