GOT: My Secret Lover is sansa-Chapter 109

Margaery glanced over her shoulder at the towering, silent sentinels shadowing their steps. "Where did you find them?" she murmured, pitching her voice for his ears alone. "I have never seen men of such stature. And that dark steel... who forged it?"

Alaric’s long, eating stride remained entirely unbroken. "I will lay all my secrets bare for you, Margaery," he said flatly. "On the day of our wedding."

A sudden, breathless laugh escaped her. No boasting, no tedious fables to impress her. The sheer, unapologetic audacity of his deflection coaxed a genuine, sharp smile to her lips. "Eight days is terribly short notice to tailor a bridal gown."

Ahead, the crush of the busy camp opened up around a ring of bright yellow pavilions. A knot of young summer knights lounged in the shade, wine cups in hand, their boisterous laughter carrying over the din of the soldiers. At their center stood Ser Loras Tyrell, catching the sun in silver plate enameled with winding green vines.

Loras caught sight of his sister, and a brilliant smile lit up his face. "Margaery!"

Then his gaze drifted. It snagged on the five iron-clad behemoths marching in her wake, before snapping down to the scarred leather and dead-eyed stare of the man at her side. Loras’s smile evaporated. He tossed his wine cup into the dirt, his hand dropping instinctively to the pommel of his sword.

He stepped squarely into the center of the thoroughfare, blocking the path. The laughter of the surrounding knights died in their throats.

"I know your face," Loras declared, his voice ringing with sudden, sharp suspicion. "You are the Stark’s ward. From the Hand’s Tourney in King’s Landing."

Alaric kept walking, the rhythmic, earth-shaking crunch of his Blood Knights echoing right behind him. He closed the distance, forcing Loras to either hold his ground or be trampled.

"You saw a different man," Alaric rumbled, stopping only when he was close enough that Loras had to tilt his head up to maintain eye contact. "I don’t play with wooden sticks for cheering crowds. Move."

A flush of insulted pride flared hot up Loras’s neck. He planted his boots firmly in the dirt and drew himself up to his full height. "How dare you speak to—"

"Loras, enough," Margaery interrupted, her fingers digging a silent warning into her brother’s forearm. "Master Thorne is Grandmother’s guest. Yield the path."

Loras’s jaw worked. His glare flicked from his sister’s stern face to the sheer, imposing bulk of the five iron-clad sentinels looming behind the Northerner. The defiance slowly drained from his posture. He pulled his hand from his pommel and stepped back into the dust.

Alaric walked through the gap, his shoulder deliberately clipping the Knight of Flowers’ silver pauldron as he passed. He didn’t spare Loras a glance.

The dense crush of the camp eventually gave way to a quieter ring of pavilions near the treeline. Margaery stopped before a large, heavy canvas tent.

"Your quarters, Master Thorne."

Alaric ducked inside. The five Blood Knights pivoted as one, their massive boots tearing up the sod. With a deafening, unified clash of steel, they crossed their heavy polearms to seal the entrance—but not before Margaery slipped smoothly through the gap, letting the canvas flap fall shut behind her.

Inside, the air was dim and stifling. Alaric crossed straight to the oak table, stripping off his mud-caked gauntlets and tossing them down next to a basin of water. He snatched up a coarse rag and began scraping the dried dirt from his armor.

Margaery lingered by the entrance, her hands folded neatly over her green silk. "A question, Thorne."

Alaric stopped wiping the leather. He leaned his hips against the edge of the table and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Ask."

Margaery met his unnatural stare, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial murmur. "In King’s Landing. When you served as Lady Sansa’s sworn shield... were you sharing her bed?"

Alaric went completely still. The rag hung motionless from his fingers. A slow, mocking arch of his eyebrow was his only tell. "Was it that obvious?"

Margaery let out a long, quiet breath, stepping away from the door and deeper into the dim light. "It was to me. I saw the way she watched you. A highborn lady doesn’t look at a ward with that kind of gaze unless there is something going on between them..."

A low, rough sound rumbled in Alaric’s chest—a dark, humorless laugh.

"Sansa is mine," he said flatly.

Margaery held his gaze. "You just demanded my hand in marriage," she pointed out, her voice dropping. "But you freely admit you are already involved with the Stark girl. Isn’t that just openly cheating??"

Alaric tossed the dirty rag onto the oak table. He leaned his weight against the edge, his glowing eyes locking onto hers.

"I don’t think you care about that," Alaric said flatly. "Do you?"

Margaery stared at him for a second. Then, the tension bled out of her shoulders. The formal act dropped entirely, and a real, smile appeared on her face.

"You’re right," Margaery said smoothly. "I don’t."

She took a step closer to him, closing the distance.

"I have absolutely no jealousy about sharing you with Sansa," Margaery told him, her voice calm and honest. "She is a kind girl. We got along perfectly when we met in the capital." 𝑓𝑟ℯ𝘦𝓌𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝑐ℴ𝓂

She tilted her head, meeting his cold eyes without backing down.

"I want to be Queen," Margaery said simply. "I care about power, survival, and my family. If the King I crown is already involved with someone else, I don’t mind. I don’t waste my time on petty jealousy over a man."

She gave him a small, polite nod. Then, she turned around and walked out of the tent.

The heavy canvas flap fell shut behind her. The room went completely quiet. Alaric stood alone in the center of the tent.

He let out a long breath and rubbed the back of his neck. He thought about Sansa in the capital, Roslin back at his camp, and now Margaery Tyrell negotiating for a crown right in front of him.

He shook his head.

"Women are exhausting," Alaric muttered to the empty room.