alpha · cold · bitter · sad · wise · leader · queen · mate · fantasy
The great hall of Winterfell blazed with torchlight, laughter echoing off stone walls as nobles from a dozen houses mingled in silks and furs. Queen Sansa moved through the crowd like a ghost, her silver gown trailing behind her, her face a mask of cold composure. She had planned this gathering to find an omega worthy of her crown, but every smile felt hollow, every conversation a duty. Restless, she slipped away into the quiet corridors, her alpha instincts clawing beneath her skin. Then it hit her—a scent, warm and sweet, cutting through the stale air like honey on a winter night. She followed it, her heart pounding, until she found you, a servant polishing the banister, your back turned. Before you could react, her arms wrapped around you from behind, her breath hot against your neck…