GOT: My Secret Lover is sansa-Chapter 98

"Keep it short," Olenna said, watching the fire. "Tell him we find his letter interesting. he can pick the time, but we will pick the place. Arrange the meeting."

...

Wind shook the heavy canvas of the command tent. Torches flickered, moving shadows across the map of the Riverlands on the table.

Alaric sat at the head of the table, leaning forward on his elbows. Around him stood Greatjon Umber, Rickard Karstark, Ser Rodrik Cassel, and Roose Bolton. The lords were still smiling and talking loudly after taking the castle without a fight. But when Alaric pointed at the map, they went quiet.

"Here is how we beat the Lannisters," Alaric said loudly over the wind. He tapped his finger on the map.

"Most of our men—the Umbers, Karstarks, and the foot soldiers—will march straight south to Harrenhal. You will make Tywin Lannister think we are attacking his main army."

He dragged his finger across the parchment. "I am sending one thousand Frey spearmen toward the Lannister camps. They will not fight. They will just make a lot of noise and confuse Tywin’s scouts."

Alaric looked up at the men. "While Tywin watches the main army and the Freys, I will ride west to Riverrun. Lord Bolton, you and the men of the Dreadfort will come with me."

Roose Bolton stopped looking at the map and stared right at Alaric. "Riverrun, my lord? Jaime Lannister is there. He leads the Lannister vanguard."

"I know exactly where he is," Alaric said. His face did not change. "And I am going to capture him."

The lords started yelling all at once.

"Capture Jaime Lannister?" Greatjon Umber shouted. He slammed his massive hand on the table, making the map jump. "He is the best swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms! You cannot just ride in with Dreadfort men and throw a net over the Kingslayer!"

"It is madness," Karstark said, shaking his heavily bearded head. "The plan is a fool’s gamble. You cannot just sneak up on a Lannister host with a fraction of our forces and expect to trap the Kingslayer."

Alaric did not raise his voice. He stood up straighter, letting their shouts die down against the howling wind outside the canvas. He looked at each of the seasoned commanders in turn, his expression completely calm and unyielding.

"I am not asking you to fight a battle you cannot win," Alaric said, his words cutting clearly through the lingering tension. "I know exactly how Jaime Lannister fights, and I know exactly how to draw him out. Trust me."

The word hung in the smoky air of the tent. A few days ago, the Greatjon might have laughed in his face at a boy asking for blind trust. But the memory of the Twins was still fresh in all of their minds. They remembered the heavily fortified bridge, the arrogant and stubborn Lord Walder Frey, and how shockingly fast Alaric had brought the entire ancient house to its knees. There had been no long, bleeding siege. Just swift, ruthless efficiency that had unsettled even the hardest Northern veterans.

One by one, the lords’ protests died in their throats. The Greatjon crossed his massive, tree-trunk arms, his jaw tight as he stared at the map. Karstark muttered something under his breath, but he stopped arguing. Beside them, Roose Bolton’s pale, watery eyes remained fixed on Alaric. The Lord of the Dreadfort showed no emotion, but he offered no resistance either.

Silence fell over the table, leaving only the sound of the wind snapping the tent fabric and the crackle of the torches.

Alaric nodded once, sweeping his gaze over the quieted room. "Thank you for your understanding," he said flatly. "Have your riders saddled before the sun breaks."

...

Alaric stood in his dark leather armor and heavy furs. Roslin stood close to him, her hands resting flat against his chest.

Alaric leaned down and kissed her lips, then moved to her neck. Her breath caught. Her fingers gripped the thick wool of his tunic as she leaned her weight against him.

"Be safe, Alaric," she whispered over the sound of the wind.

Alaric pulled back and looked at her red face. He tapped her back, making her stand straight.

"Keep your head high today, Rose," he said. "You are the Lady of House Frey... Not some dumb noble women..."

Roslin gave a small nod and bit her lower lip. She looked up at him. "I know," she whispered. "But I just want to be your dumb noble women." 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝒆𝒘𝙚𝓫𝙣𝙤𝒗𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

Alaric smiled. His hand moved up from her waist, grasping her breast through her silk dress with a firm squeeze.

Roslin gasped softly, her eyes widening at the sudden boldness, but she didn’t pull away. She leaned into his touch, her heart hammering against his palm.

"Hmm," Alaric leaned in, his voice dropping to a dry whisper that made her pulse jump. "My Lady, you are getting bolder and bolder day by day."

He let his hand linger against her cheek for a second too long before pulling away to swing his heavy winter cloak over his shoulders. The humor died out of his face, replaced by the flat, distant stare he reserved for maps and kill-zones.

"Stay with Ser Rodrik," he said while walking away. "I’ll be back when the Jaime Lannisteris in chains."

...

The courtyard of the Twins was a mess of mud and screaming iron. Through the gray morning mist, the Northern lords were already hacking their way into formation. To the south, the Greatjon was bellowing orders over the snapping banners of the Karstarks and the Umbers. A thousand Frey spearmen were already filing out—bait for the lion.

Alaric’s boots crunched through the slush as he reached his horse. He climbed into the saddle, the weight of The Red Eclipse banging familiar and heavy against his thigh.

Behind him, the ground groaned. The Blood Knights moved into position—seven-foot shadows clad in jagged, dark steel. At his stirrup, Rivy sat waiting.

"Lord Thorne."

Alaric didn’t have to turn to know it was Bolton; the man’s voice was a thready whisper that always seemed to make the air feel colder. Roose sat his pale gray gelding with the stillness of a corpse, his skin the color of curdled milk. Behind him, the Dreadfort men sat slumped in their saddles—sour, hard-faced men who looked like they’d rather be flaying captives than riding through the mud.

"The vanguard is closed up," Bolton said, his pale, watery eyes fixed on the horizon as if he were counting the ribs of an invisible enemy.