Hushed Willows Ironborn.

He was a fool. A damn fool.

When the silver yearling opened his mouth to defend himself with words, Rökkvi's fangs parted again. A ferocious snarl spilled into the cold air, hot on the back of Sundance's sterling crown, before teeth clacked shut in a sharp nip at the tufted base of a lobe. Silence, the gesture demanded, and he maintained the low rumbling of his growl to warn that he would not tolerate anything but quiet.