Otatso Wetlands wet feet

stærk descends from the mountains, his paws cutting through the damp earth of the valley wetlands. the morning light is cold, biting at his exposed scars, but he pays it no mind.

each step sinks slightly into the marshy ground, the chill water clinging to his fur, slowing his pace more than he likes. his single eye narrows, focused on the horizon where dry land rises ahead.

quickening his stride, he pushes through the wet, eager to leave the clinging muck behind and press onward. another pack lies ahead, another set of ears to hear the words he carries. the task is simple enough—deliver the news of marriage, the union of @Solharr and @Callyope.

the simplicity of the task doesn’t make it less grating. this isn’t his fight, nor his duty by choice. yet here he is, trudging through unfamiliar lands, playing messenger for a pack that is not his own.

all in the name of debt.

Gjalla’s paws made no sound as she moved. She hated the quiet, she realized—not the peaceful kind that blanketed the world at dawn, but the suffocating stillness that came when life itself seemed to pause. It reminded her too much of the days spent wandering, of the hours she spent with her thoughts clawing at her resolve.

This land was foreign, but not strange. She’d seen a hundred places like it, places that offered little and took less, where survival boiled down to instinct and obligation. Aimless. The word prickled at her mind, as unwelcome as the cold water seeping between her toes. Her life with the Saatsine wolves, tied to Morwenna’s choice, felt much the same. A duty fulfilled, a promise kept, a bond maintained—but it offered little more than that. Gjalla had told herself it was enough. Had convinced herself that following Morwenna, guarding her happiness, was purpose enough to give her existence shape.

But standing here, watching ripples dance across the still waters as if stirred by some invisible force, Gjalla could not shake the hollowness in her chest.

What am I doing? The thought rose unbidden, as sharp as the icy air she breathed in. She frowned, her pale eyes scanning the reeds and brackish pools as if they might hold an answer. Of course, they didn’t. Answers weren’t something the world handed over easily, and Gjalla knew better than to expect them to come simply because she lingered long enough.

Her lips pressed into a thin line as her mind turned to Morwenna. Star-kissed and radiant, as steadfast as she was infuriatingly free. Morwenna had found her path, her place. Gjalla had watched her find it, watched her choose Sun Eater and the Saatsine way of life. And Gjalla? She had stayed because she had promised. Because Morwenna was her anchor in a sea of uncertainty.

But an anchor, she thought bitterly, also meant being tethered. Meant staying in place, stagnant, while the rest of the world drifted away. Although, it wasn't as if she had anything else to do.

Gjalla shook her head, her breath escaping in a soft huff. She wasn’t one to wallow—not for long, anyway. There was no use gnawing on old bones, no matter how much marrow they held. She turned her attention back to the wetlands, narrowing her eyes against the damp air as she scanned the horizon. The reeds swayed in the distance, and she could just make out the ghostly silhouette of another.

stærk slows as the wetlands dissolve into firm, open land, the clinging muck giving way to frostbitten earth. his breath curls in the air; his golden eye sweeps the horizon. and then he sees it—a dark silhouette in the distance, moving closer, closer, until it halts.

his trot quickens, cutting a diagonal path toward the figure. something about the way it moves... his gut tightens, the steady rhythm of his pace faltering as realization takes root.

he stops abruptly, his foreleg frozen mid-step, tail lifting high in instinctive assertion as if to brace against the whirlwind rising within him. his single eye narrows, disbelief clouding his thoughts.

gjalla?

the name leaves him before he can stop it. his voice cracks, just slightly—a fracture in the steel of his composure.

Gjalla froze mid-step, her ears twitching at the sound of her name cutting through the damp stillness. It wasn’t the wind—it was sharper, heavier, dreadfully familiar. It spoke her name.  Her head turned slowly, pale eyes narrowing as they traced the source of the sound. The figure stood against the open expanse, stark and familiar, like a fragment of a memory unearthed too suddenly to be real. 

For a heartbeat, she wondered if she’d conjured him, a phantom born from some half-buried yearning she refused to name.

"Un-fucking-believable."

The gods were cruel, weren’t they? Hadn’t she suffered enough indignities without this? Another reunion, another man weighed down by his emotions or his ambition. Gjalla had had her fill of lovesick sighs and obnoxious curs for the next millennia, and if this was fate’s idea of a jest, she’d sooner gut herself for all to see than play along.

For a moment, she stared, her gaze caught on his. That golden eye, piercing as ever, seemed to pin her in place. The frost-bitten earth beneath her paws might as well have been quicksand. Her throat worked to swallow the knot rising there, but the disbelief etched into his features mirrored her own too perfectly to ignore.

Her lips curled into a tight, humorless smile, “Stark.” The name fell from her lips like a stone into water, as deadpan as she could muster. No need to give him a reason to mock her for having feelings. “Lost your way, or just can’t resist showing up where you’re least wanted?”

he answers her with a scoff, followed by a sneer that twists his scarred muzzle. his tail lashes, sweeping against his hocks as he stalks forward, each pawstep a muted thud against the snow-packed ground. muscles ripple beneath his ashen coat, coiled with barely restrained power, his single golden eye gleaming with cold, wet malice as it rakes over her.

with a click of his teeth, a faint tsk escapes him, the sound more dismissive than threatening.

could ask the same of you, he drawls with subtle mockery. he stops just shy of closing the distance fully, head tilting slightly as if to study her with a predator's patience. what was so important it pried you from my queen sister’s side?

Gjalla’s jaw tightened, her teeth grinding as the familiar sneer in his voice scraped against her nerves. Stark always had a way of twisting words, of turning his sharp tongue into a blade aimed at every soft spot he could find. The venom behind his mockery wasn’t new, at least.

