GOT: My Secret Lover is sansa-Chapter 107

Margaery’s painted smile remained perfectly affixed, though a sudden stiffness pulled at the corners of her mouth. She smoothed the silk of her skirts, her rings clinking faintly as she folded her hands on the table.

"A bold proposition, Mr.Alaric," she murmured, her tone honeyed and perfectly measured. "I am deeply flattered. Yet, as the realm knows, my hand is already pledged to Lord Renly Baratheon. Our wedding preparations are well underway."

"Oh, spare us the blushing maiden routine, Margaery," Lady Olenna snapped, swatting the air with a gnarled hand. She leaned heavily over her cane, her sharp, hawkish eyes pinning Alaric to his seat.

"Let us strip the meat from the bone," the Queen of Thorns commanded. "You are a Northern ward. My soon-to-be goodson commands a host of a hundred thousand swords. Unless you have a second sun hidden in your breeches, you are in no position to make demands of Highgarden."

Olenna struck the carpet with her cane, the dull thud anchoring her words. "If your ambition is merely to ride south and pull Eddard Stark from the lion’s jaws, we might find common ground. Neither of us weeps for Tywin Lannister. But..."

She let the word hang in the quiet of the tent, her gaze turning cold.

Alaric held the old woman’s stare. The leather of his gauntlet creaked as he reached across the table, wrapping his fingers around the heavy silver chalice Margaery had poured for him moments earlier.

Margaery’s gaze tracked the rim of the cup. Olenna’s eyes never left his face.

He lifted the chalice and took a long, measured draught. The Arbor red rolled over his tongue—sweet, cold, with a faint, cloying undercurrent that coated the back of his throat. He swallowed heavily.

Instantly, a translucent blue pane materialized in his line of sight.

[WARNING: Foreign substance detected in bloodstream.]

[Toxin: Diluted Widow’s Blood - Slow-acting paralytic.] [

Gamer Body Passive Activated.]

[Status: Immune. Poison Neutralized.]

Alaric read the glowing text hovering over the table. He lowered the chalice, setting it back onto the polished wood with a quiet clink. He licked a drop of wine from his lower lip, folded his hands in his lap, and offered Olenna a calm, polite smile of his own.

Alaric caught the slight, betraying flick of Margaery’s eyes; she was watching the muscles of his throat work.

He didn’t break Olenna’s gaze. Instead, he raised the chalice again and took another, deliberate pull. He swallowed heavily, the sound distinct in the oppressive quiet of the tent, before bringing the silver cup down on the table with a sharp crack.

He leaned back, resting his hands casually on his thighs. "Does Highgarden always serve poison to parleying guests, Lady Olenna?"

Margaery’s painted smile finally fractured. The knuckles of her folded hands turned stark white.

Olenna’s fingers tightened on the carved head of her cane. For a fraction of a second, the deep lines around the old woman’s mouth went entirely rigid—the only crack in her armor before a perfectly placid mask slid back into place.

"I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean, Lord Thorne," Olenna said smoothly. "It is simply a robust Arbor red."

"Widow’s Blood," Alaric corrected. "Watered down. Enough to leave me upright in the saddle until I was leagues from your camp. A sudden seizing of the limbs, a tragic fall from a galloping horse..." He brushed a speck of dust from his leather breeches. "Elegant. But disappointing."

He leaned forward, letting his mud-caked vambraces rest heavily on the pristine Myrish lace of the tablecloth. The corner of his mouth twitched upward into a humorless, wolfish smile.

"I came to offer you a bloodless exit from a losing war," Alaric said, his voice dropping to a low, rough rumble. "And you answer with a coward’s draught."

Margaery’s Her gaze darted frantically from the drained chalice to the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of Alaric’s chest. Olenna’s knuckles were stark white against the dark wood of her cane. The Queen of Thorns stared at him not with anger, but with a dawning, rigid horror.

Alaric pushed his chair back. He rose to his full height, his heavy boots sinking into the thick carpets. He looked down at the two women.

"Let us see how well your wager on Renly pays out," Alaric said, turning his back to them and stepping toward the tent flap. "And let us see how long the man actually breathes."

"Mr Alaric , wait."

Margaery surged to her feet, her chair toppling backward with a clatter she ignored. The practiced velvet of her voice was gone, replaced by a raw, fraying edge.

Alaric paused. He didn’t turn, only angled his head to regard her over his pauldron.

Margaery drew a sharp breath, her chest heaving as she held her hands out, palms up and empty. "Please. Do not walk out of this tent. Look at this from our vantage, just for a moment."

Alaric remained silent. The heavy canvas of the tent flapped faintly in the wind outside.

She took a cautious step forward. "You sent a missive proving you hold a secret that would see my brother ruined. You march into our camp, mock the King we intend to crown, and demand my hand. What did you expect my grandmother to do?"

She pointed a trembling finger toward the poisoned chalice. "If a dangerous stranger walked into Winterfell with the power to annihilate House Stark, what would you do? You would kill him. We were only protecting our own."

Olenna remained seated, silent and still as a gargoyle, watching her granddaughter scramble to salvage the ashes of the meeting.

Alaric turned fully around. His gaze shifted from Margaery to the old woman, and then back.

"I would try to kill him," Alaric agreed softly. "But I wouldn’t fail."

Margaery swallowed, the bob of her throat visible in the dim light. "And we failed," she conceded instantly, tossing pride to the wind. "The point is made. You are something else entirely. We understand that now. You are immune to our weapons..."

Margaery closed the remaining distance between them, her empty palms still turned outward in surrender.

"Step through that canvas, and we are at war," she said, her voice dropping to a desperate, urgent whisper. "But you rode into this camp for a reason. You need Highgarden’s granaries, our gold, and our levies to forge this dynasty of yours. A tent full of corpses grants you none of that. So please... take your seat. No more tainted wine. No more mummer’s farces. Tell us how you intend to... take the irone throne and..."

Alaric’s gaze bored into her. Outside, the wind snapped the heavy pavilion canvas; inside, the air was suffocatingly still. Margaery stood rigid, a solitary bead of sweat tracing the curve of her neck, her eyes locked on the scuffed leather of his boots.