GOT: My Secret Lover is sansa-Chapter 114 Margeary Wedding

Margaery stood up and followed her grandmother out, leaving Alaric alone.

...

Time skip 3 day

The Tyrell host pivoted on a knife’s edge. With Renly’s death shattering the Baratheon vanguard, the Stormlords bent the knee to Stannis, but Olenna’s sharp, ruthless command had cleanly severed the Reach from the chaos.

Now, heavy columns of Tyrell cavalry kicked up a massive storm of dust as they marched hard for the horizon, leaving the war behind them towards high garden.

Alaric rode at the head of the vanguard. Beside him, Margaery rode a pristine white palfrey, her posture flawless despite the grueling pace.

She pointed toward the rolling green hills, where the gleaming, tiered towers of a massive fortress began to pierce the skyline.

She pointed toward the rolling green hills where the white towers pierced the skyline.

"Highgarden," Margaery said softly, pride slipping through her composure.

Alaric studied the sprawling stronghold. Three concentric rings of high, white stone walls wrapped around the hill, bristling with defensive towers. "It would be a nightmare to siege," he noted.

Margaery offered a pristine smile. "And a paradise to inhabit."

They breached the main gates an hour later. The heavy scent of blooming roses and crushed mint instantly overpowered the smell of horse sweat and dust.

Courtiers and knights bowed deeply as the golden rose of Highgarden returned. Mace Tyrell was already in the courtyard, his face flushed and glistening with sweat as he barked frantic orders at a swarm of stewards.

Olenna Tyrell descended from her heavy wheelhouse, her cane striking the cobblestones with sharp, impatient cracks. She marched directly to where Alaric and Margaery had dismounted.

"Enough sightseeing," the Queen of Thorns snapped, cutting through the courtyard’s din. "The banner lords of the Reach are already convening. The ceremony will be held tomorrow at midday. I will not have this alliance hanging by a thread a moment longer than necessary."

Margaery offered a shallow, obedient curtsy. "I understand, Grandmother."

Alaric gave a single, slow nod.

Olenna’s sharp eyes dragged up and down Alaric’s towering frame, lingering in utter disgust on his mud-caked boots, the dried blood flaking on his leather, and the heavy broadsword strapped to his hip.

"Marriages are sealed in the sight of the gods, Thorne, not in a muddy trench," Olenna declared, pointing the tip of her cane directly at his chest. "You will not wed my granddaughter smelling of a horse’s arse and wearing rotting leather."

Alaric looked down at his battered armor, then back to the matriarch.

"Have your tailors cut the velvet wide across the shoulders," Alaric rumbled flatly. "I won’t wear spun silk that tears the second I need to draw steel."

Olenna gave a curt, satisfied nod. "See that you find a bathhouse first."

The next twenty-four hours in Highgarden blurred into a frantic, blinding rush. Servants scrambled through the vaulted marble corridors, hauling casks of Arbor gold and weaving thousands of fresh roses through the pillars of the Great Sept.

In his assigned chambers, Alaric stood before a tall, polished Myrish glass. Terrified servants had spent an hour scrubbing the grime, sweat, and dried blood from his skin. His dark hair was pulled back and tied securely at the nape of his neck.

He wore the garments Olenna had commissioned. A masterfully tailored doublet of pitch-black velvet, heavy with dark silver embroidery. A thick, dark grey wool cloak hung from his broad shoulders, fastened by a brutal, unadorned iron clasp. He wore midnight leather boots and a thick sword belt carrying his blade.

Across the castle, Margaery stood perfectly still as her handmaidens pinned the heavy train of her gown. She wore pale green silk, the bodice intricately embroidered with hundreds of tiny, spun-gold vines. Her soft brown hair cascaded down her back in loose, flawless curls, crowned by a delicate halo of woven white roses.

She drew a slow, steadying breath. She was ready.

The Sept of Highgarden was suffocatingly packed. The air was thick with the cloying smoke of sweet incense and the perfume of the Reach’s highest nobility. Midday sunlight lanced through the massive crystal dome, casting fractured rainbows across the polished marble floor.

Alaric stood at the altar beneath the towering marble statues of the Father and the Mother. He stood perfectly still, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression a cold, unreadable mask.

The heavy oak doors groaned open. The murmurs of the crowded Sept died instantly.

Mace Tyrell walked down the long aisle, sweating profusely in his heavy green and gold velvets. Margaery walked at his side, her fingertips resting lightly on her father’s forearm.

As they closed the distance, Margaery lifted her chin. Her breath caught hard against her ribs. She had only ever seen him caked in the grime of a war camp. Seeing him now, immaculate in black velvet and cold iron, the dark, dangerous gravity of him made her pulse hammer in her throat.

Mace stopped at the altar. He actively avoided looking into Alaric’s unnatural, glowing eyes as he unfastened the maiden’s cloak of House Tyrell from his daughter’s shoulders. He stepped back quickly.

Alaric stepped forward. He unclasped the heavy, dark grey wool from his own shoulders. He closed the gap between them, effortlessly sweeping the thick fabric around her and fastening it at her collar.

The weight of it settled heavy over her silk gown.

The High Septon stepped forward, his robes dragging on the marble. He bound Alaric’s thick wrist to Margaery’s delicate hands with a long ribbon of white silk.

"Let it be known that Alaric Thorne and Margaery of House Tyrell are one heart, one flesh, one soul," the Septon’s voice echoed into the vaulted ceiling. "Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder."

Alaric and Margaery spoke the ancient vows in unison.

"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger," they recited. Margaery’s voice was a clear, ringing melody. Alaric’s was a low, absolute rumble that vibrated in her chest. "I am hers, and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days."

The Septon untied the ribbon. He raised his hands to the silent crowd.

"In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls. You may now seal the vows."

Alaric didn’t wait for the Septon to step back. He raised his hands around her jaw. He pulled her flush against the black velvet of his chest and kissed her deeply, right in the center of the altar, before her father, her grandmother, and the entirety of the Reach.

Margaery let out a soft, breathless sigh against his mouth. Her arms wound tight around his neck, pulling him closer as she kissed him back just as fiercely.

The Sept erupted. The lords of the Reach roared their approval, the deafening cheers instantly joined by the triumphant, lively swell of lutes and drums from the high balconies.

Alaric slowly broke the kiss. He looked down into Margaery’s flushed face, a bright, genuine smile blooming across her lips. The heavy grey cloak rested perfectly on her shoulders.

For a fraction of a second, surrounded by the blinding sunlight, the roaring lords, and the smell of summer roses, the war felt a thousand leagues away.

Then, the cheerful swell of the music faded into a dull, distant ringing. The bright sunlight streaming through the crystal windows abruptly felt cold and dim.

Directly in the center of Alaric’s vision, a System pane ripped itself open.

It wasn’t the usual passive, translucent blue. It was a violent, blinding, strobing red.

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