she's no proper lady

Morning star swung around Dacey’s body in a deadly blur before finding it’s home in the straw target.  A sharp tug was given to rip it out of it’s place, disemboweling the inanimate enemy.  Of course, a real adversary wouldn’t go down as easily, with all those pesky bones and muscles and sinew in the way, so the woman’s attacks continued.  In a swift movement, morning star was hooked into a loop on her armor before she rushed the target, coming at it with such speed and ferociousness, one could see why the Mormont’s had the bear as their sigil.  Blow upon blow was rained down on the poor opponent, and Dacey used every faculty available to her; fists, feet, head, elbows.  

While Dacey would not let any man say a woman couldn’t fight just as well as a man, she would admit that they had to fight different.   Oft without the arm strength or reach of a man, women had the dangerous need to be in close quarters for best chances; which is why she refused the long sword many of her fellow soldiers carried, it would do her no good, and instead carried smaller daggers and knives, serrated for maximum damage.  -- While men had the bulk and strength that she lacked, her lithe frame could move much faster, and she always used it to her advantage, seeming near a blur in her movements at the speed she moved.  Before her imaginary opponent had the chance to react to a blow, she was already out of the way and moving onto the next weak spot she would target.  

Her flurry of blows were seemingly endless, until after one ferocious slice with her dagger left the straw target in near tatters, nothing much left to hold the straw in.  It was only then, with sweat dripping from her temples, did the woman take a break and realize that she had an audience.

It took her a moment to place the vaguely recognizable face before she realized who she reminded her of, and slowly put the pieces together.  It had been quite a long time until she had seen her childhood friend, Sofina.  And the two had never got much time together to begin with, only meeting when bannermen were called to Winterfell for some reason or another.  But Serena (she was fairly sure) had that same, large, dark eyed stare of a doe that her sister had.  

“Should I be worried that you are a spy, looking to gain information on our fighting style, or just nosy?”  

          he had warned against the match since he had first heard of it - since he had returned from euron greyjoy’s ship and been welcomed by rumours he didn’t understand at first. and rodrik had resented it: they were forresters, sworn vassals to the glovers. their place was at ironrath, to roam free in the wolfswood, to know where they belonged and where they didn’t. and they didn’t belong at winterfell, they never would. but vows had been exchanged in front of the old gods, vows that would bind their two families together forever, and there was no turning back - not now, not anymore. and as much as the warrior wished to ease his mind, he knew a storm was brewing on the horizon. the last time a forrester had dared to love, his brother had paid the price by losing his home and his true love in one fell swoop. but mira had angered the north. and rodrik knew even wolves could not fight an army on their own.

         perhaps he looked dour at his own sister’s wedding, but he felt an outsider amongst the festivities: his family was not in attendance, not his lady mother nor his youngest siblings. yet there were lords and ladies he scarcely knew or cared for, soldiers he had bled with but never truly spoken to, and childhood friends who seemed to be nothing more than strangers now. making his excuses, rodrik went in search of a quieter corner of the camp - desperate for a moment to himself so he could think. or perhaps even use a tree as a training post, his sheathed blade hanging from his belt. but when he heard a voice from ahead, the forrester heir stilled. dacey mormont was unmistakeable, of course: she was a fearsome warrior and sworn sword to the king in the north, and rodrik had heard much of the mormonts from his lord father. so when faced with the point of her arrow, he knew to stop dead in his tracks. 

        “ i doubt anyone would disagree with that, ” he replied wearily, scrubbing a hand over his tired features. he was buzzing with nervous energy and a hint of rage he couldn’t quite place. he felt at ease with the vanguard, but celebrations exhausted him and smalltalk had never been a strength of his. “ might i join you? ” if nothing else, rodrik could not spend another moment with drunkards toasting to a hurried marriage. “ this seems to be the only peaceful place tonight. ”

It took Dacey a moment to recognize the face emerging from the darkness, her bow arm remaining straight and tense all the while.  But as she realized her company was a fellow Northerner, she quickly lowered her guard (although in these times, perhaps a bit too quickly).  There was a certain naivety in Dacey’s absolute trust in her fellow Northerners, as if no person could break the ice and snow that bonded them (but after all, ice did have a tendency to shatter, did it not?).  

“At least not to my face.” she responded with a shrug, sheathing her arrow and slinging her bow back over her shoulder.  She looked back at her newly acquired company and realized he looked like she felt.  Nervous.  Tired.  Too tired to be nervous.  But too nervous to get a decent’s night rest.  “You can.---But there is not much to be found out here, other than my pacin’ of the camp’s borders and pointin’ me arrows at friends not foes, apparently.” She chuckled humorlessly, knowing that she probably seemed over zealous.  

She wasn’t even on guard tonight, Robb having insisted that other’s could take the job of protection for one night, so she could enjoy the festivities and help him celebrate.  Perhaps that’s why she felt guilty, sitting and patrolling at the edge of camp.  She should be happy for Robb, should she not?  Not only was he her King, but a man she considered a friend.  But yet, she found herself...Disappointed? Of what she wasn’t exactly sure.

“The festivities gettin’ to ye?” she asked with a cocked brow.  She would have assumed that a family such as the Forresters would’ve been overjoyed to have a sister or daughter married to not only a Stark, but the King in the North, and was surprised to realize that Rodrik did not look thrilled in the least.

Dacey found it disconcerting for the words ‘Lady Stark’ to be slipping from her lips to address someone other than the late Catelyn Stark, so for this reason while she attended the festivities celebrating her King’s new marriage, she stayed away from the guests of honor.  Or at least, that is what she told herself.  There were many other feelings at play in her mind, but ones she refused to acknowledge, out of loyalty, out of unwillingness to cross boundaries, and afraid of knowing the true thoughts on the matter.  

And much like before, while waiting for peace talks, Dacey was much too high strung to really enjoy any sort of celebration, and instead she found herself pacing the borders of the encampment, mug of ale in hand untouched.  The feeling in the pit of her stomach was back, boring a hole through her stomach, making it near impossible to drink or eat or be merry, no matter how merry the circumstances were.  Last time, she had not acted on that feeling, and Catelyn had ended up dead, and later people went missing.  And even now, as they celebrated their return, the hand of fear would not loosen it’s grip on Dacey’s innards.

And this time, it felt worse, and she knew the reason why.  Robb’s new wife brought along with her a whole carriage load of new things for Dacey to worry about.  The only strength the North had over the other kingdoms were their absolute unity and belief in their King.  But after Robb’s announcement of his new wife, Dacey heard whispers.  And for people to be whispering around Dacey, a sword known to rarely leave the King’s side...That said more about their discontent than their words ever could.  Dacey could see their strength, their one virtue over others splintering before her very eyes.  And that made her very uneasy.

Uneasy enough, that as her ears pricked to a noise behind her, in a fell movement her mug was dropped and lost somewhere on the bed of leaves below and bow was suddenly in hand, arrow knocked and ready to be let loose, pointed at the source of the noise.

“I’ll warn ye, the rest of the camp may be in their cups, but I am not and my aim is true.”