GOT: My Secret Lover is sansa - Chapter 97

Chapter 97: Chapter 97

Margaery stopped reading. She stared at the parchment, her heart beating fast.

Lady Margaery,

A crown is a heavy thing to wear when the King who gives it to you spends his nights in your brother’s bed.

I also know a secret about the heir to the throne. > Joffrey is not so rightful. Do you want to know more? Let us meet.

— Alaric Thorne

She read the lines three times. Her brother Loras and King Renly. Only she and her grandmother knew about them. She gripped the paper tight. How did he find out?

“Alaric Thorne,” she whispered.

She stood up and walked to the window. The man used no polite court manners. He just stated facts and dangled the most dangerous secret in the westeros right in front of her.

Joffrey is not so rightful. If that was true…

Her hands shook slightly as she rolled the parchment back up. She crossed the room, grabbed the door handle, and pulled it open.

“Elin,” Margaery said to her maid. “Tell the guards I am going to my grandmother’s room. Right now.”

…

Hurrying down the stone hallway, Margaery bypassed a knock at the heavy oak doors of her grandmother’s rooms. She pushed them open and stepped inside.

Olenna Tyrell sat by the fireplace, poking at a burning piece of paper with an iron rod as she watched it curl into ash.

The younger woman stopped right in front of her, holding out the crumpled parchment. “Read this, Grandmother.”

Olenna shifted her gaze from the fire to her granddaughter. Setting the iron rod aside, she donned her reading glasses and took the page. As she read, the matriarch’s lips pressed into a tight, thin line. She scanned the harsh words a second time, the room silent save for the crackling hearth. Finally, she lowered her hands, letting the message rest on her lap.

“Alaric Thorne,” she said, her voice completely flat. “The ward of Winterfell.”

Margaery leaned closer. “How does he know about Loras and Renly? No one else in the Seven Kingdoms is aware.”

“People always talk, sweetling.” The older woman pointed toward the hearth. “But this boy has ears in places he shouldn’t. I just burned a very troubling report from the Riverlands.”

“Saying what?”

“He is leading twenty thousand Northern soldiers. Not Robb Stark, but Alaric Thorne.”

Her granddaughter frowned. “How does a mere ward get Northmen to follow him?”

“I do not know.” A manicured fingernail tapped against the heavy parchment. “But if his spies know our deepest secret, they are dangerous. And I think his claim about Joffrey might be true.” Looking back at the fire, Olenna’s eyes narrowed. “Think about the Hand’s Tourney. Cersei tried so hard to have him killed. That was not just anger over a public humiliation—that was fear. She wants him dead because of something he knows.”

Margaery kept her voice low. “If he’s right about Joffrey, then Tommen and Myrcella…”

“All golden-haired. Not a strand of Baratheon black among them,” Olenna finished, her fingers drumming the armrest.

“And Thorne knows. He knows about Loras, he knows the King’s true parentage, and he somehow has an army.” Margaery resumed her pacing. “How is a simple ward doing all of this?”

“It is more than just the Northern army,” Olenna said, leaning forward. “My scouts at the Twins report he has a personal guard. About twelve men, all easily seven feet tall. They wear heavy red and black armor with no family crests. They speak to no one. They just stand guard.”

Halting her pacing, Margaery asked, “Where did he find men like that? And how does he pay them?”

“I do not know,” the older Tyrell muttered, deep in thought. “There is someone behind him. Or some power. You don’t just show up with a private guard and secrets about the Queen’s children unless someone gave them to you. To know about Loras and Renly… that’s not a guess. That’s high-level espionage.”

“Then we need to find out who is pulling his strings,” Margaery pointed out, glancing back at the letter. “He wants to meet. If he actually has proof about Joffrey, we can’t ignore him. It gives Renly a legitimate path to the throne.”

“You aren’t thinking clearly.” Olenna shook her head. “Thorne didn’t send this to help Renly. A boy with that much power and information wants the Iron Throne for himself.”

Margaery scoffed. “The Throne? He has no claim. He’s a ward from a dead house. We have a hundred thousand soldiers in the Reach. If he tries to fight us, we’ll crush him. The numbers aren’t even close.”

The Queen of Thorns stood. She closed the distance between them, gripping her granddaughter’s chin to force eye contact.

“Twenty thousand men who choose to follow a stranger are worth more than a hundred thousand paid to fight,” Olenna said softly. “The North is cold and hard. They don’t follow just anyone. If they follow this ward instead of the Stark boy, they either believe in him or they fear him.”

She released the girl’s face and stepped back. “Never talk to me about rights to the throne. Aegon had no right to Westeros until he burned everyone who fought him. This boy has a plan, and he has backing. I’m never wrong about these things.”

Margaery rubbed her jaw, standing straighter. Her voice lost its dismissive edge. “You’re right, Grandmother. I let the size of our army make me careless.” She looked at the empty spot where the letter had been. “If he can make Northern lords follow him, hire strange knights, and uncover the Queen’s darkest secrets… he’s dangerous.”

“Good. Don’t forget it,” Olenna said, smoothing her skirts as she sat back down. “Arrogance is for the Lannisters, and look where it’s put them. Go to the desk.”

Taking her place at the small workstation in the corner, Margaery pulled out fresh parchment and picked up a quill. She glanced back over her shoulder. “What should I write?”

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