Otatso Wetlands wet feet

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.