GOT: My Secret Lover is sansa-Chapter 113

Margaery remained frozen in her seat, the heat radiating from her cheeks. her chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid breaths as she waited for her heart to slow.

Alaric tore another piece of bread, chewing methodically as he studied the furious crimson coloring the tips of her ears.

"Has no man ever called you cute?" he asked, his tone as casual as if he were asking for the salt.

Margaery shifted, the heavy silk of her dress rustling sharply against the wood. "They call me beautiful," she murmured, the practiced velvet of her voice entirely stripped away. "They call me the most stunning in the Reach."

A rough, low chuckle vibrated in Alaric’s chest. He reached across the silver tray, his thick leather glove wrapping around the water cup.

"Beautiful is a word for statues," Alaric rumbled, taking a slow drink. "Or for Queens sitting cold and untouchable on heavy iron thrones."

He leaned closer, invading her space until the scent of damp earth and leather overwhelmed her rosewater. Margaery finally snapped her gaze up, her cheeks flushed a vibrant, angry pink.

Alaric raised a heavy, calloused finger and lightly tapped the tip of her nose.

"But sitting in my tent, flushing like a reprimanded child because I pinched your cheek?" He let a faint, infuriating smirk touch his eyes. "You’re just cute."

Margaery’s jaw dropped. The crimson flush deepened violently. She swatted his thick wrist away, the blow lacking any real heat.

"I am not flushing like a child," she snapped, though the breathless tremor in her voice betrayed her completely. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝙬𝙚𝓫𝒏𝓸𝓿𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝙤𝓶

She surged to her feet, the legs of her chair screeching against the floorboards. She snatched at the folds of her green skirts, smoothing the fabric with frantic, trembling hands as she desperately tried to drag her flawless Highgarden mask back into place.

Alaric reached for a slice of roasted capon. He tore off a bite, chewing slowly as he watched her scramble for her lost dignity.

"Whatever you say," Alaric replied, entirely unbothered.

She stood rigid for a heartbeat, her breath hitching, before she spun on her heel and swept out of the pavilion.

The blinding midday sun hit her the moment she breached the canvas. Margaery tucked her chin, gliding rapidly through the labyrinth of the Tyrell camp. She forced her breathing into a slow, measured rhythm, ignoring the crude laughter of the men-at-arms and the clash of steel from the training yards to keep her face hidden.

By the time she reached the massive green pavilion of her grandmother, she had forced her racing pulse back under control. She pushed through the heavy flaps.

Olenna Tyrell sat at a small folding table, plucking a bruised grape from a silver bowl. The Queen of Thorns paused, her sharp, hawkish eyes immediately locking onto her granddaughter.

Margaery dropped heavily into an empty chair, folding her hands tightly in her lap.

Olenna tossed the grape back into the bowl. She leaned heavily over her cane, her eyes narrowing as they mapped the lingering, undeniable flush across Margaery’s chest and cheeks.

"You lingered in the Northerner’s tent," Olenna noted, her voice dripping with dry suspicion. "And unless you caught a sudden fever on the walk back... I would ask why the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms looks exactly like a dairymaid who just spent an hour in the hayloft."

Margaery’s hand flew to her cheek, her fingertips brushing the searing heat of her own skin. She forced her gaze down to the table.

"Grandmother...." Margaery deflected, dropping her hands hastily to her lap. "The midday sun is simply brutal."

Olenna let the clumsy lie hang in the stifling air of the pavilion, choosing not to pluck it. She tapped a long, wrinkled finger against the silver rim of her bowl.

"Did you do as I asked?" the Queen of Thorns pressed, all traces of mockery vanishing from her voice.

Margaery swallowed. She forced her lungs to expand slowly, regaining her physical composure. "I did. I isolated him. I tested his temper and his boundaries, exactly as instructed."

Olenna leaned her weight heavily over the carved head of her cane, her hawkish eyes boring into her granddaughter.

"Good," Olenna clipped. "Any brute can play the chivalrous knight when surrounded by guards. Any fool can make grand wagers of war. But a man’s true nature bleeds through when the doors are barred and he has a woman entirely at his mercy. I intend to see you crowned, Margaery, but I will not shackle you to a sadist. Power is useless ashes if your husband breaks your bones for sport. Tell me the truth. What is he?"

Margaery thought of the heavy, suffocating pull of the kiss. She thought of the fingers tapping her nose, stripping away her titles to call her a flustered child.

"He is no monster," Margaery said, her voice finally steadying. She met her grandmother’s piercing stare. "He is ruthless, yes. A killer. But his mind is cold iron. He does not break things simply for the joy of hearing them snap."

A faint, lingering warmth pooled in Margaery’s chest as she remembered swatting his thick wrist away.

"He doesn’t bother with the mummer’s farce of courtly love or pretty lies," Margaery added, her tone dropping into a quiet, absolute certainty. "He is entirely direct. And in his own rough manner... he treated me well."

...

Dawn broke on the ninth day, washing the heavy green canvas of the Tyrell pavilion in pale light.

Alaric sat deeply reclined in an oak chair, his mud-scuffed boots crossed at the ankles. His heavy, leather-clad arms were folded over his chest. He looked like a man waiting for a delayed tavern meal, not a warlord waiting to claim a kingdom.

Across the table, Olenna Tyrell sat as still as a gargoyle. Margaery sat at her right hand, her eyes locked unblinkingly on the harsh angles of Alaric’s face.

The frantic, heavy crunch of boots tearing through the grass broke the silence. The tent flap was violently shoved aside. A Tyrell captain stumbled inside, his face pale and slick with panicked sweat, his chest heaving against his breastplate.

"My lady," the captain gasped, dropping into a hasty, clumsy bow. "A raven from the vanguard at Storm’s End. It is... it is madness."

"Speak the words," Olenna commanded, her voice cracking like a whip.

"Renly is dead," the captain blurted, his voice trembling. "Assassinated in his own command tent last night. A shadow, they say. Magic. The camp is in utter chaos."

A suffocating, absolute silence slammed down over the pavilion.

Margaery’s hands went completely numb in her lap. Her breath caught sharply in her throat, her chest rising in a sudden, ragged hitch as she stared at the man lounging across from her. He had dictated reality, down to the very hour.

Olenna slowly turned her head from the trembling captain to Alaric.

Alaric sat motionless. No smug grin. No boasting. He merely uncrossed his boots and rested his glowing, unnatural eyes on the Queen of Thorns.

"I see," Olenna rasped, her voice bone-dry. She flicked her hand at the captain. "Leave us."

The soldier blinked, clearly bewildered by the chilling lack of shock from the Tyrell matriarchs, but he bowed hastily and scrambled back out into the morning light.

Olenna grasped her cane with both hands and pushed herself to her feet. She looked down at the seated Northerner, the last remnants of doubt stripped entirely from her eyes.

"A wager is a wager, Thorne," Olenna declared, her voice ringing with hard, pragmatic steel. "You have my word. I will summon Mace and halt the march. The Reach pivots today. Margaery is yours."

Alaric offered a single, shallow nod.

Olenna turned on her heel. "Come, Margaery."