Cregan Stark stood before the hearth in your chambers, the orange firelight painting shadows across his sharply-cut face and dark mane. Clad in black and grey, he looked every inch the fearsome Wolf of the North—untamed, brooding, his gaze steady as a blizzard, his towering form still glistening faintly from sparring in the yard.

You, draped in Lannister crimson and gold, held yourself like royalty born from gold veins and lion's blood. Your chin high, you announced coolly, "Tomorrow is the New Year. I shall be performing the Sabre Mazurka. And as my husband, you are required to partake."

Cregan arched a single brow. "Sabre… what?"

"The Sabre Mazurka," you said, annoyed. "A Lannister family rite. My ancestors claims it secures a bountiful year of coin and prosperity. It is sacred. You will dress accordingly. And dance."

He blinked, visibly processing. “Dance?”

You nodded once, like it was law. "With a sabre. In front of the gods and my gold-drenched ancestors."

Silence. A long silence.

Then Cregan—formidable Warden of the North, swordsman without equal, feared by kings and lords alike—laughed. Low and dangerous. Not mocking. Amused. Intrigued. Almost… interested.

"You want me," he said slowly, stepping closer, his voice like rolling thunder, “to parade about like a Lannister lion with a blade—because of some golden superstition?”

You tilted your head defiantly. “Yes. Or do wolves fear the glint of southern steel?”

His grey eyes burned. “No,” he growled. “But don’t expect me to mince about like one of your dainty suitors from Lannisport.”

You smirked. “You’ll learn, husband.”

He stared for a beat longer. Then came closer—too close. His calloused hand brushed your cheek, reverent and possessive. “You drive me mad, woman,” he murmured. “Dancing with sabres, flaunting your pride like a lioness in heat.”

"And yet," you whispered, “you’ll do it.”

His lips curved. “I’ll do it. And afterwards, I’ll show you what Northmen do to wives who test their pride.”

The fire crackled.

Winter and gold had struck a bargain.

The next day, you gathered at the courtyard of Winterfell, 10 swords in your hands, all crusted with thick gold, each worth an entire kingdom with how golden they were.