Big Salmon Lake And the grass all smells the same

For a second, Stark’s gaze bore into hers, fierce and unyielding, eyes demanding nothing short of completion. The same look that had been given to him time and time again in his youth.

He could see the flicker of detachment in her face, the stunned look of someone thrown into the cruelty of predator and prey. But the prince didn’t relent; this was the way of survival, and she would learn it. His stare alone seemed to drive the command through her, like a jolt straight to her conscious.

Good, he thought.

Make it count.

As her teeth sank into the fawn’s exposed throat, Stark watched with a mixture of grim satisfaction and the faintest thread of pride. The blood poured forth in a hot, unyielding rush, a dark river of crimson against her silver fur. A fierce jaw clamped around the fawn's throat, almost desperate, half-suffocating the creature, half-spilling the youngling's life against the earth.

It poured in creamy rivulets down the fawn's chest, soaking into it's coarse fur.

It stirred something deep. A begrudging pride.

Soon enough, the wild thrashing of the fawn ceased. The rise and fall of its chest and shoulders had become nothing. The life glazed over from its wide, brown eyes. Only then did he rip his teeth free of it's scruff, and relent the pressure from his coiled muscles.

His beady stare settled upon Needle and her bloodied jaws. "Good, then." His voice was a mellow vox. His bloodied tongue rasped across his scarred maw to wipe it clean of the blood that stained his gray fur. "Now is when you reap your spoils."