The sensory overload short-circuited Margaery's mind. The relentless pace and the sheer weight of being completely pinned down pushed her past her limits.
Hot tears pricked her eyes, spilling over her flushed cheeks to mix with the sweat and steam. They weren't tears of pain or fear, just the raw physical reaction of completely losing control. She surrendered utterly.
Her body clamped down around him in a tight spasm. Margaery broke, her spine bowing rigidly off the stone as a muffled, desperate cry vibrated into his hand. She shook uncontrollably, her nails digging into his shoulders as wave after wave of pleasure hit her.
Her intense reaction was the final push Alaric needed. A low groan rumbled in his chest. He drove forward one last time and finally let go.
Beneath him, Margaery gasped against his palm, her eyes wide as she felt the sudden, intense heat of his release. He emptied himself into her, a heavy warmth that pooled in her belly, pushing her into another shuddering aftershock.
He kept her pinned against the warm marble for a long moment, his chest heaving against her flushed skin. Slowly, the tension began to leave his muscles.
With deliberate care, Alaric loosened his grip. He moved his hand from her throat, the pressure vanishing instantly. A second later, he lifted his palm from her mouth.
Margaery gasped immediately, sucking in a ragged breath of the damp air. Her chest heaved as she fought to catch her breath, her wet hair plastered to her face. Her eyes were half-closed, glazed over with exhaustion. All her usual courtly composure was gone; she lay completely limp against the stone, too weak to move.
Slowly, Alaric started to pull back. The sudden loss of his weight drew a weak whimper from her. As he fully withdrew, the physical evidence of what had just happened spilled out, dripping slowly onto the pale marble.
Alaric hovered over her, resting his weight on his arms as he caught his breath. He looked down at the tears drying on her cheeks, the faint red marks on her throat, and the absolute mess he'd made of her.
Margaery lay still for a long time. The only sounds were the rushing waterfall and the ragged hitch of her breathing. Slowly, her breathing steadied as she started to recover. She let out a long sigh, her eyelids fluttering as she turned her head to look up at him.
Alaric didn't move away. He lowered himself back down, resting his forearms on the stone beside her head. He brushed a wet strand of hair from her cheek, his thumb lightly tracing the fading marks on her neck. He leaned in, his lips hovering near her ear.
"Ready for another?"
Her answer was a breathless nod.
For the next hour, they chased that high several more times, moving in a feverish, hushed rhythm on the marble. Every time Margaery got too loud, Alaric was there, his hands firmly silencing her cries, keeping their activities completely hidden from the two women sleeping at the far end of the room.
Eventually, exhausted and sore, they slipped back into the warm water of the pool.
Margaery leaned back, resting comfortably against his chest. The blue light and the fire illuminated the faint marks left on her skin—red lines on her neck and darker bruises forming on her thighs. She let out a contented sigh, lazily tracing circles on his forearm as he held her waist.
Even exhausted, her mind was still working. She tilted her head back against his shoulder, her damp hair clinging to his skin.
"Oberyn Martell," Margaery murmured, her voice still a little raspy. "He plans to offer his daughter to you, you know. To secure Dorne's favor."
Alaric just hummed, resting his chin near her temple as his hand idly stroked her stomach. "Is that so?"
"Mmhmm," she replied, a knowing smile touching her lips. "Not as a wife, obviously. He knows that spot is taken. But as a paramour... a concubine." She shifted slightly in his arms, her bare skin sliding against his. "They say she's beautiful. I imagine you'll enjoy her... and I don't believe for a second she'd be able to do anything against you, no matter what her father is plotting."
"Speaking of paramours..." she whispered, her voice dropping into a secretive, velvet tone. "I have a gift for you soon. Something I've been arranging. I think you'll like it very much."
Before Alaric could ask what exactly she was scheming, Margaery pulled back with a satisfied little smile.
She kissed his jaw, then pushed herself off his chest. Sliding backward through the water, she moved toward the far edge of the pool and sank down until the warm water reached her chin, her dark eyes gleaming with quiet triumph.
An hour later, the heat of the spring had melted away the last of the day's exhaustion.
Sansa and Roslin were finally awake. Having had enough of the hot water, they sat together on a wide marble bench near the fires. Wrapped tightly in thick white towels, they were chatting quietly in the humid air.
Their conversation stopped the second the water rippled.
Margaery climbed out of the pool. Water cascaded off her flushed skin in the dim light. She grabbed a towel from the stack and wrapped it securely around herself.
As she walked toward the bench, a heavy, suspicious silence fell over the other two women.
Sansa narrowed her eyes, watching Margaery approach. Beside her, Roslin clutched her towel tighter, her eyes going wide as her face turned bright red.
Despite Margaery's calm expression, she couldn't hide the physical evidence of the last hour. Fading red marks stood out clearly on her neck, along with darker bruises on her thighs.
But the real giveaway was her walk. Margaery usually glided gracefully, but now she moved with careful stiffness, an unmistakable wobble in her step as she crossed the marble floor.
Sansa crossed her arms. "Sleep well, Margaery?" she asked dryly.