GOT: My Secret Lover is sansa - Chapter 166 Arya

Chapter 166: Chapter 166 Arya

Alaric started walking. His mind was already on Myrcella, calculating exactly what he needed to say to secure her absolute loyalty before the sun came up.

He was halfway there when a small shadow detached itself from a nearby supply wagon.

Alaric stopped, resting his hand casually on the pommel of his sword. He had sensed someone standing there for a minute now but assumed it was just a restless scout.

The figure stepped into the dim light of a dying fire. It was Arya Stark.

She looked completely out of place in the sleeping camp. Her dark hair was a mess, and she wore a simple tunic and breeches instead of a dress. Her hand hovered near the slender Braavosi sword strapped to her hip.

Alaric looked down at her, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. The last time they’d spoken, she had lunged at him with a drawn sword, furious about his multiple marriages and convinced he had betrayed Sansa.

“If you’re here to swing that needle at me again, Arya, do it quickly,” Alaric said, his voice carrying easily in the quiet night. “I have a busy morning ahead of me.”

He expected her to shout. He expected the famous Stark temper to flare up, maybe followed by a foolish charge he’d have to just swat away.

Instead, Arya didn’t draw her sword.

She took two steps closer, stopping just a few feet away. She looked up at him, her grey eyes burning with an intense, conflicted energy. Her jaw tightened as she fought a visible battle with her own stubborn pride.

Then, catching Alaric completely off guard, she dropped to her knees in the dirt.

The thud of her knees hitting the hard ground was the only sound between the quiet tents. She bowed her head slightly, keeping her hands far away from her weapon.

Alaric’s hand slowly slid off the hilt of his sword. He stared down at her, his brow furrowing. “What are you doing?”

“You caught my blade,” Arya said, her voice tight, forcing the words out through gritted teeth. “When I tried to stab you. You didn’t even look at me. You just caught my wrist out of the air like I was moving through mud.”

“I have fast reflexes,” Alaric replied dryly.

“I had a dancing master in King’s Landing,” Arya continued, looking up at him. Her eyes were wide, filled with a dark, desperate hunger. “He taught me how to be quick. How to move like water. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to keep my family away from harm, and it wasn’t enough to even make you flinch.”

She gripped the fabric of her trousers, her knuckles turning white.

Alaric crossed his arms, looking down at her with a slow, calculating gaze. “So?”

“So I want you to teach me,” Arya demanded. Her voice broke slightly before she forced it steady. “I don’t want to learn how to dance anymore. I want to learn how to kill. I want to learn how to fight Dragons, and Lannisters, and anyone who tries to hurt my family ever again.”

She swallowed hard, looking straight at him.

“Teach me the sword. Please.”

Alaric stood perfectly still. The fierce, desperate ambition coming off the girl was obvious. She wasn’t asking for honor or glory. She had seen how brutal the world really was, and she realized the only way to survive it was to become just as lethal.

It was a ruthless, practical mindset. Alaric respected it.

He glanced over Arya’s head toward Myrcella’s tent. He didn’t really have time to play swordmaster to a little girl right now.

But looking down at Arya, he also knew that turning away a highly motivated Stark who was literally begging to be forged into a weapon was a waste of a perfectly good asset.

Alaric uncrossed his arms. “Get up.”

Arya quickly scrambled to her feet, wiping the dirt from her knees. She looked at him expectantly, holding her breath.

“I don’t teach ’dancing,’ and I don’t play with wooden sticks,” Alaric said, his tone flat and offering no comfort. “If I train you, it will be brutal. You will bleed, your bones will ache, and I won’t hold back just because you’re Sansa’s sister. You’ll fight my guards until you can’t stand, and then you’ll get up and do it again.”

Arya didn’t flinch. A fierce, dark smile slowly broke across her face. “I’m not afraid of bleeding.”

“Good,” Alaric muttered. He pointed back toward the main tent where Sansa was sleeping.

“Go back to bed. Rest while you can. Your lessons start tomorrow at noon….”

Arya gave a sharp nod. She didn’t waste time thanking him or asking questions. She spun on her heel and sprinted back toward the Stark tents, moving with a new, dangerous energy.

Alaric watched her disappear into the shadows. A faint smirk touched the corner of his mouth.

He turned back to the path and stepped up to the entrance of the guarded pavilion. The giant armored guard stepped aside in absolute silence.

Alaric pushed the canvas flap open and stepped into the dim, quiet tent, his eyes locking onto the blonde Lannister princess.

The heavy canvas flap fell shut behind Alaric, blocking out the morning sounds of the camp. The small tent was dark, lit only by a dying fire in the center. He walked across the thick rugs quietly, making barely a sound.

Myrcella stood near the far wall, her back to him. She was gripping the fabric, peering out through a small gap in the canvas. She shivered in her simple grey dress, clearly exhausted and on edge as she watched the guards outside. With her mother and brother locked in the damp cells beneath the city, she had plenty of reasons to be terrified.

Alaric crossed the room in three long strides, stopping right behind her. He was close enough to see her shoulders trembling and catch the scent of cheap camp soap. She still hadn’t noticed him.

He raised a hand and placed it on her shoulder.

Myrcella gasped sharply, jumping in surprise. She spun around, tangling her feet in her skirts, and backed hard into the canvas wall. Her green eyes were wide with panic.

“You need to pay better attention, Myrcella,” Alaric said, his voice low and calm. “In a war camp, turning your back to an open room is a good way to get a knife in your ribs.”

Myrcella struggled to catch her breath, a hand pressed to her chest. Once she realized who it was, the panic shifted into desperate compliance. She remembered the promise she’d made in the dungeons—she had sworn to do absolutely anything to keep her family alive.

“I—I’m sorry, Your Grace,” she stammered, quickly lowering her head. She dropped into a hurried, clumsy curtsy, trembling so much she almost fell over.

“I didn’t hear you come in. I was just… looking at the guards. I didn’t mean to pry.”

Alaric didn’t step closer. He stayed where he was, giving her a moment to let her heart rate slow down.

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