"Ohhh," Alaric muttered. "What about Tywin?"
Margaery's expression turned serious. "Quiet. Too quiet. Our scouts say the Lannister host is firmly locked behind the walls of Casterly Rock. They haven't marched east."
Alaric shifted his gaze, dropping his focus from Margaery's face down to her midsection. The emerald green silk of her dress still fell perfectly flat against her stomach. He turned his head and looked at Roslin. Her simple, loose-fitting dress hung just as loosely. There wasn't the slightest hint of a curve on either of them yet.
He reached out, resting his large hand flat against Margaery's stomach. She raised an eyebrow at the sudden attention but didn't pull away, letting her hand rest lightly over his.
"You're both still completely flat," Alaric noted, his voice a low, observant rumble.
Margaery let out a light, highly amused laugh. "It has only been a few weeks, Alaric. We aren't going to swell up overnight. It takes time to grow an child."
Alaric hummed, accepting the logic. But his hand didn't retreat. Instead, it slid slowly upward, his thumb brushing deliberately over the swell of her breast beneath the emerald green silk. He applied a firm, testing pressure, his dark eyes locking onto hers with a familiar, demanding gleam.
Margaery's breath hitched for a fraction of a second, but she didn't give in. She let out a soft, exasperated sigh and reached up, wrapping her fingers around his thick wrist. With a steady pull, she pushed his hand away from her chest.
"No," Margaery said, her tone a mix of amusement and strict practicality. "Not right now, husband. I told you, Roslin and I need to be careful. We are carrying your children, and we simply cannot keep up with your endless stamina right now."
Alaric let his hand drop to his side, leaning back against the cold stone of the fountain. He looked mildly disappointed but didn't argue.
"Which is exactly why we agreed you should take the Lannister girl," Margaery continued smoothly, adjusting the bodice of her dress. She picked up her porcelain cup from the silver tray, her clever brown eyes meeting his.
"Taking Myrcella keeps you completely satisfied at home. Because honestly, Alaric, Sister Sansa is already completely exhausted. If you expect the Lady of Winterfell to handle your appetites all by herself every single night, you are going to physically break her."
Alaric let out a heavy sigh, leaning the back of his head against the cold stone of the fountain. He couldn't argue with that.
He knew exactly why Sansa was exhausted. Over the last three weeks, the reality of the pregnancies had completely shifted the dynamics of his household. Not wanting to take any unnecessary risks with his heirs, Margaery had immediately handed over the grueling public court audiences and the heavy, hours-long logistical meetings.
Roslin had entirely abandoned her duties managing the kitchens and supply lines. They spent their days safely tucked inside the heated palace solars, reviewing light paperwork and staying perfectly comfortable.
Which meant absolutely every major administrative responsibility in the capital had fallen directly onto Sansa's shoulders.
The Lady of Winterfell had spent the entire month managing the dockmasters, staring down angry merchants, organizing the Tyrell army's supply chains, and dealing with her mother.
"She is handling the workload of three women," Alaric admitted, his voice a low rumble. "I suppose I can give her a break."
Margaery offered a highly satisfied smile, picking up her teacup again. "Good. Because speaking of the Starks, Sansa's little sister was tearing through the grand gallery looking for you this morning."
Alaric paused, glancing over at her. "Arya?"
"Yes," Margaery said, a highly amused look touching her brown eyes. "She looked completely feral. She was covered in dirt, sweating through her tunic, and glaring at everyone who got in her way. She kept demanding your Black Night Maids tell you she had 'completed the task.'"
Roslin blinked, looking up from her empty teacup with genuine curiosity. "What task? Did you give the Stark girl a chore?"
Alaric let out a slow, rough chuckle, remembering the encounter. "She cornered me near the training yards a month ago. She told me the dancing master her father hired was useless, and she demanded I train her to fight properly."
Margaery raised a delicate eyebrow. "You? Train a twelve-year-old girl to use a sword?"
"I didn't have the time to babysit her with a wooden blade," Alaric replied smoothly. "So I gave her a physical conditioning test to see if she actually had the discipline for it. I told her if she wanted me to teach her anything, she had to complete a daily routine for exactly one month without missing a single day."
"What kind of routine?" Roslin asked, leaning forward slightly.
"One hundred push-ups. One hundred sit-ups. And a long run around the entire perimeter of the city," Alaric said flatly. "Every single day."
There was a moment of dead silence in the enclosed garden.
Margaery stared at him, her lips parting slightly before she broke into a sudden, genuine fit of melodic laughter. Roslin quickly covered her mouth with her hand, her shoulders shaking as she tried to muffle her own giggles.
"You made a highborn Northern girl do heavy military conditioning drills?" Margaery laughed, shaking her head in sheer disbelief. "Gods, Alaric. You just gave her an impossible task to get her out of your hair."
"I fully expected her to quit by the third day," Alaric admitted, a highly satisfied smirk resting on his face. "If she actually pushed through and finished the whole month... I suppose I owe her a lesson."