GOT: My Secret Lover is sansa-Chapter 120 Margaery Tyrell [R-18]
Margaery’s fingers tangled desperately in his dark hair, her back arching off the furs as the initial sting was entirely swallowed by heavy, throbbing waves of heat. She moaned helplessly against his ear, her breathing fracturing into ragged gasps as he hit her deepest point over and over.
Alaric’s jaw locked. His muscles turned to iron as he felt the tight, relentless squeeze of her walls drawing him in. With a low, guttural growl, he drove forward for three final, punishing thrusts, burying himself to the hilt before he finally let go. The blistering heat of him flooded her completely.
Margaery’s legs clamped fiercely around his thick waist, her ankles crossing behind his back to anchor him as she took every drop. She let out one last, shuddering sigh before her head fell back into the pillows, her chest heaving.
They stayed tangled together for a long time, the only sound in the room the quiet crackle of the hearth and their own heavy breathing. Finally, Alaric pulled back just enough to rest his damp forehead against hers.
Margaery looked up, her brown eyes hazy and her lips thoroughly kissed. A small, breathless laugh slipped past her lips. "I must say," she whispered, her voice a raspy shadow of its usual self, "I didn’t realize a man could be quite so... thorough."
Alaric didn’t let her rest for long. Over the next few hours, he took her again, though his movements grew slower and more measured. He knew they had to march at dawn, and he needed his new wife to actually survive the journey through the Reach without collapsing. 𝑓𝘳𝘦𝑒𝑤𝑒𝘣𝘯ℴ𝘷𝘦𝓁.𝑐𝑜𝑚
When he was finally spent, Alaric pulled the heavy furs over their sweat-slicked bodies. He pulled her small, exhausted frame against his side, tucking her head neatly under his chin.
She closed her eyes and fell instantly into a deep, dreamless sleep.
...
The sun had barely begun to paint the white walls of Highgarden when Alaric threw back the heavy furs. The bedchamber had grown cold, the fire reduced to a pile of glowing orange embers. Beside him, Margaery stirred, letting out a sharp, involuntary hiss as she tried to shift her legs.
After they washed and dressed—aided by a few terrified handmaidens who kept their eyes strictly glued to the floorboards—they prepared to leave. Margaery wore a gown of rich, deep Tyrell green, its high collar perfectly concealing the dark, bruised bite mark Alaric had left on her neck. Her hair was swept up elegantly, though her face remained pale and tired.
As she took her first step toward the heavy oak door, her knees instantly buckled. She bit her lip, throwing a hand out to catch the edge of the wooden table just in time to stay upright. Her gait was stiff, her thighs burning from hours of relentless friction and the sheer, unforgiving size of him.
Alaric paused, watching her. He took in her wince, her usual graceful, floating walk replaced by an awkward, pained hobble.
"You’re walking like a wounded soldier," he stated flatly.
Margaery looked up, a furious, embarrassed blush rushing into her cheeks. "It is a... unique sensation, husband."
Alaric didn’t bother arguing. He closed the distance, reached down, and effortlessly scooped her up into his arms. Margaery let out a startled "Oh!" as her feet left the floor, her arms instinctively flying up to lock around his thick neck. Resting her head against his broad chest, she could feel the deep, steady rumble of his breathing.
He carried her out the door, his stride just as powerful and unshaken as if he hadn’t spent the entire night exhausting himself.
"So," Alaric murmured, his voice dropping to a private rumble as they navigated the quiet stone hallways. "Now that the sun is up and you’ve survived... how was it?"
Margaery hid her face in the crook of his neck for a second, her warm breath ghosting over his skin. When she looked back up, the shy girl from the night before was entirely gone. The sharp, proud Tyrell woman was back.
"It was terrifying," she whispered, a playful, challenging edge returning to her voice. "And quite painful at the start. But..." She gave the thick muscle of his neck a gentle squeeze. "I think I finally understand why they say the North is a hard, relentless place. You are exceptionally... effective, Husbend."
Alaric let out a short, dry huff of air—the absolute closest he ever got to a real laugh. "Effective. I’ll take that."
"I told you I only wanted the best," Margaery added, her confidence fully blooming as they neared the solar where her family waited. "I believe I found it. Though... perhaps next time, you could be just a fraction more gentle? I would actually like to stand on my own two feet when we reach the war camp."
"We’ll see," Alaric rumbled.
He stopped just outside the heavy wooden doors of the solar and set Margaery down carefully. She wobbled for a terrifying second, her face tightening in discomfort before she quickly looped her arm through his. She leaned her weight heavily into his side, using his massive frame as a crutch to fake a steady gait.
"Better," she murmured, using her free hand to smooth out the wrinkled green silk of her skirts.
The doors swung open. The room was dead quiet, save for the crackle of a fresh fire in the hearth. Olenna Tyrell sat in her usual high-backed chair, her sharp, calculating eyes immediately zeroing in on Margaery’s stiff posture. Mace Tyrell hovered nervously by the window, opening his mouth to speak, but Olenna instantly silenced him with a flick of her wrist.
Alaric stood like a statue, his glowing eyes shifting from the sharp-eyed old woman to the sweating Lord of Highgarden. He felt Margaery’s fingers give his arm one last, tight squeeze before she gracefully let go.
"Husband," Margaery said, her voice instantly dropping into that smooth, perfectly polished tone she used for the court. "I would like a moment to discuss a few private matters with my grandmother before we depart. You should go speak with my father about the army and our marching orders."
She leaned in, her height barely reaching his shoulder, and pressed a lingering, deliberate kiss to his cheek. The faint, sweet scent of crushed white roses from the night before still clung to her skin.
Alaric’s flat expression didn’t change, but he gave her a single, slow nod.
"Don’t take too long," he rumbled.
///
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