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photo1030 · 1 year ago

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Leather and Lace - Chapter 23: Colter - The Winter Storm

Summary: After a major job goes seriously wrong, the gang is driven out of the area.

*This beautiful image comes from @gem-likes-rdr

*Thank you to @appalachiancowboy99 for being my sounding board.

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter - TBD, but there are a handful of future chapters that were posted ahead of time

Shouts and chaos reign through the Van der Linde camp as it is hastily packed up. The stale odor of fires being doused with water chokes the air as sooty particles bounce into the sky like summer fireflies. Wooden boxes and crates crack loudly as they get hastily slammed shut, and wagons creak as the gang’s few possessions get roughly tossed inside. Ms. Grimshaw’s sharp voice barks instructions at the members who stayed behind while groups went out on their respective jobs. Your head rings, throbbing from anxiety and fear. You have never seen the gang so disheveled and unhinged and it is most unsettling. You are still trying to piece together what happened as you tend to the bloody wounds of your friends who are laid out in front of you.

Apparently this ferry boat heist that Dutch and Micah had been planning for weeks went horribly wrong. The delectable smell of a take worth $150,000 in bank revenue was too tantalizing to pass up, but it also came with high risks. Arthur had tried to steer the fools from it, even Hosea tried. But their collective reasoning fell on deaf and indignant ears. So wanting no part of it himself, Arthur left the camp in a huff with Hosea to work their own real estate job instead.

Dutch and Micah had taken a collection of the remaining outlaw misfits up to the town of Blackwater, the new up-and-coming port city of West Elizabeth. The town proudly buzzes with new businesses and commerce, with citizens and visitors flocking to the growing community. It is a lucrative area, brimming with lumber, mining, and port travel businesses along the Flat Iron Lake and its tributaries.

Details of what transpired on the ferry boat are still unclear, as there was little time to explain what happened. But afterwards, Dutch and the others came tearing into camp like the devil himself was chasing them, hollering to anyone within earshot to pack it in. No time for pleasantries, just throw the shit in a wagon right this minute and move.

Like a cloud of mosquitoes that scatters off of calm water when a stone is thrown, everyone explodes into an almost rehearsed motion, hurriedly moving to their respective areas to toss whatever humble belongings they have into crates.

Fortunately, because you and Arthur share a living space now, he is able to pack up the belongings for the both of you, trying his best to be careful with your things while you are occupied elsewhere, hovering over the wounded. Arthur dismantles the tent quickly with the help of Reverend Swanson before he moves to assist you with packing the medical tent next.

You try to remain calm, balancing packing supplies with tending to your injured friends, when out of the corner of your eye you see little Jack, his eyes filled with fearful tears of confusion. His mother has him sitting on the end of one of the wagons where she can keep a watchful eye on him, making sure he doesn’t get trampled under someone’s hurried feet.

He sits perfectly still, nervously nibbling his fingers, as a constant in a whirlwind of commotion all around him. A hard lump forms in your throat as your heart aches for the poor child who is scared and confused as to the swirling chaos which is dangerously close to swallowing him up whole. Amazingly, the boy never seems to have too many issues with living out in the open and on the run like this. But when he sees the people who are always protecting him with their own fear pooling in their eyes, it causes Jack’s little body to shake with a new kind of panic.

Slowly turning your face away from Jack, your gaze falls back to your monumental task at hand. Davey and Jenny are laid out in front of you, both groaning and gasping in pain from the gunshot wounds they sustained in the Blackwater robbery. Your attention skips between the two of them, changing bandages and administering tinctures and tonics in an effort to ease their pain. Reverend Swanson even offers up some of his morphine to help. And they will certainly need it for the journey ahead.

Both Davey and Jenny’s injuries are severe and they shouldn’t be moved at all, but that is simply not an option. A sharp pang of guilt washes over you that you can’t do more for them so you patch them up as best you can, trying to make them comfortable. You then proceed to pack what you can while still staying within arms length of both of them, watching over them like a hawk. Ms. Grimshaw would normally assist you, but she’s got her own hands full right now. The whole camp has been given the directive to be packed and in place to move out as soon as possible.

You place the last of the medical supplies into a crate to be placed into Arthur’s wagon when Dutch stalks through the area, gauging the progress of the camp’s dismantling.

