Otatso Wetlands wet feet

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?