GOT: My Secret Lover is sansa - Chapter 169 New place?

Chapter 169: Chapter 169 New place?

As he did, he took a deep, slow breath. Beneath the harsh, sharp scent of the cheap camp soap she had been given, he could smell her actual scent—something warm, sweet, and heightened by the rapid thumping of her pulse.

He let out a low, heavy sigh, the warm air brushing over her collarbone and sending another shiver straight through her.

“We should head back,” Alaric muttered, his lips still grazing her skin as he spoke. His voice was a rough, quiet rumble. “I have a war council waiting for me.”

He lifted his head, his eyes meeting her dazed green ones. A knowing, wicked smile touched the corners of his mouth. “Because if we stay up on this hill much longer, Myrcella, I’m not going to stop. And the damp dirt is no place for your first time.”

Myrcella’s breath hitched. Her face burned even hotter, completely overwhelmed by the blunt honesty of his words. She gave a jerky, helpless nod, her fingers finally loosening their tight grip on his broad shoulders.

Alaric pushed himself up, effortlessly lifting his heavy frame off her. The sudden loss of his weight and his radiating heat made the morning chill bite instantly at her skin. Myrcella shivered, pulling the heavy wool of her cloak tight around her chest.

He stood up and offered her a hand. Myrcella placed her hand in his, and he pulled her to her feet with an easy, gentle tug, steadying her by the waist until she had her balance. He reached out and carefully adjusted the cloak, making sure her hood was up and the dark purple bruise he had just left on her neck was completely hidden from view.

“Come on,” he said smoothly.

He turned and swung himself back onto the black warhorse. Reaching down, he grabbed her by the waist and hauled her right back up into the saddle, settling her sideways against his chest just like before.

Myrcella immediately leaned back into his heat, her mind still spinning as Alaric snapped the reins and guided the horse back down the hill toward the waking camp.

By the time they reached the bottom, the camp was fully awake. The smell of woodsmoke and roasting meat filled the air. Soldiers were drilling, and supply wagons rolled through the muddy paths.

Alaric rode straight through the busy camp. The men bowed as he passed, completely unaware that the girl hiding in his coat was Cersei Lannister’s daughter.

He stopped in front of her small tent. The massive, red-armored guard was still standing exactly where they had left him.

Alaric swung down from the saddle and easily lifted Myrcella to the ground. He didn’t let go right away, guiding her through the tent flap and stepping inside with her.

The chill of the dying fire was immediate, and Myrcella pulled the cloak tighter around herself.

Alaric looked down at her. “You aren’t a prisoner in a cage anymore, Myrcella. You can leave this tent whenever you want.”

She looked up, surprised. “I can?”

“Yes,” Alaric nodded, his face turning serious. “But you don’t take a single step outside without the guard.” He nodded toward the entrance. “This camp is full of men who lost family to your grandfather’s army. To them, you’re just a Lannister. There’s a lot of hate out there.”

Myrcella swallowed hard, fear creeping back into her eyes.

“The guard outside one in the redish armour is very loyal, and he only answers to me,” Alaric said, reaching out to push her hood back. “He’ll make to keep you protected. Let him do his job.”

Myrcella nodded quickly. “I understand.”

“Good.” His expression softened slightly. “And you don’t have to sit in here alone all day. If you want company, go to the main tent. Introduce yourself to Sansa, Margaery, and Roslin.”

Myrcella tensed. The idea of walking in to meet his wives—women whose families her own family had fought against—was terrifying.

“Will they… want me there?” she asked nervously.

“Sansa knows who you are, and she knows you aren’t your mother,” Alaric said smoothly. “Margaery suggested I take you in the first place, and Roslin is too nice to hold a grudge. They know you’re with me now. They won’t bite.”

He took a step back, resting his hand on his sword hilt. “Get some rest.”

“Thank you, Alaric,” she whispered. It was the first time she had used his actual name, and the slight blush on her cheeks showed how big of a step that was for her.

Alaric gave a single nod, turned, and left the tent.

Myrcella stood there alone. Her heart was racing, her lips were still tingling, and for the first time in months, she actually felt safe.

Alaric stepped out of Myrcella’s tent and let the heavy canvas flap fall shut behind him. He took a deep breath of the crisp morning air. The camp was fully alive now, filled with the sounds of thousands of men preparing for war.

He started walking back toward his main command pavilion, his mind shifting from the Lannister princess to How to completly destroy Stannis Baratheon.

Before he made it halfway, a man stepped out from between two supply wagons, perfectly timing his approach to intercept Alaric away from the main thoroughfare.

“Your Grace,” the scout said, dipping his head in a brief, practical bow. His voice sounded completely normal, rough and grounded.

“Report,” Alaric said, keeping his voice low as a group of spearmen marched past them.

“I’ve finished sweeping the perimeter outside the capital,” the scout replied. “About two miles west of the Mud Gate, right along the Blackwater. There’s a massive, raised bluff overlooking the river.”

“It’s the perfect spot for the new royal palace,” the scout said casually. “Flat, defensible, and huge. Plenty of room to build.”

Alaric raised an eyebrow. “But its completely outside the city walls?”

“King’s Landing is a mess, Your Grace,” the scout said with a shrug. “Half of it is burned, the streets are crawling with spies, and it smells like an open sewer. Rebuilding over Tywin’s ashes is just going to slow you down.”

The scout crossed his arms, a cocky, very human smirk appearing on his face. “Besides, we don’t need stone walls to hide behind anymore.”

He raised a hand and pointed past the camp, gesturing up toward the ruined peak of Aegon’s High Hill. The morning sun was shining directly on the massive, thirty-foot stone gargoyles perched on the edge of the crater.

“Put a few of those at the front gates of the new palace, and who exactly is going to mess with us?” the scout asked. “Let the realm see it from miles away. We don’t need to cower behind a city wall.”

Alaric looked up at the gargoyles, then back at the scout. He considered the idea. From a tactical standpoint, building a fresh stronghold exactly the way he wanted it, using the System’s construct option, was far more efficient. And symbolically, placing a massive, magically constructed palace outside the traditional walls would send a clear message: the old rules of Westeros were dead.

A slow, satisfied smile touched Alaric’s lips. “You make a fair point.” He gestured toward his command tent. “Come inside. Show me exactly where this bluff is on the map.”

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