“Come on, people, we got to move!” he hollers, urgently sweeping his arm towards the lot of nerve-wracked gang members.

“What about supplies?” interjects Mr. Pearson from his station, his face red with exertion as he heaves the last crate into the chuck wagon. “Food stocks are low.”

“No time”, barks Dutch. “We’ll just have to see what we can pick up along the way.”

“Along the way to where?” you ask incredulously, eyebrows raised in challenge, as there has been no mention of a plan or destination of any kind. But you forget yourself, and more importantly, who you are talking to.

Dutch quickly spins on you, his dark eyes flash in your direction, his shoulders taught, pulling him even taller and more menacing.

“Nevermind about that.” The words are growled out slow and low in a warning that makes you instantly recoil. “It is not your concern. I’m handling it.”

But your stubbornness gets the best of you, as that answer is simply not going to placate you, not when your family’s lives are in your hands. You shake your head, face twisting up in disbelief as you look down at Davey’s blood-soaked body.

“But what about-”

“Not now, Y/N!” Dutch’s deep voice raises in volume to immediately end the conversation. ”Just look after those who need medical attention and let me handle the move.”

Your eyes skip over to Arthur for help, but his face is set in stone with a grim expression that you cannot place.

“Just do as you're told, Y/N”, he says flatly.

That is all that Arthur can mutter before heading over to finish packing your shared tent.

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Following the shootout, Blackwater and the entirety of the great Plains and Tall Trees region are put on lock-down. Pinkertons are brought in to cover the area to patrol like a dog ravaged with fleas, looking for the elusive Van Der Linde Gang. The Pinkerton Agency is a private security guard and detective agency that is known for their ruthless and sometimes violent tactics. Prominent companies and rich businessmen began to hire these groups shortly after the Civil War as bounty hunters of sorts to protect their interests and to help put an end to the “lawlessness of the Wild West”.

Upon hearing that these men have now joined local law enforcement in chasing you all down makes your blood run cold. Suddenly the gravity of what your gang does, Arthur in particular, hits you full on. This “Robinhood-esque” lifestyle is no longer as romantic a notion as you once believed. And you are not so naive to deduce that if Dutch Van Der Linde is their target, then Arthur’s neck is surely in danger of a hangman’s noose as well.

The whole territory is left in chaos in the gang’s wake. The ferryboat was a hailstorm of gunfire, killing lawmen and civilians alike. The law is not able to confirm if the gang was able to escape with the ferryboat money, as the cache has yet to be recovered. And this leaves the locals in a flurry, digging in gardens and backyards to see if the money was stashed anywhere where strangers fitting the gang’s collective descriptions were rumored to be lurking.

Truth be told, the gang could not escape with the stolen money and instead, stashed it in an undisclosed location in Blackwater known only to Dutch and Hosea. They will have to come back for it when it’s safe and who knows when that will be. Dutch knew this would not be an easy job, but his arrogance has left nothing but destruction behind.

But it wasn’t just those poor souls on the ferryboat who suffered. The “Blackwater Massacre”, as it is being referred to in the newspapers, has resulted in casualties to your family as well. John took a hit to the arm during the heist and Charles suffered a badly burned hand. But they got off lucky.

Davey Callander was hit in the gut. It’s bad, too. The bullet tore right through his belly. You try to dress the wound as best you can to quell the bleeding, but you know it’s not good. His brother Mac was also shot at the scene, but apparently was not able to escape with the others. Whether Mac has been caught or killed, no one knows for sure.

And then there’s Jenny. Sweet Jenny Kirk. She took a bullet, too, the fragment ricocheted around in her chest like a ball kicked around a schoolyard. As you hold your hand over her wound, watching the viscous red liquid pool around your fingers, you know in your heart what’s coming. Her soft brown eyes look to you, seeking that confirmation of whether she’s dying. But gazing into her ever-paling face, you don’t have the heart to tell her the truth.

“Everything is going to be fine, Jenny.” Smiling softly, you gently run your fingers through her hair before cupping her cheek. “I need you to relax and take it easy. I know it hurts and I’ll do everything I can to make it stop.” A tear rolls down the side of her face as she whimpers and nods, placing all of her trust in you.

