GOT: My Secret Lover is sansa-Chapter 126 Margeary Tyrell [R-18]

But as her gaze drifted back down to the parchment in her lap, the mischief was quickly replaced by the sharp, calculating intellect of a Tyrell. She tapped her fingernail against the heavy vellum.

"The scouting reports from the Riverlands are consistent," she noted, her tone shifting from playful to purely pragmatic. "Tywin Lannister has completely abandoned the field. He’s force-marched his entire army West, retreating behind the walls of Casterly Rock. That leaves the whole of the Harrenhal region totally uncontested. The Northern army should be sweeping in to take control of it as we speak."

She tilted her head, looking up at him from his shoulder. "Which begs the question, my love... why aren’t we marching straight on the capital? My father is asking it. All of your army captains are asking it. If Tywin has fled, there is no point in us diverting our forces. King’s Landing is practically sitting there with its throat bared."

Alaric leaned back slightly, his brow furrowing as he processed the strategic shift. He reached out, casually tracing a thumb over the spot on her lip where the chocolate had been.

"You’re right, of course," Alaric admitted, his voice a low, thoughtful rumble. "The path to the capital is clear. I just..."

He paused, shaking his head with a humorless scoff. "I didn’t expect it. Tywin Lannister is a proud, ruthless man. I fully expected him to make a stand. To give up on his daughter, his grandson, and the Iron Throne itself so easily, just to preserve his army’s numbers... it’s a cold, calculated move. Even for him."

Alaric stared at the maps strewn across the table in front of them, the pieces of the Great Game shifting in ways he hadn’t anticipated.

Margaery chuckled, a low, melodic sound that vibrated against his arm. She didn’t seem content with just the chocolate. With a slow, deliberate grace, she began to slide down from her chair, her silk skirts rustling against the rough floor of the tent.

As she moved, she hooked a finger into the neckline of her bodice, pulling the silk down just enough. The flickering candlelight caught the curve of her breasts, baring them to his gaze as she settled between his knees.

"The lords can wait for their war councils," she whispered, her eyes locking onto his with a predatory, playful heat. "A queen has many duties, Alaric, but none so important as ensuring her King is... focused."

She knelt between his legs, her hands resting high on his thighs. Alaric’s breath hitched as he felt himself growing hard beneath the heavy fabric of his breeches. Margaery noticed the shift immediately, a smirk playing on her lips.

"Inform me if anyone approaches, won’t you? It would be quite a embarrassment for my father to walk in on us now."

Without taking her eyes off his, she reached for the fastenings of his pants, sliding them down with agonizing slowness. He rested his hands in her hair, his fingers entangling in the dark curls as he kept a sharp ear out for the sound of guards or messengers outside the heavy canvas flap.

"They wouldn’t dare," Alaric rasped, his voice straining as she leaned forward, her tongue darting out to slowly lick the length of him.

The sounds of the army—the distant clatter of steel and the shouting of sergeants—seemed miles away. In the dim, flickering light of the tent, the world was reduced to the heat between them. Alaric closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sensation ground him.

"Take your time," he murmured, leaning his head back against the chair.

Margaery didn’t hesitate. She sank lower, her silk skirts pooling on the rug like a spill of wine. With Alaric’s breeches pushed aside, she leaned in, her tongue darting out to taste him first. She started with slow, teasing licks, moving from the base to the very tip with a series of soft, wet schlip sounds that made his hips jerk involuntarily.

Before taking him fully, she wrapped her hand around his length, giving him two firm, rhythmic strokes to gauge his heat. Her eyes stayed locked on his, dark and focused, before she finally parted her lips.

The silence of the tent was broken by a wet, heavy sulp as she enveloped his head, then slid further down. Alaric’s breath hitched, his fingers diving into her thick, dark curls to anchor himself. She was determined to take every bit of him, her throat working with a rhythmic, visceral gluck-gluck sound as she pushed herself to the limit. He could feel the intense heat of her mouth and the soft, slick pressure of her tongue. Even as she reached the back of her throat with a faint, desperate gagh, she didn’t pull back, intent on taking him all at once.

She was meticulous, her lips flared and tight, ensuring the hard edge of a tooth never ruined the sensation. The only sounds in the dim light were the squelching slap-slap of her face against his thighs and the strained, needy whimpers vibrating in her chest.

"Margaery, enough—" he groaned, his voice breaking, but she only gripped his thighs tighter.

When he finally broke, he surged into her. She didn’t flinch; she leaned into the rush, her throat working in deep, rhythmic swallows—a heavy, audible gulp... gulp... gulp—as she took every drop of his heat.

She stayed there for a heartbeat, her eyes watering slightly from the effort, before slowly pulling back with a wet, sticky pop. A thin, pearly string of saliva and cum stretched between them for a second before she caught it with her tongue. She leaned back in one last time, meticulously licking his tip clean with soft, lapping strokes until he was spotless.

Margaery stood up, her legs a bit shaky, and began to expertly button his breeches for him. Once he was decent, she smoothed out the front of her own gown, pulling the silk back up to cover her breasts and adjusting her skirts until the spilled "wine" of her dress sat perfectly once more. She pulled a silk cloth from her sleeve and wiped a stray smear from the corner of her mouth, her eyes bright with a triumphant, wicked heat.

Margaery smoothed her skirts, her fingers lingering on his belt. She stood tall, her regal poise returning even as her chest still heaved from the effort. She leaned in, her breath warm against his skin, a sharp, triumphant smirk playing on her lips.

"Well?" she whispered, her voice a low, husky purr. "How was my service, exclusive to my one and only husband? Did it satisfy...?"

"Satisfy what, Margaery?"

The voice was like a splash of ice water. Sharp, dry, and unmistakably elderly. The heavy canvas flap of the tent was pulled aside as Olenna Tyrell stepped in, her eyes sweeping over the room with the practiced ease of a woman who had seen everything and was rarely impressed by any of it.

Margaery spun around instantly, her back to her grandmother for a split second as she tried to force the blood to recede from her flushed cheeks. She quickly wiped the corner of her mouth one last time with her sleeve before turning a composed, if slightly too bright, smile toward the Queen of Thorns.

"Umm... nothing, Grandmother," Margaery said, her voice a bit higher than usual. "We were just discussing the... logistical satisfaction of the new supply lines. Perhaps you heard something else?"