GOT: My Secret Lover is sansa - Chapter 173 Three

Chapter 173: Chapter 173 Three

But he couldn’t just turn them away.

Rejecting the offer in front of the Tyrell vanguard would look like insulting Dorne right now was a waste of time. He needed them where he could see them.

He would accept their service today and figure out how to bypass the System’s bond mechanics later.

Alaric let the silence stretch. He met Obara’s hard glare, glanced at the copper wire braided into Nymeria’s hair, and finally looked at the quiet, demure way Tyene held her hands. He stopped tapping the pommel of his sword.

“I accept your offer, Prince Oberyn,” Alaric said. His voice was flat and carried no warmth. “They can serve my household.”

Oberyn’s smile widened, showing his teeth. He bowed smoothly, leaning his weight on his spear. “A wise choice, Your Grace. Dorne is honored.”

Alaric ignored the Prince and looked directly at the three women. “Understand this. You answer to me now. Not your father. If you step out of line, or if I catch you running whispers back to the Dornish camp….”

Obara’s jaw tightened. Her grip on her spear shifted, but she kept her mouth shut. Nymeria simply raised a dark eyebrow, looking mildly amused by the threat. Tyene dipped her head, offering a sweet, flawless smile.

“We are yours to command, Your Grace,” Tyene said, her voice soft and entirely harmless.

Alaric didn’t buy the innocent act for a second. “Good.”

He pulled back on the heavy leather reins, turning his black destrier toward the center of the camp. “Go to the main pavilion.

Tell the guards outside that you belong to my household now. Margaery will assign you your tasks until the new palace is finished.”

Let Margaery and the twenty Black Night Maids watch them, Alaric thought as he spurred his horse forward.

The maids didn’t sleep, missed nothing, and were lethal in tight quarters. They could easily babysit three Dornish assassins for a few days while he figured out a permanent solution.

He rode away, leaving Oberyn and his daughters standing in the dirt. He had much bigger problems to deal with right now.

…

Three weeks.

That was all it took for the ashes to settle and the reality of the new world to cement itself.

The Ivory Cloud Palace now stood as the undisputed center of Westeros, a sprawling, flawless fortress of white marble perched high above the Blackwater Rush. Down in the city, King’s Landing was already recovering at a terrifying pace.

Thanks to Margaery’s Mother of the Reach passive, the water in the wells had purified, disease had plummeted, and the surrounding farmlands were yielding unnatural amounts of grain to feed the starving smallfolk.

Margaery and Sansa had taken complete control of the city’s logistics, managing the dockmasters, the supply lines, and the Tyrell army with ruthless efficiency.

Roslin, on the other hand, had absolutely no interest in ledgers or troop movements. She spent her days enjoying the palace gardens, eating the rich foods Alaric summoned for her, and staying far away from the politics.

Even the war had stalled.

Alaric’s Blood Scouts reported that Stannis Baratheon had abruptly stopped his march north. Stannis was stubborn, but he wasn’t a fool.

After receiving reports of the hundred-thousand-man Tyrell host, the Northern vanguard, and the thirty-foot stone gargoyles guarding the new palace, Stannis had halted his forces in the deep south.

He was currently digging in, desperately trying to gather more sellswords and rethink a strategy that had completely unraveled.

Alaric didn’t care. Let him wait.

Inside the east wing of the Ivory Cloud Palace, the early morning sun filtered through the transparent crystal walls, bathing the master bedchamber in warm, golden light.

Alaric sat on the edge of the massive, fur-covered bed, his back resting against one of the carved wooden posts. The thick crimson sheets were draped over his lap, completely hiding the steady, rhythmic movement happening beneath them.

Alaric rested his head back against the wood, his jaw tight. The sensation was sharp, wet, and incredibly thorough. A low breath escaped his chest, his hands gripping the heavy furs as the pace beneath the blankets suddenly quickened into a desperate, pulling rhythm. It didn’t take long for him to hit the edge. He let out a rough groan, his hips driving forward a fraction as he finally let go.

The heavy crimson blanket was pushed back.

Sansa Stark sat back on her heels, her bare skin glowing in the morning sunlight. She didn’t pull away or spit. She swallowed heavily, taking down every last drop and making sure absolutely nothing was left behind.

She wiped a stray bead of moisture from the corner of her chin with the back of her hand and let out a soft, satisfied breath.

She straightened her posture, pushing a messy lock of red hair out of her eyes. As she looked up at him, the innocent, frightened girl from Winterfell was completely gone. In her place was a woman with a slow, incredibly dangerous smile.

“Margaery and Roslin,” Sansa said, her voice smooth and conversational, as if she hadn’t just been on her knees seconds prior. “The Grand Maester confirmed it yesterday evening. Both of their moon blood cycles are late. They are both with child.”

Alaric raised an eyebrow, his heart rate slowly returning to normal, he knew it was coming.

Sansa crawled forward over the mattress, straddling his lap. She rested her hands on his broad shoulders, her blue eyes narrowing with a fierce, competitive edge.

“My cycle arrived three days ago,” Sansa murmured, her nails lightly scratching the back of his neck. “I am not with child. I am lagging in the race, Alaric.”

Alaric wrapped his large hands around her bare waist, a deep chuckle rumbling in his chest. “Is that what this is? A race?”

“Of course it is,” Sansa replied without missing a beat. “I am the Lady of Winterfell. I refuse to be the last one to give you an heir.”

Alaric leaned forward, pulling her flush against his chest. He pressed his lips right next to her ear. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, his voice a rough purr. “We just have to try a bit harder. But we were doing it all night, Sansa. Is that not enough for you? Should I lock the doors and spend the whole day doing it?”

Sansa let out a soft, breathy laugh. She placed her hands flat against his chest and pushed him away just enough to break the contact.

“Tempting,” she said, her dangerous smile returning. “But no. Not this morning. I have a city to run, and Margaery is waiting for me to review the dock taxes.”

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