GOT: My Secret Lover is sansa - Chapter 111

Chapter 111: Chapter 111

Ned threw his weight against the heavy wood. The door groaned inward, spilling warm, yellow candlelight into the stagnant damp of the tunnel.

“Father!”

A small, ragged figure collided with him. Arya hit him so hard she nearly knocked him backward, her thin arms locking like iron vises around his waist. She buried her face in his filthy tunic, her small frame shaking with violent, gasping sobs.

Ned collapsed to his knees. The shattered bone in his leg screamed at the impact, but he dragged his youngest daughter to his chest, burying his face in her matted hair. Hot tears finally carved through the grime on his cheeks. Over Arya’s shoulder, he saw Septa Mordane huddled near a flickering hearth, a trembling hand pressed over her mouth as she wept.

From the darkest corner of the cellar, another man detached himself from the shadows. He wore the exact same unremarkable, dead-eyed face as their guide.

“I hold the watch,” the second scout rasped.

The beggar in the doorway gave a single, jerky nod, then turned and melted back into the lightless catacombs.

Hundreds of miles away, in the quiet of the Tyrell pavilion, Alaric opened his eyes and severed the tether.

High in the Red Keep, the heavy oak door of Sansa’s bedchamber was bolted shut.

Sansa sat huddled on the freezing flagstones, her crushed silk skirts pooling around her. Her throat was raw, her eyes swollen and burning. She rocked back and forth.

She stared blindly at the dark, pooling shadows beneath her heavy four-poster bed.

“Nyx,” Sansa choked out, her voice fracturing. “Why? You were right there. You could have stopped it. Why did you let them?”

The shadows did not shift.

A faint rustle of fabric sounded from the corner. A man stepped out from behind the heavy Myrish tapestries. He wore the drab, unmarked wool of a castle servant, but his face was perfectly, chillingly blank.

Sansa gasped, scrambling backward until her spine hit the solid stone wall. She knew that dead stare. It was one of his… mens.

The servant closed the distance without a sound. He didn’t draw a blade. Instead, the man dropped heavily to one knee on the cold stone. A rough, calloused hand reached out, the gesture so unnervingly gentle that Sansa completely froze as his thumb caught a fresh tear sliding down her jaw.

“Little dove,” the servant said.

The voice belonged to a stranger, but the cadence—the heavy, absolute authority anchoring the words—did not.

“Stop weeping. Your father breathes.”

Sansa’s breath hitched in her bruised throat. She stared deep into the servant’s empty eyes.

“Alaric?”

“It is me,” Alaric said through the scout’s mouth. “I am controlling this body. I used magic to swap your father at the last second. He is safe with Arya right now.”

Sansa let out a loud gasp. She covered her mouth with both hands, fresh tears of pure relief falling down her face.

“I cannot hold this tether long,” Alaric continued, his thumb resting heavy against her jaw. “You played your part perfectly today. Keep playing it. Be the Queen’s broken bird. But before I leave, you will hear this from me, not the castle gossips.”

His grip shifted, his fingers curling firmly under her chin to hold her gaze steady.

“To buy the swords of the Reach, I have agreed to wed Margaery Tyrell,” Alaric stated flatly, his voice a low, dominant rumble. “And on the march south, I claimed a daughter of House Frey. They are mine now, as you are.”

Sansa’s chest heaved. A sharp, sudden sting of jealousy flared in her blood, but the sheer, overwhelming weight of her father’s survival drowned most of it out. The bruising grip on her chin kept her anchored to the floor.

She swallowed hard, forcing her voice past the lump in her throat. “Margaery… Margaery was kind to me at the tourney.” She looked down slightly, her fingers knotting into her ruined silk dress. “But I don’t know this Frey girl.”

Alaric’s thumb brushed the tear track on her cheek.

“You have no need to fear her,” Alaric rumbled smoothly. “She is loyal, kind and she knows her place. You will get along.”

Sansa let out a fractured breath. She gave a slow, obedient nod against his grip.

Instantly, the heavy, suffocating weight vanished from the room. The servant blinked, the chilling intelligence draining from his eyes, leaving behind a hollow, empty stare. The man released her chin, stepped backward without a single sound, and melted back into the shadows of the bedchamber.

Sansa sat alone on the freezing stone. She wiped her wet face with the back of her hand and slowly pushed herself to her feet. Her father lived. Her King was coming.

Deep within the subterranean safehouse, the yellow candlelight flickered against the damp earth.

Ned Stark slowly pulled back from Arya, his hands trembling as he smoothed her matted hair. The blinding rush of adrenaline was fading, leaving behind the cold, agonizing reality of his broken body. He looked past his youngest daughter, his hollow eyes fixing on the heavy iron-bound door, and the dead-eyed scout standing before it.

The blood drained from Ned’s face.

“Sansa,” Ned rasped, his voice cracking with sudden, raw terror. “Sansa is still up there. With the Lannisters.”

He forced himself up. His shattered leg buckled instantly, sending a blinding flash of agony up his spine, but he caught the edge of a rotting wooden table to stay upright. His hand blindly searched the timber until his fingers closed around the hilt of a rusted iron shortsword left near a tallow candle.

He leaned heavily against the table, knuckles white around the grip, and turned to face the door.

“Stand aside,” Ned ordered. His breath came in shallow, ragged pulls. “I have to get my daughter.”

The Blood Scout did not twitch. His hands remained casually resting at his sides.

“No,” the scout said, his voice entirely devoid of inflection. “My orders are to hold you in this room.”

“I am her father,” Ned ground out, the desperation tearing through his stoic restraint. He dragged his ruined leg forward, raising the rusted blade with a shaking arm. “Get out of my way.”

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