GOT: My Secret Lover is sansa-Chapter 132 Roslin

Alaric pulled back on his reins, bringing his horse to a halt. Margaery paused beside him, her sharp eyes studying the kneeling man.

"Report," Alaric commanded, his voice echoing off the stone buildings.

The Scout kept his head bowed. "The city is yours, My Lord. The Gold Cloaks have entirely surrendered the walls and the armories. However... the Queen Regent has made her move. Less than an hour ago, Cersei Lannister sent Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella away through a secret tunnel beneath Maegor’s Holdfast, escorted by Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard."

Margaery’s eyes narrowed slightly at the news of the royal heirs slipping the net, but Alaric’s expression didn’t change.

"I was unable to pursue them without abandoning my post and losing eyes on the throne room," the Scout continued smoothly.

"And Joffrey?" Alaric asked, his voice deadly calm.

"He did not run, My Lord. He is currently barricaded inside the Great Hall. He sent his remaining Kingsguard to retrieve Lady Sansa, but..." The Scout offered a rare, faint smirk. "...you know what happend to them..."

Alaric let out a slow, breath, his glowing eyes shifting up toward the massive red towers of the Keep. He didn’t look angry about the escaping children. If anything, he looked almost amused.

He adjusted his grip on his heavy leather reins. "How far do they really think they can run from me?"

The Blood Scout looked up, meeting his Lord’s glowing eyes, his own face a mask of absolute, zealous certainty.

"Nowhere, My Lord," the Scout replied, bowing his head once more. "Even the whole of Essos will be too small for them to hide from you."

Alaric spurred his horse forward, leaving the kneeling Scout behind as the massive army began the final ascent up the hill. The doors of the Red Keep were waiting.

"My Lord! My Queen!"

A shout broke through the steady rhythm of the march. A Tyrell commander, his green cloak spattered with road mud, galloped up from the rear of the vanguard. He pulled his horse hard to the side, bowing his head respectfully as he caught his breath.

"Report," Alaric said, not slowing his destrier.

"The River Gate, My Lord," the commander panted, his eyes wide with a mix of awe and urgency. "A Northern fleet has just passed through the gates to join our rear."

Right on cue, the dense crowd of smallfolk and Tyrell soldiers near the lower street began to part. The murmurs of the crowd shifted from fear to pure astonishment.

Marching up the cobblestone street was a fresh column of towering, red-plated Blood Knights.

Sitting atop a dark roan mare was Roslin Frey.

She wore a finely tailored riding dress of dark Northern wool, covered in a thin layer of road dust from the brutal, non-stop ride from the Riverlands. The moment she broke through the ranks of the Reachmen and her eyes locked onto the figure of Alaric in his simple armor, the exhaustion seemed to vanish from her face entirely.

Without waiting for her guards to halt, Roslin practically threw herself off the saddle. She didn’t care about the thousands of people watching, the Tyrell lords, or the towering Red Keep above them. She ran straight through the mud and threw her arms around Alaric’s waist, burying her face into the heavy leather and steel of his breastplate.

Alaric easily caught her, one heavy gauntleted hand coming up to rest gently on her back, his expression softening just a fraction.

A sudden, incredibly awkward silence fell over the Tyrell vanguard.

Dozens of Reachmen captains and knights exchanged wide-eyed, bewildered glances. They looked at the beautiful, dusty girl clinging to their commander, then slowly turned their heads to look at Queen Margaery sitting on her white mare right next to him.

Isn’t he the husband of our Lady Margaery? the collective thought seemed to echo through the ranks. Who in the Seven Hells is this girl?

The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on. A few of the older Tyrell lords looked like they were about to speak up, completely scandalized by the blatant disrespect to their Queen. But then they looked at the seven-foot-tall Blood Knights, and Alaric.

Not a single man had the courage to say a word. The silence remained absolute.

Margaery Tyrell sat perfectly still on her horse. She looked down at Roslin holding onto her husband.

She didn’t look angry. She didn’t look embarrassed. She just tilted her head slightly, her lips curving into a calm, knowing smile. She let the silence stretch for a long moment, watching the Tyrell lords shift uncomfortably in their saddles.

Alaric placed a heavy, gauntleted hand on Roslin’s waist. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.

"Rose," Alaric murmured, his voice low enough that only she and Margaery could hear. "I missed you too. But this isn’t exactly the best place for a romantic reunion."

Roslin froze. She slowly opened her eyes and looked around. She saw the endless rows of Tyrell soldiers, the massive walls of the Red Keep looming ahead, and the thousands of smallfolk staring at her in absolute shock. Finally, she looked up and met Margaery’s amused brown eyes.

The blood rushed to Roslin’s cheeks so fast she looked like a polished apple. She quickly let go of Alaric’s waist and took a hurried step backward, coughing awkwardly into her hand. She smoothed the front of her dusty riding dress and tried to stand as tall and dignified as possible.

"My apologies, My Lord," Roslin stammered quietly, keeping her eyes fixed on his breastplate. "I was just... very excited to see you back again."

"Me too...," Alaric replied smoothly.

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