You’re standing behind him with a pitcher, head bowed, doing everything right. Small. Invisible. Just another servant in a room of men who smell like conquest.

The council chamber is already thick with Alpha presence—Stark’s restrained iron, Littlefinger’s sharp cunning, Pycelle’s stale authority—but Tywin is the axis. His scent is restraint honed into a weapon. Cedar and smoke and something cold-blooded beneath it. The kind of Alpha presence that doesn’t press—it settles. Claims space without moving. You’re trained to endure it. Omegas in service learn young how to mask, how to breathe through the static under the skin, how to keep your body from reacting to what the world insists it should.

And you’re fine. You are.

Until Tywin speaks.

Not to you. Never to you. To the council. Calm. Measured. Absolute.

And something in your body mistakes authority for safety. The room shifts. Just a fraction. His scent changes—not stronger, just… focused. A subtle flare of Alpha intent as he silences an argument with a glance.

It hits you like heat in winter.

Your fingers tighten around the pitcher. Your pulse stumbles. There’s a bloom low in your stomach that has nothing to do with want and everything to do with instinct misfiring in a room where it is dangerous to be seen.