GOT: My Secret Lover is sansa-Chapter 108

Alaric held Margaery’s desperate gaze for a long moment. Then, with a slow, deliberate turn, he walked back to the table and dropped heavily into his chair. He planted his muddy boots squarely on the Myrish rug.

"Good," Alaric rumbled. He pushed the empty silver chalice across the table toward the Queen of Thorns. "Pour. I’m still thirsty."

Olenna’s jaw tightened. For a fraction of a second, her grip shifted on her cane as if she might strike him with it. Instead, her gnarled hands reached for the heavy silver pitcher. Dark red wine splashed against the metal rim as she filled his cup to the very brim. She leaned back into the shadows of her high-backed chair, her eyes hooded and unblinking.

Alaric took the cup and drained half the Arbor red in a single, unbroken swallow.

Margaery watched the tendons in his neck work, her knuckles bone-white where she gripped the back of her overturned chair.

"Give me one reason, Master Thorne," Margaery breathed, her voice trembling just enough to betray her. "Give me one reason why I should abandon a King with a hundred thousand swords for you."

Alaric rested his elbows on the table, lacing his mud-caked gloves together. "I never said you had to abandon him. Marry him tomorrow. Let him drape a stag’s cloak over your shoulders and put a crown on your head. It changes nothing."

Margaery’s brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

Alaric tilted his head. The unnatural glow in his eyes flared, pinning her in place. "In exactly eight days, Stannis Baratheon will lay siege to Storm’s End. Renly will break camp here, take his vanguard, and ride hard to meet his brother. And the night before the battle begins, Renly will be assassinated in his own tent."

Silence slammed down over the pavilion.

Olenna stared at him. The old woman’s chest barely moved. Finally, a dry, raspy wheeze of a laugh scraped its way out of her throat. She tapped her cane rhythmically against the floorboards hidden beneath the carpet.

"A hyper-specific prophecy," Olenna said, stripping away the last remnants of her polite, grandmotherly veneer. "Assassinated in his own war camp in exactly eight days. It sounds like a wet nurse’s fable meant to frighten children. Yet..."

Her sharp eyes dropped to the half-empty cup of poisoned wine.

"...you just swallowed enough Widow’s Blood to drop a destrier and asked for a refill. I am forced to admit, Thorne, you are playing a game I do not yet know the rules to."

Olenna laced her fingers together, resting her chin on her knuckles. The warmth bled entirely from her face, leaving only the cold, calculating matriarch of Highgarden.

"Very well. A wager, Thorne," Olenna said. "If Renly falls in exactly eight days, House Tyrell pivots. I will see Margaery wed to you. You will have the grain, the gold, and the swords of the Reach to take whatever throne you desire. But..."

She tilted her head. "If the sun rises on the ninth day, and Renly Baratheon still draws breath with a crown on his head... what is the price for wasting my time and insulting my House?"

"Ser Jaime Lannister in heavy iron chains," Alaric rumbled, his voice low and dead even. "Trade him to Tywin for half the gold in Casterly Rock. I will surrender my command, march my host back to the snows, and leave the South to you. My campaign, and my life—forfeit."

Olenna’s eyes narrowed. She searched the harsh lines of his face for a twitch, a tell, a single shadow of a bluff. The silence stretched, thick and heavy.

"Done," Olenna rasped.

Margaery stood frozen, her chest rising and falling rapidly against her green silk bodice. For years, she had been courted by perfumed lords, serenaded by tourney knights, and promised to a charming, laughing King. They had all tripped over their own cloaks to please her. 𝐟𝕣𝕖𝐞𝐰𝕖𝚋𝐧𝗼𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝗰𝐨𝐦

This man had walked in covered in mud, swallowed a lethal dose of Widow’s Blood like it was water, and casually wagered his life, his war, and the Kingslayer on an eight-day hourglass. He hadn’t even raised his voice.

Margaery stared at the broad line of his shoulders. A sudden, fierce flush of heat crept up her neck, settling heavy in her blood.

He shifted his attention back to the Queen of Thorns. "Have a pavilion cleared for my men and my mount. I am staying."

Margaery took a deliberate step back. In a heartbeat, the flush faded, her spine straightened, and the practiced, radiant smile of Highgarden’s golden rose bloomed across her face once more. She smoothed the front of her gown.

"Allow me to show you the way, Master Thorne," she said lightly.

She swept past the canvas flaps, stepping out into the blinding afternoon sun. Alaric followed.

Outside, his five Blood Knights stood like iron monoliths. The ring of Tyrell guards surrounding them had drawn tight, the midday heat catching on the nervous sweat dampening their brows and their white-knuckled grips on their spear shafts.

Alaric didn’t speak. A slight tilt of his head was all it took. The five giants broke their statue-stillness in perfect unison, their heavy, armored tread falling into step behind him with a unified, metallic crunch.

Margaery glided at Alaric’s side, her hands clasped demurely at her waist. She acknowledged the stares of the encamped soldiers with polite, measured nods, the very picture of innocent nobility. But as they walked through the sea of armed men, the gap between them vanished, the fine silk of her sleeve brushing deliberately against the battered leather of his vambrace.