And then there's Sean. Sean is missing, as well. He was last seen tucked behind a building, about to be swarmed by Pinkertons. He’s another one that was left behind, no one knowing whether he is dead or alive.

Having nowhere to escape to, Dutch pushes your lot up into the Grizzly Mountains of Ambarino. It is a hard path and the gang leader is convinced that the law will not bother with the chase up there. With the situation becoming dire, he decides that you all would have to flee the area completely until this mess blows over. The threat of the swarming law is oppressive as it chases your group, strangling you all from any resources or salvation. There are few options for respite and none of them are too pleasing to begin with.

As the procession of wagons rumbles further north, a helacious storm settles in, swallowing the gang in bitter cold and ice. The persistent snow covers your tracks into the mountains but it is a hard and treacherous journey. You make the dangerous trek up the mountainside and fortunately manage to lose your pursuers in the process. But that seems to be the only bit of luck the gang has been granted.

Sadly, the atmosphere inside your wagon grows even more grim as Jenny’s labored breathing starts to slow as her battered body begins the final stages of failure. You knew it was a lost cause before you even hit the foothills of the mountains, but watching her life ebb away before your eyes tears at your heart nonetheless.

Her poor body shakes as the cold winds wrap around the wagon, the constant rocking of the hard wooden platform that she lays upon offering her little relief as you try desperately to make her as comfortable as possible. You take her hand into yours, squeezing it tightly, and sing softly to her as she creeps closer to permanent relief. The fear of death that shadows her tired eyes begins to waver as she focuses on the comforting melody of your voice, a lullaby that tenderly floats into the air.

And then suddenly, Jenny’s sweet face goes slack and her torment has ended. It takes you but a moment of staring at her young freckled face to wrap your mind around the reality of it before you and Abigail share a tearful look. Not a word is spoken between the two of you. You simply nod in acknowledgement to your friend as you look down at Jenny again. You are not looking forward to the painful task of telling Lenny. You set your lips to Jenny’s cold forehead before your hand ghosts over her face, closing her eyes.

With a deep sigh, you now turn your full attention to Davey. You don’t know the Callender brothers too well. They always seemed too rowdy for your taste. But Arthur likes them well enough, taking a drink with them on occasion.

But Jenny is a different story. She came into the gang just after you did. Being younger than you, she tended to stay more with Tilly and Mary Beth. She was a bit of a tom-boy, as they say, but sharp as a tack and sweet as honey. And particularly sweet on one Mr. Lenny Summers. He loved reading and discussing books with her. And that common interest created a beautiful little budding romance between the youngsters. She already knew how to read, but Lenny was helping Jenny develop her skills at it. You’d often catch them sitting at the fires together, coyishly touching shoulders and exchanging sweet blushing glances.

And poor Sean. Your mind quickly skips to him as you readjust yourself to check Davey’s bandages. Whoever caught Sean may put a bullet in him just to stop his mouth running. Karen acts like his absence doesn’t affect her so deeply, as if they weren’t so close. But you’ve heard her crying softly at night and noticed his shirt tucked into her bedroll.

As the caravan of lost souls trudges ever onward, the sun begins its descent for the day and Arthur rides out ahead to try to find shelter from the merciless storm. You have your hands full caring for Davey, but you can’t help but worry for his safety, as well.

Arthur is strong and as resilient as ever. And Dutch is leaning on him heavily to get the gang out of this mess that he’s made. Dutch wears Arthur like a shield, using him to take the brunt of the poundings, sending him off to do dangerous work. But as much as you hate to admit it, Arthur is the gang’s best hope at surviving this latest miscalculation. You have hardly even seen him since the gang rolled out of the valley let alone spoken to him. You want nothing more than to wrap your arms around him to make sure he is okay, to give him the support he needs, and to have him comfort you in return. But that is not possible at the moment, and that lack of connection with your love leaves you feeling empty and hopeless.

Tucked away in the wagon between the injured, you cannot even see the outside world, let alone Arthur. You have no idea where he even is. You can only hear the world around you, as the frigid wind howls next to your ear, causing the canvas over top to shake and snap loudly. Abigail reaches up to light the rusty lantern that sways from the roof of the wagon as the darkness of the end of the day settles upon you all. The flame is small and fragile within the glass globe, struggling to keep itself going, just like the hope in your heart.

