GOT: My Secret Lover is sansa-Chapter 127 good luck with that

Olenna snorted, her gaze lingering on Alaric’s slightly rumpled tunic before moving back to her granddaughter. "Logistics. Of course."

Margaery quickly sat back in her chair, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear and looking toward the maps to avoid her grandmother’s piercing stare. She cleared her throat, shifting the focus back to the war.

...

Harrenhal, The Riverlands

The massive, melted towers of Harrenhal loomed like the blackened fingers of a buried giant against the bleeding red sky. For months, this place had been the seat of Lannister power in the Riverlands, a fortress of terror. Now, it was a tomb of silence, the only sound being the rhythmic clatter of Northern hooves on the scorched stone of the courtyard.

Roslin sat straight in her saddle, her eyes narrowed as she surveyed the abandonment.

"They didn’t even burn the grain they couldn’t carry," Roslin noted, her voice steady despite the overwhelming gloom of the castle. "Tywin was in a desperate hurry."

Beside her, Rodrik Cassel pulled on his reins, his whiskers bristling as he spat into the dirt. He looked weary, but his eyes were sharp with the predatory hunger of a man who finally smelled the end of a long hunt.

"The reports are confirmed, My Lady," Rodrik rumbled, wiping sweat from his brow. "The Tyrell vanguard has already reached the edge of the Kingswood. From their position, it’s a week’s march to the gates of King’s Landing. At most."

He turned his horse slightly, pointing a gauntleted hand toward the South. "If we push the men and horses to their limit—ignoring the stragglers and the heavy wagons—we can be at the kings landing just three or four days behind them."

...

The Kingswood, En Route to King’s Landing

The vanguard of the Tyrell host marched with a steady, relentless rhythm, the ground shuddering beneath the weight of thousands of boots and destriers. Alaric rode at the head of the center column, Margaery at his side, her regal poise perfectly restored, though a knowing glint still danced in her brown eyes whenever she caught his gaze.

The sudden, sharp blast of a hunting horn cut through the ambient noise of the march, echoing from the front lines.

"Halt!" a captain’s voice roared, the command rippling down the massive length of the column. The rhythmic thud of boots ground to a dusty, disorganized stop.

Alaric pulled back on his reins, his mount shifting restlessly beneath him. He narrowed his eyes, peering down the rutted forest road. Emerging from the shadows of the old-growth trees was a small riding party—no more than five men. At their center rode a herald draped in a tabard quartered with the crowned stag of Baratheon and the roaring lion of Lannister. He carried a tall pole, a brilliant white banner of parley fluttering limply in the stagnant air.

"An envoy," Margaery murmured, her tone instantly cooling into a mask of political detachment. "From the capital."

"They’re getting desperate if they’re sending ravens on horseback instead of letting them fly," Alaric noted, signaling for his personal guard to fan out. He spurred his horse forward at a slow, deliberate walk to meet the riders in the space between the vanguard and the trees.

The herald looked pale, his eyes darting nervously over the sheer, terrifying size of the host waiting just behind Alaric. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, before pulling his mount to a stop a respectful dozen paces away. He fumbled slightly as he unrolled a heavy parchment sealed with crimson wax.

"Speak," Alaric commanded. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried a cold, supernatural weight that made the herald flinch.

"A-a message from the Iron Throne," the envoy stammered, before clearing his throat and attempting to project the false bravado required of his station. "From His Grace, Joffrey of Houses Baratheon and Lannister, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men."

"Get to the point," Alaric interrupted flatly.

The envoy visibly wilted, lowering the parchment slightly. "The Crown demands that this treasonous march be halted immediately. You are to break camp and return to the Reach, or face the absolute wrath of the Throne."

Alaric let out a low, mocking scoff. "Tywin Lannister is hiding behind the walls of Casterly Rock. The Crown has no wrath left to dispense. Try again, herald."

The envoy swallowed, his hands shaking slightly as he gripped the parchment. He looked terrified to deliver the next words, clearly aware that he was the messenger for a deeply cruel king.

"His Grace... His Grace explicitly commanded me to deliver this warning," the envoy pushed out, his voice trembling. "If your host takes one more step forward—if you break the tree line of the Kingswood and march on the capital—the King will not hesitate. He said to tell you... before, it was Ned Stark’s head on the steps of Baelor’s Sept. If you advance, it will be Sansa and Arya Stark’s heads this time. They will be spiked on the city gates for your vanguard to see."

Alaric stared at the trembling envoy for a long, agonizingly quiet moment. The tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a broadsword. Behind him, the Tyrell captains gripped the hilts of their weapons, waiting for their commander’s fury to explode.

Then, to the utter bewilderment of the herald, Alaric simply shrugged. 𝗳𝚛𝚎𝚎𝘄𝕖𝕓𝕟𝕠𝚟𝚎𝕝.𝗰𝕠𝐦

"Okay," Alaric said, his voice entirely casual, devoid of even a fraction of the panic the Crown had been banking on. "Do whatever you want. I mean... good luck with that."

The envoy blinked, his mouth falling open. He looked as if he’d been struck over the head with a mallet. For a moment, he just sat there, frozen in the heavy, oppressive aura radiating from the Lord in front of him.

"Well?" Alaric prompted, his voice dropping to a dangerously quiet register. "Turn the horse around. Or do you want to start the bleeding right here?"