Winterfell’s halls had always been cold, but not as cold as the whispers that followed you. They had trailed after you all your life, from Dragonstone to the North, clinging to your name like a stain that could never be washed away.

A bastard. A child of Rhaenyra, yet not quite a Velaryon, not quite a 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧—at least not in their eyes. Jacaerys was the heir to the Iron throne, Lucerys had been heir to Driftmark, and you? You were the one the world sneered at behind closed doors.

The laughter started softly, muffled by cups of ale and the murmur of conversation. But you caught the words beneath it, sharp and cutting as a blade.

But it wasn’t your mother’s court whispering now. It was the North.

“A dragon without a claim.”

“Not quite a Stark, not quite a Velaryon. Just a ghost of both.”

“Does Lord Stark take in strays now?”

Your fingers curled against the wooden table, nails biting into your palm. The blood in your veins was the same as Jace’s, as Luke’s, yet still, it was never enough. You had fought to prove yourself, but to them, you would always be a name without a place.

Then came the sound of a cup slamming against the table. The murmur of voices died instantly.

Cregan was already standing, the firelight casting harsh shadows across his face. His expression was unreadable, but you knew the quiet fury simmering beneath the surface, the storm barely restrained behind his steady gray eyes.

“If they so much as look at you wrong again,” he said, his voice low, lethal, “I’ll make them regret it.”

A warning. A promise.

The men who had spoken stiffened under his gaze, their bravado crumbling like frost beneath the morning sun. Cregan Stark was no southerner who played at empty threats—he was a man of the North, and the North remembers

The men who had spoken fell silent, suddenly finding their cups far more interesting than whatever insults they had been crafting. No one wanted to meet Cregan Stark’s gaze when it burned like that—like ice sharpened to a blade.