"You make a very compelling argument," Alaric agreed, a slow, dark smirk spreading across his face. He looked at the three of them, thoroughly impressed by how effortlessly his wives managed his physical needs.
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees as his expression sharpened into something much more serious. "But I am also taking Prince Oberyn's three daughters with me."
Sansa frowned slightly, her protective instincts immediately flaring. "The Sand Snakes? Why? They were offered to serve the household here."
"Because they aren't just noblewomen," Alaric explained flatly. "They are three of Dorne's deadliest assassins. Obara is a killer, Nymeria hides daggers in her silks, and Tyene is a master poisoner. Leaving them to wander the halls of the Ivory Cloud Palace while you three are carrying my child is a massive security risk. I don't care how efficient the Black Night Maids are; I am not leaving three vipers alone in the nest with my children while I am hundreds of miles away."
Roslin shuddered slightly at the thought, wrapping her arms around herself. "Take them," she agreed immediately. "Please. I wouldn't sleep a wink knowing they were in the palace."
"I intend to," Alaric said. "Taking them on the march keeps Dorne's sharpest weapons exactly where I can see them. Under my boot."
Margaery let out a soft, delighted hum. She rested her elbow on the arm of the stone bench and leaned her chin gracefully onto her palm. Her clever brown eyes gleamed with pure, wicked anticipation as she looked at Alaric.
"A brilliant move, husband," Margaery purred, a highly amused smile curving her lips. "But I do have to wonder... they are famous for their toxins. What exactly will their reaction be when they inevitably try to slip a lethal dose of manticore venom or tears of Lys into your wine, and you just swallow it down without even blinking?"
Alaric's deep, chest-rattling chuckle filled the humid air of the garden. He leaned his head back against the stone, a genuinely wicked smirk matching Margaery's own.
"I'll just swallow it, compliment the vintage, and ask for a second pour," Alaric said smoothly. His dark eyes gleamed as he leaned in a fraction closer. "I imagine they will be thoroughly confused when their deadliest toxins just make the wine taste a bit more interesting."
Sansa let out a soft, amused laugh, while Roslin shook her head at the sheer arrogance of the statement.
Before Margaery could offer another wicked quip, Alaric shifted his weight. He reached out, his large hand wrapping firmly around the back of Margaery's neck, his thumb resting gently against her jawline.
Margaery's breath hitched, the playful amusement instantly melting away as his dark, heavy gaze locked onto hers. He didn't give her a chance to speak. He pulled her in and captured her lips in a deep, consuming, and fiercely demanding kiss.
It wasn't gentle. It was a searing promise of exactly what was coming later that night. Margaery melted against him instantly, her hands flying up to grip the thick leather of his tunic as a soft, helpless hum vibrated in the back of her throat.
When Alaric finally pulled back, Margaery was completely flushed, her lips swollen and her brown eyes heavily glazed. She blinked, her chest heaving as she tried to remember how to breathe.
Then, her gaze flicked to the side, catching Sansa and Roslin watching them with equally flushed, heated expressions.
The practical, organizing side of Margaery Tyrell suddenly snapped back online. She realized exactly how much time they needed to get the master bedchamber ready, the oils prepared, and themselves bathed for the four of them to share his bed properly.
She planted both of her hands flat against Alaric's broad chest and gave him a firm, determined shove.
"Alright, out," Margaery demanded, her voice still a little breathless but taking on a highly bossy, authoritative tone. "Go away, husband. Shoo."
Alaric raised an eyebrow, not moving an inch. "You're kicking me out of my own garden?"
"Yes!" Margaery insisted, waving her hand at him dismissively as she practically pushed herself off the stone bench. "We women have extensive preparations to make for tonight, and you are being a massive distraction. Go look at your maps. Go yell at a general. Go find the Lannister girl and tell her to pack her bags!"
Sansa stood up, smoothing her dark skirts, a bright, eager smile on her face. "She's right, Alaric. We need the rest of the afternoon. We will send for you when the sun sets."
"Don't be late," Roslin added shyly, offering him a sweet, incredibly promising smile before she immediately looped her arm through Sansa's.
Alaric let out a low rumble of amusement as he stood up from the fountain. He looked at the three beautiful, powerful women who had just successfully banished the King of Westeros from his own courtyard.
"Sundown," Alaric promised, his voice a dark, rough purr that sent a visible shiver down all three of their spines. "Make sure the doors are locked."
He turned on his heel and strode toward the heavy glass doors, leaving them to their plotting.
...
The transition from the humid, sunlit gardens to the quiet, pristine corridors of the guest wing gave Alaric a moment to shift his focus. He left the scheming of his three pregnant wives behind, his mind easily compartmentalizing the domestic bliss and turning back to the brutal logistics of his empire.
He reached the heavy oak doors of the guest chambers and pushed them open without knocking.
The room was spotless, already attended to by the Black Night Maids. The messy, crimson-stained furs from the night before had been completely replaced, and the air smelled faintly of lavender and warm water.
Myrcella was sitting near the edge of the large bed. She had already been bathed, her golden hair brushed until it shone, falling softly over her shoulders. She was wearing a simple, elegant dress of pale crimson silk. It wasn't the overly embroidered, heavy gold she used to wear in the Red Keep; it was understated, comfortable, and distinctly lacking the Lannister lion.
When she heard the door click shut, she immediately stood up, offering a clumsy, hurried curtsy.
"Your Grace," she murmured softly.