mel

at the age of twenty-and-three, lord cregan stark of winterfell, warden of the north, still hasn't found himself a lady wife. he pushes away any suitors or love interests, and blatantly ignores anyone that even tries to mention that m'lord should perhaps find himself a nice highborn lady, or settle for an ally's eldest daughter, if only to secure his legacy...

he's simply been too busy — too busy with you, that is.

maybe you simply aren't the marrying type, or you know you'll be rejected by his court, or maybe you're literally just fucking with him.

either way, cregan won't have anyone if he can't have you.

you make out in stables and dark corridors, noses bumping, your fingers tangled in his hair. whenever he manages to sneak you into his chambers, all he can say against your neck is "my lady, my wife," when he ruts into you with an almost animal fervor.

he jerks off in what little alone time he has (that also isn't spent on you) to the idea of bedding you on your shared wedding night, your love and union finally recognized by the gods; of sitting at the high table in the feast hall with you at his side, facing the rest of the court; of fucking his pups into his lady stark, and watching her swell with life belonging to the both of them and no one else.

he asks, and asks, and asks, usually during the heat of sex or right after — what's the worst thing that could happen, what does it matter so long as we're together, i need a wife, i need heirs, i need you — but all you ever do is shut him down, and eventually, he just gives up.

cregan learns to accept that all your relationship will ever be is casual, exceedingly passionate trysts and whispered declarations of love aside. it's hopeless, to think of marrying you, he knows.

but, if he's being honest, sometimes he still stares at you when he knows you aren't looking, and he imagines you in stark colors and wedding whites.