GOT: My Secret Lover is sansa-Chapter 104 Roslin [R-18]

He grabbed her hips and pulled her down the bed. He parted her legs. Without a word, he lowered his head between her thighs.

Roslin let out a sharp cry. Her back arched off the mattress. Alaric was relentless. His mouth was hot and demanding. He tasted the slick wetness of their long night, pressing his tongue flat against her swollen folds. His large hands gripped her thighs, holding her firmly in place as she squirmed and pushed her heels into the bed.

She couldn’t take much more. Her body was already far too sensitive. "Alaric...." she gasped, her hands blindly gripping the wooden headboard.

He didn’t stop. He pressed his mouth harder against her, his tongue flicking rapidly over her most sensitive spot. Roslin’s entire body went rigid. She let out a loud, breathless moan as a final, violent climax ripped through her. Her thighs clamped tightly against his head. Her muscles trembled uncontrollably as she rode out the intense release.

Alaric pulled back. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He sat up and looked down at her.

Roslin was completely drained. She lay flat on the furs, her chest heaving up and down as she gasped for air. She couldn’t even keep her eyes open. Her whole body shook with exhausted aftershocks.

He crawled back up the bed and hovered over her sweaty face.

"Rest now," Alaric said quietly. "You have the whole day to sleep."

He leaned down and kissed her deeply. He pushed his tongue past her lips, making her taste her own slick juices mixed with his saliva. Roslin whimpered softly into the kiss. She was too tired to move, simply taking whatever he gave her with absolute submission.

Alaric pulled back. He gave her flushed cheek a light pat, grabbed the heavy wolf furs, and pulled them up to her chin to keep her warm. He stood up from the bed and turned his attention to his dark armor resting on the table. It was time to deal with the Northern lords.

...

Alaric strapped his dark leather armor over his chest and pulled his heavy boots on. He threw his thick winter cloak over his shoulders and pushed the tent flap open.

The cold morning air hit his face. The massive Northern camp was already waking up. Thousands of men moved around the gray tents, sharpening swords, feeding horses, and cooking breakfast over small fires. Two of his giant Blood Knights stood perfectly still on either side of his tent, guarding the entrance.

Ser Rodrik Cassel walked quickly through the mud toward him. The old knight stopped a few feet away and bowed his head slightly.

"Lord Thorne," Rodrik said. He held out a rolled piece of thick parchment. "A raven arrived just before dawn. The maester brought it to me. It carries the seal of The Tyrells."

Alaric looked at the letter. A green wax seal stamped with a golden rose held it closed. He reached out and took the parchment from Rodrik’s hand.

"Are the men preparing to march tonight?" Alaric asked, his voice flat and focused.

"They are resting now, my lord. The captains know the orders. We will break camp at sundown."

"Good. Make sure the Kingslayer gets food and water. I want him alive and awake when we reach Harrenhal." Alaric waved his hand. "Go."

"Yes, my lord." Rodrik bowed again and turned back toward the center of the camp.

Alaric stood alone outside his tent. He pressed his thumb against the green wax and cracked the seal. He unrolled the thick parchment.

The handwriting was neat and elegant. There were only a few lines.

Alaric Thorne,

We find your letter very interesting. We accept your offer to meet. You may choose the time, but we will choose the place. Send your reply.

— Margaery Tyrell

Alaric read the short message. He didn’t blink. He just rolled the parchment back up and tucked it into his heavy leather belt.

Alaric tapped his fingers against his heavy leather belt. He looked south.

Margaery Tyrell was not just a political piece. To the System, she was a high-tier target. He had 14,120 MP sitting in his account. He could numerous amount of Blood Knights right now. But he knew how the System worked. Pure numbers were not enough.

Alaric turned around and walked back into the dim command tent. Roslin was fast asleep on the bed, buried under the thick wolf furs.

He walked over to his small wooden desk, sat down, and pulled out a blank piece of parchment. He dipped a quill into the black inkwell.

Where would the Tyrells choose to meet? He thought about Olenna Tyrell. The Queen of Thorns was smart and extremely cautious. She would not meet a dangerous stranger in a neutral castle. She would want a place where she had absolute control.

Bitterbridge, Alaric thought.

It was a stronghold in the Reach. Renly Baratheon and the Tyrells were currently gathering their massive army there. One hundred thousand men camped in a single location. It was the ultimate show of force. Olenna would definitely choose Bitterbridge to intimidate him.

Alaric didn’t care about her numbers. His face remained completely blank as he pressed the quill to the paper.

Lady Margaery,

Bitterbridge. Ten days from now.

— Alaric Thorne

He kept it arrogant and short. Let them think he was overconfident. He sprinkled sand over the wet ink to dry it, shook it off, and rolled the parchment tight. He melted a drop of plain black wax over the edge and sealed it flat. No house crest. Just a blank, dark seal.

Alaric stood up and walked back outside. He handed the small scroll to one of the passing Northern captains.

"Take this to the maester," Alaric ordered. "Tell him to send a raven to Highgarden immediately."

"Yes, Lord Thorne," the captain said, taking the letter and hurrying off toward the raven cages.

Alaric watched the man run away.

Alaric watched the captain run toward the raven cages. The dark bird would be in the air within the hour.

He crossed his arms, his mind already running through the tactical map and the rigid constraints of time.

Moving a host of twenty thousand men—complete with heavy baggage trains, foot soldiers, and camp followers—was a slow, agonizing process. The muddy roads of the Riverlands would only make it worse. Even marching at a forced pace, it would take the main Northern army at least fourteen days to reach the sprawling, melted walls of Harrenhal.

But he had just promised Margaery Tyrell he would be at Bitterbridge in ten. Bitterbridge was deep in the Reach, hundreds of miles further south than Harrenhal.

The math didn’t align for a standard commander. But Alaric wasn’t a standard commander.

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