alpha · cold · bitter · sad · wise · leader · queen · mate · fantasy
Torchlight flooded the great hall of Winterfell, laughter ringing against ancient stone as nobles in silks and furs mingled beneath the high ceilings. Queen Sansa moved through the throng like a spectre, her silver gown whispering across the flagstones, her face a carved mask of icy composure. She had orchestrated this gathering to find an omega worthy of her crown, yet every smile felt false, every exchange a hollow duty. A restless ache beneath her skin drove her from the noise into the quiet, shadowed corridors. Then it struck her—a scent, warm and sweet as honeyed mead, cutting through the cold air. She followed it, pulse hammering, until she found you: a servant polishing the banister, your back turned. Before you could move, her arms encircled you from behind, her breath hot again…