GOT: My Secret Lover is sansa-Chapter 116 It’s my first time

Alaric’s grip on Margaery’s hand was warm and unyielding as he guided her down the white marble steps. The lords and ladies of the Reach scrambled backward, their rich silks rustling loudly in the echoing Sept. No one wanted to be within arm’s reach of Alaric, let alone the hulking, red-and-black-armored Blood Knight marching silently at their heels.

As they neared the heavy oak doors, the stunned silence finally shattered into a frantic buzz of whispers.

"Did you see how fast he moved?" an older lord hissed to his wife, his eyes wide.

"The spear just shattered," a young knight muttered, staring open-mouthed at the giant monster in steel. "Didn’t even dent the armor."

You could practically smell the panic shifting into opportunistic calculation. The lords of the Reach realized Alaric wasn’t just some Northern ward to be pitied or manipulated; he was SOMETHING. And they desperately needed to be on his good side. Like a flock of frightened sheep, they immediately swarmed toward Mace Tyrell.

Mace was still hovering near the altar, sweating heavily through his green-and-gold velvet doublet. His face was the color of curdled milk after watching a man lose his head, but the lords descended on him with eager praise.

"Lord Mace, you are an absolute visionary!" a plump lord gushed, bowing so fast he nearly tipped over. "To secure such a... formidable man for your daughter. Truly, an unmatched eye for strength!"

"Oh, absolutely brilliant," another chimed in, sidling closer with a wide, nervous smile. "The Lannisters have nothing on this. Lord Mace knew exactly what he was doing, bringing the greatest warrior in the world to House Tyrell."

"A masterstroke!" a third shouted over the din. "Highgarden is untouchable with a beast like that guarding our gates!"

Mace blinked. He looked from the headless assassin on the floor to the wealthy lords practically kissing his boots. His trembling stopped. He whipped out a silk handkerchief, dabbed the sweat from his brow, and visibly inflated his chest.

"Yes, well," Mace boomed, plastering on a perfectly arrogant smile. "Naturally! Highgarden accepts only the absolute best. I always knew Lord Thorne was the perfect match for my Margaery. We Tyrells plan for every contingency, after all."

From her carved wooden chair, Olenna Tyrell let out a sharp scoff. She rapped her cane hard against the marble floor. Watching her son take credit for surviving an ambush he hadn’t even seen coming made her roll her eyes, but she held her tongue. If the lords were busy bootlicking, it meant they’d stay loyal to the new alliance.

Alaric ignored the circus behind them. He shoved the heavy oak doors open, and bright, warm sunlight washed over them. Beside him, Margaery’s heart was still hammering against her ribs, but as the fresh air hit her face, a genuine, relieved smile finally broke through.

The heavy wooden door of their bedchamber clicked shut, sealing out the rest of the world. Alaric slid the iron bolt home with a solid thwack.

He unbuckled his thick leather sword belt, letting the heavy steel rest on a wooden table with a dull thud. Margaery released his hand. She walked to the center of the room, her green silk skirts swishing softly, and sank onto the edge of the massive feather bed. The fabric pooled around her ankles. She stared at the floorboards, taking quick, shallow breaths.

"...My lord?" she asked softly. She caught herself, a nervous flutter in her throat. "Husband?"

Alaric paused by the table, glancing over his shoulder. "Hmm?"

Margaery kept her hands neatly folded in her lap, letting her highborn training hold her steady even as her voice trembled. "If it’s alright to ask... who was that man in the Sept?"

Alaric turned, his heavy boots thudding slowly against the floor as he walked toward her.

"I only ask because I recognized him," Margaery murmured. "He poured wine in the hall yesterday."

Alaric stopped right in front of her. "You saw the servant’s face," he said, his tone completely level. "You didn’t see the man."

Margaery tilted her head, her brow furrowing. "I don’t understand."

"He was a Faceless Man from across the Narrow Sea," Alaric explained, his voice low and calm. "They take the faces of the dead and wear them like masks. The real servant you saw yesterday is already gone."

Margaery’s breath hitched, her brown eyes going wide. She had grown up swimming in the treacherous waters of high lords; she had heard the rumors. "The assassins from Braavos... I thought those were just dark tavern tales."

"They’re real," Alaric said. "And someone paid a mountain of gold to send one today."

Margaery sat completely still. Her gaze flicked from his broad chest down to his rough hands. A wave of pure awe washed over her. The deadliest assassin in the known world had just tried to slit his throat, and Alaric had snapped him like a twig without breaking a sweat.

"To stop our marriage," she whispered.

"Yes."

Alaric took the final step and sat beside her. The thick mattress sank deeply under his weight. He shifted toward her, reaching out. His hands were surprisingly gentle as they cupped her neck, his fingers sliding just beneath her ears. His thumbs rested lightly against her soft jaw.

Margaery looked up into his intense eyes. She could feel her own pulse racing against his thumbs, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned into the solid warmth of his palms.

"They wasted their gold," Alaric murmured. His voice was a deep, heavy rumble in the quiet room. "You’re mine now."

He tilted her chin up just a fraction and leaned in, pressing his lips firmly against hers.

Margaery gasped softly into the kiss. It started slow, but quickly deepened, growing heavy and urgent. His large hands held her face steady, anchoring her, while she brought her own hands up to grip the dark velvet of his doublet. The lingering chill of the assassin vanished entirely, replaced by the crushing heat of him.

When he finally pulled back, Margaery was breathless. Her lips were flushed and parted.

She looked up at him. Grandmother Olenna had trained her perfectly for this; she knew every expectation of the marriage bed and usually carried herself with unshakeable confidence. But sitting here, locked away with a man who could fight off unthinkable, the polished mask of the perfect lady slipped. She felt small, exposed, and entirely at his mercy.

She let out a shaky little breath. "Just... take care of me," she whispered, swallowing hard as her fingers tightened in his shirt. "It’s my first time. So... please, guide me if I do anything wrong."