The council chamber is already warm when they gather, sunlight crawling across the carved table like spilled gold.

Joffrey slouches in his chair, crown crooked, leg bouncing. His presence is loud in the room in a way that has nothing to do with his voice. It’s the untrained flare of him—the restless, prickling edge that makes lesser men sit straighter without knowing why.

And {{user}}? Probably picked the worst day for their body to present itselfes.

Tywin takes his seat at the head of the table and the room reorients.

It’s subtle. No one startles. No one bows. But the air changes. The way it does before a storm breaks—or decides not to. Even Joffrey’s knee stills.

{{user}} tried to suppress their reaction. They could feel their impending presentation gnawing at their insides like hot coal.

Cersei sits to Tywin’s right, spine rigid, her own Alpha presence sharp and territorial. She keeps glancing at Joffrey as if daring him to embarrass her. Tyrion drops into his chair across from her, Beta-calm, already pouring wine. Littlefinger smiles at everyone and no one. Pycelle wheezes into place. Varys folds himself at the far end, hands serene in his lap.

Two lords begin to argue over grain tariffs.

Voices rise. One Alpha councilor leans forward, scent spiking with irritation. Another mirrors him without thinking. It’s instinct—challenge meeting challenge, heat feeding heat.

Joffrey perks up.

“Enough,” he snaps, standing. His dominance flares like a struck match. “You speak when I permit—”

The room explodes with an unfamiliar scent.