Qeya River time for dying

she does not even look at him. does not dare look him in the eye. and why should she? she knows what she has done. what she has cost them. and stark cannot contain the growl that rips from behind caged teeth, black lips pulling tight in stress.

he cares not for gjalla's warning. there is nothing she could do to him. but it is not gjalla, or morwenna, that enrages him so. it is the scent his sister carries. thick, sickly sweet; grating on him. a scent he knew. he had never wed, never brought forth a woman with children of his own, but he could remember the day his sister came to him. told him that he would be an uncle.

it was the same scent then, as it was now. so his one good eye blazes with all the emotions: anger, betrayal, grief. he is sick. sick looking at her. even more sick that she ignores him, pretends that he does not exist. so he is not shy about shouldering his way past gjalla, forcing himself into the vision of his sister.

you cannot even look me in my eye. he spits, common tongue. but it is when he speaks again that their mother tongue bleeds true of him, spawned by something deeper, darker, and long withheld. the dam has broken forth. skoros issa bona, morwenna? bona syt trezy?

ao henujagon īlva hembi, rūsīrī ao bē, īlva lentor, īlva lentor's valoti azantys?! syt skoros?! vala?!

his golden eye has bled red at this point, beady with red malice as it licks upon her face. how he had wished, when he long last saw her again, that it would be with an embrace and a kiss. perhaps what stung the most is that she had found a man that was not him. that when she was done laying with rhaegon, it was not stark she had chosen. what had he done?! to earn her ire, that she would do this?! that she would forget the traditions of their blood?!

this is what he says to her now: aōha mōris gēsin hen idañe raqiros. hēnkirī issa se mērī belma. gīmigon yne syt bisa vōs. se skoros hae ñuha tita? ñuha talusi? īlva raqirossa? issi pōnta syt ao vōs rybagon ēza?!