GOT: My Secret Lover is sansa-Chapter 112

Ned threw his weight forward, dragging his shattered leg behind him. The rusted shortsword hissed through the dim cellar air in a desperate, ragged arc aimed right at the servant’s neck.

The scout’s face remained a dead, blank canvas. He simply pivoted on his heel, letting the heavy iron pass mere inches from his throat.

Before Ned’s momentum could pull him down, the scout drove a heavy, iron-shod boot directly into the Lord of Winterfell’s sternum. There was no anger in the strike, no battle cry. Only terrifying, mechanical efficiency.

The breath exploded from Ned’s lungs. He crumpled backward, hitting the damp earth with a heavy, breathless thud. The iron blade slipped from his numb fingers and skittered away into the shadows. He curled inward, wheezing violently as he clutched his bruised ribs.

"Father!"

Arya shrieked, scrambling across the dirt floor. She threw her small body over Ned’s chest like a human shield, baring her teeth at the dead-eyed servant. Her hands balled into tiny, shaking fists. In the darkest corner of the cellar, Septa Mordane pressed her spine flush against the dirt wall, weeping silently into her hands.

The Blood Scout did not press the advantage. He simply lowered his foot, returning his hands to his sides and resting his back against the heavy oak door. His hollow eyes stared straight ahead into the gloom, completely motionless, as if the violence had never happened.

...

Hundreds of leagues south, beneath the yellow silk of the tent, Alaric opened his eyes.

The bright afternoon light lanced through the canvas, stabbing directly into his pupils. He staggered, his vision swimming violently as a spike of white-hot agony drove itself directly behind his eyes. He leaned his weight against the oak table, his breath hissing through clenched teeth.

His physical body thrummed with the tireless, restless heat of the [Solar Forge], but his mind felt like shattered glass. The sheer psychic weight of puppeteering two hollow men across a continent while weaving shadow-magic under an executioner’s blade had entirely cannibalized his focus.

He pushed off the table, dragging his mud-caked boots across the Myrish carpets. He collapsed face-first onto the massive featherbed, the timber frame groaning loudly under the dead weight of his armor.

"Fuck," Alaric rasped into the velvet pillows.

He rolled heavily onto his back, staring blindly at the sloping canvas ceiling. He dragged his heavy leather gauntlets down his face, the rough hide scraping against his jaw as he tried to knead the blinding pressure from his skull.

Beyond the tent flaps, the muffled roar of the Tyrell war camp raged on—thousands of men, warhorses, and grinding steel bleeding into a dull, echoing drone.

Kings, alliances, and golden roses no longer mattered. Alaric let his arms drop limp to his sides.

The unnatural glow in his eyes faded as his lids slid shut, and the suffocating, pitch-black tide of exhaustion finally dragged him under.

...

Five days bled away. Outside the pavilion, the Tyrell host remained a restless, deafening ocean of noise—tourney lances splintering in the meadows, cheap wine flowing, and green summer knights boasting of the Lannister blood they would soon spill.

Inside the dim, stifling canvas, Alaric let the blinding pressure in his skull finally recede.

He sat at the heavy oak table, dragging an oiled rag along the edge of his blade. The tent flap parted, admitting a slice of afternoon sun and Margaery Tyrell. She carried a silver tray, bypassing the empty chair across the table to slide into the seat pressed directly against his right elbow. The scent of warm bread, roasted capon, and sweet rosewater cut through the harsh, metallic tang of the oil.

"Five days in the dark," Margaery murmured. "My grandmother is convinced you are weaving some grand treason in here."

Alaric set the steel down. He tore a chunk of warm bread from the loaf. "I was recovering from travel."

He chewed slowly, his glowing eyes sliding to her face. Margaery leaned in, turning her body so her shoulder pressed deliberately against the hardened leather of his pauldron.

"Three days left," she noted softly.

Alaric swallowed. "Getting nervous?"

"Impatient," she corrected smoothly. Her gaze dropped to his mouth, then traced back up to his unnatural eyes. "If you win, I am yours. Yet you haven’t so much as reached for me."

Alaric dropped the bread back onto the silver platter. He shifted in his chair, turning his chest fully toward her and trapping her in the narrow space.

He reached out, sliding his bare hand into the soft hair at the nape of her neck. Her skin was incredibly warm. Against his thumb, he could feel the frantic, heavy flutter of her pulse.

He leaned in. Margaery met him halfway.

The kiss was sudden and heavy. Margaery opened to him immediately, her fingers pressing flat against the solid wall of his chest. Alaric slid his free hand down to her waist, gripping her hip and dragging her chair flush against his own. The wood scraped sharply against the floorboards. Margaery let out a soft, breathless sound against his mouth, tilting her chin to deepen the pull.

A long, suffocating moment passed in the dim tent before Margaery broke away. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝙬𝙚𝓫𝒏𝓸𝓿𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝙤𝓶

She kept her palm planted firmly against his chest, enforcing the few inches of breathing room between them. Her chest heaved rapidly under her silk gown, her lips flushed and swollen.

"The rest," Margaery breathed, her voice trembling slightly but resolute, "belongs to my husband."

Alaric studied her flushed face. A faint, infuriatingly calm smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth. He reached up, caught the soft flesh of her cheek between his thumb and forefinger, and gave it a patronizing, gentle pinch.

"Cute."

Margaery’s eyes flew wide. A furious, burning heat instantly flooded her cheeks, creeping all the way to the tips of her ears. She snatched his wrist, slapping his hand away from her face.

The flawless, practiced veneer of the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms shattered entirely. For years, highborn lords had knelt in the dirt, kissed her knuckles, and composed bleeding poetry just to win a smile. No one had ever handled her like a common tavern girl.

She dropped her gaze to the grain of the oak table, her fierce blush deepening. She folded her hands tightly into her lap, desperate to hide the sudden, betraying tremor in her fingers.

Alaric simply picked his bread back up from the silver tray, took another bite, and went right back to chewing.

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