GOT: My Secret Lover is sansa-Chapter 115 THE CRIMSON VOW

A pane tore open in the middle of Alaric’s sight.

Not the usual soft blue. This one came in hard and ugly, flashing red so bright it stabbed at his eyes.

[CRITICAL ALERT: UNAUTHORIZED SOUL THEFT DETECTED.]

[WARNING: LETHAL THREAT. FACELESS ASSASSIN PRESENT IN THIS ROOM.]

Alaric went still.

His hands slipped from Margaery’s face.

The cheers from the lords blurred into a distant roar. The music from the balcony thinned out until it sounded far away, like it belonged to another room. His lungs forgot how to work. Every muscle in his body pulled tight at once. His right hand dropped to his side, easy as breathing, and stopped just above the iron hilt of his broadsword.

Margaery caught it at once.

Her smile stayed fixed for the crowd below, bright and graceful, but her eyes flicked to his. She saw the change in his face. The set jaw. The hard shine in his eyes.

"Alaric?" she whispered, barely moving her lips. "What is it?"

He didn’t answer.

He looked past her shoulder and swept the room.

The High Septon stood a few feet away, smiling blandly, one hand resting on his holy book. Alaric’s eyes stayed on him for half a beat. Is it you?

Then the front row. Mace Tyrell was dabbing at his brow with a silk cloth, red-faced and damp under the candles. Olenna sat beside him, still as stone, sharp eyes fixed on the altar.

The guards by the great oak doors gripped their spears. Green cloaks. Bright steel. Closed helms.

A Faceless Man could be anyone.

An old lord blinking behind jewels. A young knight with polished boots. A quiet handmaiden fussing with Margaery’s train. Anyone...

Then a servant stepped toward them with a silver tray in his hands.

Two cups of dark red wine trembled on the polished metal. Wedding wine.

Alaric’s gaze locked on him.

The servant’s face was pleasant enough. Forgettable. His hands looked steady.

Alaric stepped in front of Margaery and caught her arm, pulling her close against his side.

"Don’t touch the wine," he said.

His voice came out flat enough to frost glass.

Margaery stiffened. "Alaric—"

He shut his eyes for one heartbeat.

Then, System. Activate The Unclouded Eye.

When he opened them, the world sharpened.

Candlelight turned thin and harsh. Faces stood out in strange little pieces. The room seemed to hold its breath with him as he searched for the mark the System gave to things that meant death.

The High Septon. Nothing.

The guards by the doors. Nothing.

The servant—

There.

A thick red glow wrapped around the man’s body, dark as fresh blood, beating fast. Violent. Hungry. It was the strongest warning Alaric had ever seen.

The servant noticed him looking.

His smile dropped away.

Not faded. Dropped.

The warmth vanished from his face like a mask ripped off. His eyes went empty.

Alaric moved.

He shoved Margaery hard behind his back. Silk rustled. Someone in the front row gasped. 𝕗𝐫𝐞𝕖𝕨𝐞𝗯𝚗𝕠𝘃𝐞𝚕.𝐜𝗼𝚖

His hand closed around the broadsword’s hilt and dragged it free in one hard pull. Steel screamed against the scabbard.

The sound cracked through the sept.

The cheers died. The music cut off mid-note. Somewhere below, Mace Tyrell yelped, "What in the seven hells—"

The servant let the tray fall.

Silver rang against marble. Cups shattered. Dark wine spread over the white floor in a splash that looked too much like blood.

A slim black dagger slid from the servant’s sleeve into his palm.

Then he came forward.

Fast. Too fast. Faster than any servant had a right to move.

The blade shot toward Alaric’s throat.

Alaric tipped his head.

The dagger kissed empty air an inch from his skin.

He didn’t step back.

His left hand snapped up and caught the assassin’s wrist. He squeezed.

A crack split the air.

The dagger clattered to the floor.

In the same breath, Alaric swung.

The heavy iron blade tore through the man’s neck clean and brutal. The head struck the marble first with a wet, ugly sound. The body folded a moment later.

For one stunned second, nobody moved.

Then the blood came, rushing bright across the white stone.

Screams ripped through the sept. Lords stumbled over robes and benches. Ladies clutched their skirts and shoved for the doors. Someone started praying. Someone else threw up behind a pillar.

Mace Tyrell pointed at the corpse with a shaking hand.

"Guards!" he shouted, voice breaking. "Guards!"

The doors burst open.

Tyrell men poured in, green armor flashing, spears lowered as they rushed the altar. Alaric didn’t lower his sword. He shifted just enough to keep Margaery behind him and watched the room turn from wedding to panic in the space of a few breaths.

Then he made a choice.

A clean one.

He lifted his free hand and pointed.

From the back of the room, one Blood Knight stepped forward.

The giant looked less like a man than a siege engine someone had taught to walk. Seven feet tall, wrapped in jagged red-and-black armor, he moved with a slow, dreadful calm. Each boot struck the marble with a dull, heavy thud that seemed to travel up through the floor.

The Tyrell guards turned toward him, spears wavering.

The Blood Knight did not bother drawing a weapon.

He walked straight into the spear line.

Steel points slammed into his chest plate and skidded off with a harsh scrape. Shafts bowed. One snapped. Then another. Dry wood cracked in quick, helpless bursts.

The guards recoiled.

The giant reached out, caught two men by the front of their armor, and lifted them clear off the floor as if they were sacks of grain. Their legs kicked wildly in the air. One lost his helmet. It bounced across the marble and spun in a slow circle.

The room fell quiet.

Not truly quiet. There were still ragged breaths, muffled sobs, the hiss of candles. But the screaming stopped.

Every eye fixed on the giant holding two armed men as if they weighed nothing.

"Put them down," Alaric said.

The Blood Knight let them go.

Both guards hit the floor hard and collapsed in a heap, dragging in panicked breaths. The giant stepped back at once and stood still, silent and waiting.

Alaric turned to the crowd.

The dead servant lay at his feet in a widening pool of red, wedding wine and blood mixed together on the marble. The smell of iron hung under the incense now, sharp and ugly.

He pointed his sword at the corpse.

"This man was a assassin," Alaric said.

His voice carried cleanly through the sept. No shout. No strain. Just cold certainty.

"He came to murder me at my own wedding."

His gaze moved over the lords of the Reach, slow and deliberate. Men who had been laughing moments ago now looked pale and sick. Mace Tyrell stood frozen, silk cloth still clenched in his fist. Olenna sat very still, her lined face unreadable, though her eyes missed nothing.

A candle popped somewhere near the altar.

"If anyone in the South thinks of coming for me," Alaric said, "or for my wife, remember this floor. Remember this body. And remember how little it took to end him."

He lowered the sword, wiped the blood across the dead man’s clothes, and slid the blade back into its sheath.

Then he turned to Margaery.

She was breathing fast, color high in her cheeks, but her chin stayed up. Of course it did. The sept was a mess, half the Reach was close to fainting, and she still looked like a queen.

Alaric held out his hand.

She took it, fingers tight around his.

"The wedding is over," he said to the silent room.

His eyes swept over the blood, the broken glass, the guards still sprawled on the marble.

"Clean up the mess."