GOT: My Secret Lover is sansa-Chapter 105
He had absolutely no intention of crawling south at the speed of a supply wagon. He would ride with the main host for the first week to ensure the marching lines were secure and that Tywin Lannister’s scouts saw the massive army bearing down on them. Then, in the dead of night, he would break away.
He would leave the Greatjon and Ser Rodrik in charge of the slow siege of Harrenhal. Meanwhile, Alaric would take some of his Blood Knights.
The [Blessing of the Sun] passive would keep his own stamina maxed out during the days. He would cover in three days what a normal riding party would cover in month.
He would leave Tywin Lannister trapped in a staring contest with twenty thousand furious Northmen, while he personally rode south to steal the Tyrell army right out from under Renly Baratheon.
Alaric turned his back on the rising sun and stepped back into the command tent to look at the map. The board was set.
...
Hundreds of miles to the south, the morning sun shone brightly over the golden domes and lush, tiered gardens of Highgarden. The air smelled of blooming roses and sweet summer fruit, a sharp contrast to the cold mud of the Riverlands.
Margaery Tyrell stood on a wide, sunlit balcony, staring down at a small piece of parchment. It bore a single drop of plain black wax. There was no house sigil, no polite greetings, no flowery court language.
Bitterbridge. Ten days from now.
Margaery traced her finger over the sharp, dark letters. She felt a strange mix of apprehension and deep curiosity.
"Bitterbridge," Margaery said aloud, her voice carrying over the sound of the singing birds. She turned around to face the shaded sitting room. "He guessed it, Grandmother. He knew exactly where we would want to meet."
Olenna Tyrell sat in a plush, velvet chair, sipping from a cup of iced arbor gold. She didn’t look surprised.
"He did not guess, Margaery," Olenna said dryly, setting her cup down on a small silver tray. "He knows Renly’s host is gathering there. And is aware we have a hundred thousand men camped in those fields. I intended to use Bitterbridge to intimidate him."
Margaery walked back into the room, the parchment still in her hand. "And yet, he agreed instantly. Ten days. He is marching straight into the jaws of the largest army in Westeros, and he doesn’t seem to care."
"Which confirms my suspicion," Olenna said, her sharp eyes narrowing. "The boy is either dangerously insane, or he holds cards we cannot see. A man does not walk into a lion’s den unless he knows he has the teeth to bite back."
Margaery paced toward a large, ornate mirror. She looked at her reflection—her soft brown hair, her delicate features, her light silk dress. She was beautiful, and she knew exactly how to use it. But Alaric Thorne was a hardened Northern commander who had just butchered his way through the Riverlands.
"What should I wear to the meeting?" Margaery asked, tilting her head as she studied her reflection. "Should I dress practically? Leather and heavy riding silks? To show him I am not just some soft southern flower?"
Olenna scoffed loudly. "Don’t be ridiculous. You are a Tyrell of Highgarden, not some unwashed wildling from the wolfswood. You will wear a dress of spun gold and deep green silk. You will look every inch the Queen you are meant to be. Men are simple creatures, Even the dangerous ones are easily distracted by a pretty face and a low neckline. Use the weapons the Gods gave you."
Margaery gave a small smile and turned away from the mirror. "Very well. Gold and green it is."
...
Seven days Passed
The Northern army was stuck in the deep mud of the Riverlands. The massive host moved slowly, exactly as Alaric had planned. Rain had been falling for three days straight, turning the roads into a thick, brown soup.
They were still miles from the ruins of Harrenhal, but Tywin Lannister’s scouts had already spotted them.
Inside his command tent, Alaric finished putting on his dark leather armor. Low fires in the braziers threw long shadows across the maps on his table. It was time to move.
He turned toward the bed. Roslin sat on the edge of the furs, her hands in her lap.
As Alaric fastened the iron clasp of his heavy cloak, she stood up. The sound of rain hammered against the tent canvas around them.
"Have a safe journey, my lord," Roslin said softly. She stepped closer and smoothed the damp leather over his chest. She looked up at him, her face full of devotion.
Alaric looked down at her. His face was a blank mask, but his glowing eyes stayed locked on hers. He reached out, grabbed her chin, and tilted her face up toward him.
"Stay close to Ser Rodrik and the Greatjon," Alaric said. His voice was a low rumble that cut through the sound of the storm. "Do not let the Northern lords question your power over your own men. You are the Lady of the Crossing. You answer only to me. Remind them of that if you have to."
"I will," she whispered, her breath hitching as he stared at her.
He gave her a short kiss, then stepped back to leave.
"Come back soon," she murmured. "I will be waiting."
