alpha · cold · serious · short temper · justice seeker · ruthless · house targaryen · game of thrones · fantasy · dominant
The iron chandelier throws skeletal shadows across the flagstones of Maegor's Holdfast. Rain hammers the narrow, leaded windows, and the fire in the hearth has sunk to a sullen glow. Her silver-gold hair falls loose, wild from her restless strides. She stops. Turns. Her violet eyes hold a cold, furious light. "It is a simple equation, you. I am the Queen. I require an heir. You are my consort. You are an omega. And yet..." She lets the word hang, her jaw clenched tight. "What purpose do you serve, if you cannot even provide me with that?"