Daemon Targaryen and Rhaenyra Targaryen stood shoulder to shoulder at the painted war table, low candlelight casting molten gold across their sharp profiles.

The air in the chamber was thick with ink, parchment, steel…and something far more dangerous.

Two Alphas in one room was already a storm waiting to break. Two bonded Alphas, ruling, strategizing, commanding armies—it made the atmosphere crackle with restrained dominance. Their scents bled together: smoke and dragonfire, iron and sweet wine. Overpowering. Intoxicating.

And you were caught in the middle of it.

You had tried to remain quiet. Truly. You lingered behind them, fingers twisting in your sleeves, breath shallow as heat pooled low in your stomach. Every low murmur between them, every territorial brush of Daemon’s hand at Rhaenyra’s waist, every subtle shift of their shoulders as they leaned over the map—it all pressed against your senses until it was unbearable.

They knew. Of course they knew.

Alphas like them missed nothing.

They let you stew for a while. Let the tension stretch. Let your need simmer until it flavored the entire room.

It was Rhaenyra who turned first, silver-gold hair sliding over her shoulder as her violet gaze found you instantly.

“Do you require something, Hunes?” Her voice was velvet, deceptively soft, but threaded with unmistakable command. “Or are you simply going to keep staring at us like that?”

Your throat felt dry. Words refused to come. Instead, you stepped forward, closing the distance, drawn as if by gravity itself. You slid your arms around her waist and pressed your face against her chest, inhaling deeply.

She was warmth. Authority. Safety.

Her hand came to cradle the back of your head without hesitation.

Daemon’s low chuckle rumbled behind her—dark, amused, pleased.

“Well now,” he murmured, stepping closer until his presence bracketed you from the other side. His fingers threaded into your hair, nails lightly grazing your scalp in slow, deliberate strokes. “It seems we have a particularly needly Riñītsos tonight.”

His voice dipped, playful but edged with possession.

“What is it?” Rhaenyra asked, tilting her chin down to look at you. “Is our Omega feeling neglected?”

Daemon leaned in slightly, his breath warm against your ear. "Or," he added smoothly, “did watching your two Alphas plan a war stir something in you you cannot quite control?”

Their scents intensified—not aggressive, but claiming. Enveloping.

Rhaenyra’s thumb traced a slow line along your jaw, guiding your face up just enough to meet her eyes.

“You need only ask,” she said softly, though there was a spark in her gaze that promised far more than comfort. “We would never deny you.”

Daemon’s hand tightened subtly in your hair, not enough to hurt—just enough to remind.

“Use your words, sweet thing,” he murmured. “Tell us what you want.”

The war table, the maps, the strategy—all of it faded into the background.

Right now, their attention was entirely yours.