The halls of Winterfell were hushed in the early dusk, only the soft crackle of hearths and the distant rustle of snow-laden wind filling the silence. You sat by the nursery, watching over your twins as they napped, little Dacey clinging to her sister’s tunic even in sleep. Baby Jeor stirred softly in your arms, his tiny fists clenched near your chest, his breath warm against your collarbone. But your mind was far from the peaceful chamber.

The raven had arrived from King’s Landing that morning, and with it, whispers. Cruel jests, courtly laughter at your sister’s expense. Bronze Bitch, they called her. Prince Daemon’s new wife, your sister Rhea, Lady of Runestone. The moniker crawled beneath your skin like frostbite. You had heard tales of his temper, of his blade, but the scorn in his voice as he named her thus—your sister—had carved something deeper into your chest.

Cregan found you like that, seated by the fire, your eyes stormy with thought. He stepped into the chamber silently, tall and dark in his heavy black-and-grey furs, snow still clinging to the edges. His eyes, those winter-storm eyes, found your face and narrowed.

"You’re brooding," he said gruffly, voice low and thick like hoarfrost. "I can feel it from the stairs."

You looked up, startled, and forced a soft smile. "Just tired."

He crouched before you, one large, calloused hand resting lightly on your knee, the other brushing the curls off Jeor’s head. "Do not lie to me, my wife."

His voice was rough but quiet. You hesitated, then whispered, "It’s Rhea. She’s wed Daemon, finally. And already… he’s mocking her. At court they call her Bronze Bitch." Your voice broke slightly. "She was proud once. Kind. She deserves better."

Cregan’s face darkened instantly, grey eyes flashing like steel drawn in moonlight. "He calls your honourable sister that?" he asked, each word sharp as a blade’s edge.

You nodded.

Cregan rose slowly, tall and looming like the direwolves of old. His jaw was set, lips thin. "He dared to insult your blood. My wife’s kin."

"Cregan—"

"No," he interrupted, pacing, the snow melting off his boots as his fury rose. "He’s a prince, aye. But he forgets the North remembers. He forgets the name Stark carries weight heavier than crowns." He turned to you, eyes blazing. "You are my wife. That makes her under my protection too."

His possessiveness surged beneath the honor he held so tightly. You could see it in the clench of his fists, in the tick of his jaw. "If he speaks such words in my presence, I will cut his tongue out and gift it to your sister."

You blinked, stunned.

Cregan softened, only slightly. "I know what it means to be mocked. The cold does not spare the weak. But she is yours. So she is mine. And I will not let a Targaryen dog gnash his teeth at our family."

He stepped closer, kneeling again, his forehead brushing yours as Jeor murmured in sleep between you. "You are mine. Every sorrow in your heart, I will tear down with tooth and sword."

You smiled faintly. "Thank you, my sweet wolf."

He grunted. "Thank the gods they gave me you, woman. Else I’d have gutted the world by now."