She exhaled sharply, the cold air visible in the sigh as she turned to face him fully. The way he moved—stalking closer, deliberate and menacing—set her instincts humming. He’d grown into a shadow of the boy she once knew, his scarred face and gleaming eye a canvas of battles fought, though not all won.

"Didn’t realize you cared so much about my whereabouts," she bit back, her voice low and edged. Periwinkle eyes narrowed, following the arrogant tilt of his head, that smug posture she’d seen a thousand times before. "M'not her keeper, one-eye. Mo doesn't need me hovering over her shoulder, she's got a husband for that."

The words tasted bitter, a sour acknowledgment of the aimlessness that had followed. She’d told herself that stepping away was a choice, that letting Morwenna have her new life was what needed to be done. But Stark’s presence now, his cold judgmental eye, made that hollow ache flare.

Her muzzle wrinkled slightly, a flicker of irritation breaking through her steely mask. "And you, Stark? Still chasing shadows of your ambition, or have you found a new throne to lurk behind?"

his lip curls at the mention of rhaegon, the name sparking a bitter snarl that rumbles low in his throat. rhaegon is no husband, he spits, the words carrying venom, though not aimed at gjalla. his pelt itches at the thought of the king consort—the lecherous beast. his tail lashes sharply, and he straightens to his full height, neck extending as he glares down at her with cold, unrelenting intensity.

whatever you think of me, woman, unthink it, he snaps, his voice sharper now, cutting through the frigid air like a blade. his golden eye burns with something feral, something restless and deeply buried. i am nothing if not unswerving in my loyalties, my duties.

he takes a step closer, the frost beneath his paws crunching faintly, his tone laced with restrained fury. where is she, gjalla?

what was she not telling him?

He growled, and though the hatred wasn’t hers to bear, it bristled against her nonetheless. The tension between them thickened as he straightened to his full height, the air between their words freezing colder than the frostbitten ground beneath their paws. 

Her lips twitched in a sneer. "That's because I didn't mean Rhaegon," she replied evenly, though her voice was quieter now, steadier. "We haven’t crossed my path in moons. If we had, I’d have left him with more than frostbite in my wake."

But his next words struck closer, the sharp edge of his question cutting deeper than she expected. Her tail stiffened, her head lowering just slightly, as if under the weight of his scrutiny. The truth lingered on her tongue like bile—hard, bitter, and impossible to swallow. 

"She’s with the Saatsine." Gjalla said finally. Far from *him.* And yet, as the words left her, the hollowness that followed felt damning. Safe. Safe at the cost of everything Gjalla had known, her purpose, her drive, her tether. "I can take you."

first, there is confusion.

then, there is anger.

her words hit him like a blow. he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t waver, but the tension in his frame shifts subtly. saatsine? what is she doing away from evenspire? she should be ruling. had she abandoned their ancestral home, their kingdom? the throne of their blood?

his golden eye narrows, the fire behind it simmering as he processes the unfamiliar reality she’s laid bare. the edges of his past are jagged, a tapestry unraveling in his mind, yet this—this doesn’t make sense.

saatsine? his speech now is clipped and incredulous. her place is in evenspire. she is queen! a shout, a confused and furious shout, that brings saliva stretching from canine to canine as his teeth snap. his anger is not meant for gjalla, and yet she is the one who will bear it. his tail lashes behind him, the scars on his angular face tightening as his jaw clenches. why did she leave? why didn’t you stop her? and—

realization dawns on him. a husband. what in seven bloody fucking hells is she doing with another man?!

the accusations come sharp, almost reflexive, but they are not born of anger toward gjalla. they are born of the gnawing void in his memory, the sense that something has been taken from him, something vital. he doesn’t remember the coup, doesn’t remember the blood or the betrayal—he doesn't remember the satisfaction in ripping rhaegon's jugular free of his body.

take me to her. i must speak with my sister. he says finally, nostrils flaring violently with each heavy and ragged breath that wracks his muscle-coiled frame.

Gjalla held her ground as his fury unfurled before her like a storm breaking over the sea. His disbelief hit first, his voice clipped and incredulous as he latched onto the word like a curse. She saw the tension ripple through him, the coiled, unspent energy that bristled in the taut line of his shoulders and the sharp lash of his tail. She knew the look well—rage born not from clarity, but confusion.

Her place is where she chooses it to be," Gjalla retorted. "It was her decision." She braced herself against the full weight of his fury, a wall of ice against the inferno of his outrage. 

But then his anger shifted, taking on a sharper, more personal edge. His demands struck with a force that rattled her resolve, though she refused to show it. Why didn’t you stop her? The words hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, she wanted to laugh—dark, bitter laughter that had nothing to do with humor. Who was she to tell her how to live her life?

“What was I supposed to do, drag her back in chains?” Gjalla scoffed, her voice hard and cold as a blade.

His final demand hung in the air like a challenge, his ragged breaths clouding in the frigid air between them. Gjalla met his stare, her pale eyes unreadable as she measured his words. Take me to her.

"Come." she told him quickly before pivoting on her heel towards Qeya River.

it was her decision.

it echoed in his mind. morwenna’s place was at evenspire, on the throne they had fought to preserve. he couldn’t grasp why she would leave. why gjalla would allow it.

her scoff struck him like a slap. he stepped closer, his looming presence like a shadow cast long across the frost-laden ground. his lips twitched into a sneer, but he held back the bitter words bubbling beneath his tongue. not because he didn’t feel them, but because they wouldn’t serve him here—not with her.

when she spoke again, it was a single, curt command. come.

without hesitation, stærk followed.