GOT: My Secret Lover is sansa-Chapter 122 Margaery Tyrell [R-18]

Margaery didn’t make him wait. She reached for the ribbon at her shoulder and pulled. The sheer silk shift whispered against her skin as it slid down, pooling into a halo of white fabric around her ankles.

She stood before him completely bare in the flickering orange light of the brazier. Thanks to the Vital Supremacy, her skin was flawless, radiating a healthy, vibrant heat. The dark bruises from their first night had already faded into faint, golden shadows. Instead of the crushing exhaustion she expected, her blood thrummed with a strange, restless energy.

She unstoppered the heavy crystal bottle. Holding it over her chest, she slowly tipped it forward.

The thick, sweet-scented oil cascaded over her collarbones and traced the swell of her breasts, catching the firelight like liquid gold. She reached over and set the bottle aside on the small wooden table. Bringing both hands up, she began to slowly smooth the slick, warm liquid directly into her own skin. 𝗳𝐫𝚎𝗲𝚠𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝘃𝚎𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝗺

She dragged her soft palms over her collarbones and down the heavy curve of her breasts, distributing the golden sheen evenly. The scent of crushed white roses and almonds filled the hot air of the tent as she slid her oiled hands down her ribs, finally letting them rest firmly against her own hips.

"The North might be hard and unyielding, husband," Margaery murmured, her voice dropping into a low, confident purr as she crawled onto the mattress, her slick knees sliding effortlessly over the white furs. "But the Reach knows exactly how to adapt."

She moved over him, her oil-slicked thighs straddling his waist. She leaned down, the heavy scent of crushed white roses and almonds enveloping them both as her chestnut hair fell like a curtain around their faces.

Alaric didn’t answer. He reached up, his large hands gripping her slick waist, and pulled her down into a hard, hungry kiss.

Margaery broke the kiss just enough to catch her breath. She shifted her weight, reaching down between them. Her oil-coated fingers found the thick, heavy head of his shaft, guiding him exactly where he needed to be.

With a steady, breathless sigh, she slowly sank down onto him. The generous coat of almond oil made the brutal stretch incredibly smooth, allowing her to take his massive size all the way to the hilt without a single wince.

Once she was completely full, Alaric’s hands tightened on her hips. He took control, thrusting upward into her with a heavy, relentless rhythm. Thanks to the Vital Supremacy passive thrumming in her blood, Margaery didn’t tire. Her body absorbed his monstrous size and pace perfectly, letting her ride him hard without breaking.

As the night wore on, Margaery completely lost herself in it. Her moans turned into loud, breathless cries that echoed right up to the canvas roof. Alaric knew there were five thousand men sleeping just outside.

He gripped her oiled hips tighter and ground his jaw.

System, he commanded silently. Deploy sound barrier.

[SYSTEM COMMAND ACCEPTED: 50 MP CONSUMED.]

[EFFECT: 10-METER SOUND BARRIER ESTABLISHED AROUND COMMAND TENT.]

Outside, the Tyrell guards stood at strict attention in the dark. All they heard was the rustle of the summer wind and the crackle of the campfires. They had no idea that just a few feet away, their Lady was screaming her husband’s name.

...

The Morning

The first light of dawn filtered through the heavy green silk of the pavilion, bathing the interior in a hazy emerald glow.

The command tent was a scene of total, unapologetic destruction. Expensive maps of the Stormlands had been swept onto the floor, stained translucent with golden oil. A heavy silver goblet lay overturned on the Myrish rug, surrounded by discarded clothes.

Margaery lay sprawled across the ruined white furs, her chest heaving in rhythmic, satisfied gasps. Her hair was a wild, matted halo around her flushed face. Despite the System passive actively knitting her muscles back together, the sheer sensory overload of the night had left her in a state of heavy, blissful shock.

She shifted slightly, grimacing at the sticky, cooling dampness of the oil, sweat, and the heavy amount of his seed pooling between her thighs. She looked down at the absolute mess of the bed, then up at Alaric. He was already sitting on the edge of the mattress, his broad back a map of hard, corded muscle.

"Husband..." Margaery rasped, her voice entirely blown out. She pushed herself up, resting her chin on his massive shoulder, her bare, slick breasts pressing against his skin.

She looked around the devastated tent again, a faint, tired smile touching her swollen lips.

"The poor servants," she muttered, wiping a stray smear of oil from her collarbone. "It’s going to be a living hell for them to clean this."

Alaric turned his head, his eyes catching hers. He reached back, his hand cupping her cheek, his thumb dragging lightly across her jaw.

"Don’t worry about the mess," Alaric rumbled, his voice low and entirely unbothered.

He didn’t even blink. He just stared at the ruined bedding and reached out with his mind.

System, he commanded. Purify the environment. Myself, Margaery, and the tent.

[SYSTEM COMMAND ACCEPTED: 3 MP CONSUMED.] > [CLEANSING PROTOCOL INITIATED.]

A soft, shimmering pulse of stark white light—like the sudden glint of sun on fresh snow—swept violently through the pavilion. It started at the edges of the rug and rippled inward.

Margaery let out a sharp, startled gasp as the light washed over her bare skin.

The sticky, heavy sheen of almond oil vanished instantly. The cooling dampness between her thighs evaporated, leaving her skin feeling perfectly soft, dry, and as fresh as if she had just stepped from a steaming, scented bath. Even the tangled, matted mess of her hair smoothed itself out into pristine, silky waves.

The tent fared even better. The oil-stained furs bleached back to a brilliant white. The damp patches disappeared. The heavy parchment maps snapped back onto the wooden table, the grease marks lifted entirely. The air itself, previously heavy with the thick musk of sex and sweat, was suddenly crisp and neutral.

Margaery sat bolt upright, her hands clutching the edge of the miraculously pristine furs. She looked at her arms, then her chest, then stared wide-eyed at the spotless bed. Her jaw dropped. She was a woman who dealt in politics, lies, and tangible power—this completely shattered her understanding of the world.

"Alaric..." she breathed, her voice laced with pure shock. She dragged a hand down her own perfectly dry, smooth thigh. "How...? There was no water. No maids. You just..." She looked up at him, her sharp mind racing. "What kind of power is that?"

Alaric stood up. He didn’t bother explaining the mechanics of his System or the points he had spent. He simply liked the way she looked at him right now—with a potent mixture of awe, realization, and absolute devotion.

A rare, dark smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He reached down, grabbed his heavy leather trousers, and pulled them on in one smooth motion.

"I told you not to worry about the cleaning, Little Rose," Alaric said, his voice dropping into a possessive, amused rumble.

He walked over to where her green riding leathers were draped over a chair and tossed them onto the bed next to her.

"Now, stop staring at the furniture and get dressed," he ordered, his eyes pinning her in place. "The army is waiting."

Margaery caught the clothes against her chest. She bit her bottom lip, her shock rapidly transforming back into that familiar, playful Tyrell spark.

"Little Rose?" she mused, her voice regaining its melodic tilt as she easily swung her legs out of bed, marveling at the complete lack of pain in her joints. "I suppose that’s better than being called by name.... Give me a moment, my lord. Your rose needs to find her boots."