Reverend Swanson walks along the side of the lead wagon and up towards the front of it where Dutch and Hosea sit perched on the bench, driving the poor horses onward in the unrelenting weather.

“We need to stop soon,” Reverend hollers up to them, his voice getting muffled in the wind. “Jenny’s dead. And Abigail says Davey’s not doing too well either. We’ll need to find a place, “ he adds with a knowing look.

“We’ll all be dead soon if we don’t get out of this storm,” grumbles Hosea. The old man tucks his chin into the collar of his coat, wrapping his arms around his thin frame even tighter to try to stay warm.

Dutch nods in an attempt at consolation. “It’ll be alright,” he affirms. “We’ll find shelter soon. Arthur is out there looking for a place.”

And just like that, as if called out of the darkness, a shadowy form emerges from the swirling snow. Arthur’s unmistakable blue coat and trusty horse come into view, a faint yellow glow from his lantern acting like a beacon.

“I found a place,” the seasoned outlaw shouts over the howling wind. “Not too far up ahead.” Arthur’s face twists up against the frigid air, his mouth turning down into a frustrated and annoyed scowl, his eyes just as icy and angry as the weather.

Arthur turns Buck around to head back the way they came, and eventually leads the gang to settle in an abandoned mining town known as Colter.

*This fantastic images comes from @rosesrdr2photography

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It is early evening by the time the gang arrives at the small collection of broken-down buildings known as Colter. The sun’s absence has plunged the world into darkness, making it exponentially colder. Hosea climbs down from the wagon with stiff joints and hurries over as fast as the deep snow allows his old knees to move to inspect the nearest building that looks inhabitable. He heaves his shoulder into the door, thrusting his lantern inward to cast its fragile illumination upon the interior. The room is bleak and dreary, covered in cobwebs and dust from a time long forgotten by the last inhabitants. But, at least it has walls and a solid roof. And more importantly, it is empty.

“Bring him in here!” Hosea calls out over his shoulder into the dark. Arthur and Bill carry Davey inside on a make-shift gurney with you and Abigail following closely behind. The rest of the group falls in as well, desperate to get out of the wagons and out of the elements.

Your red-stained fingers hover over Davey’s bandages again, noting with disappointment at how much more blood has been lost since you last checked. Out of the corner of your eyes, you catch Abigail fidgeting above his chest and mouth, looking for signs of life.

“Davey’s dead”, she announces with a matter of fact tone laced with disappointment.

Abigail’s statement halts you in your tracks. Your eyes dart between Abigail’s wind-chapped face to Davey’s lifeless one, before your gaze falters back to the wound that your hands are currently buried in, the blood already coagulating and becoming cold. A defeated sigh drags your shoulders down even further, and with a heavy heart at having lost another, you slowly retract your hands, fixing the blanket around Davey’s body like a death shroud.

The room sits heavy with sorrow. The expressions on everyone’s faces are a mixture of both sadness and exhaustion and one that is collectively shared by the entire group.

To his credit, Dutch senses the need of his people, the need to be cared for and consoled. You all need that guiding light to focus on if you are to make it out of this hell alive. Dutch steps into the middle of the small gathering, and proceeds to address the gang with a speech, trying to rally you all together as morale is at an all-time low. Like the father figure that you all so desperately need and share, his deep voice carries softly, yet firmly in the dead air. It is this that is Dutch’s greatest gift: the gift of charisma.

He ends his impassioned speech with “Get yourselves warm. Stay strong. Stay with me.” And then Dutch immediately shifts into survival mode, as there is no time for sadness. He needs to get you all refocused on the hardship that still lies ahead.

“We’ll get some supplies. Mr. Pearson, Ms. Grimshaw, I need you to turn this place into a camp.” Both loyal gang members nod in unison at their understood roles. ”Arthur, come with me. Let’s head out and see what we can find.”

“In this?” Arthur tosses his arm towards the storm that rages all around you, threatening to snow you all in and suffocate you.

“Yes,” Dutch declares emphatically. “We should go now before it gets worse out there and then we can’t get out at all. Come on.” Dutch huffs and turns to head back out into the cold.

You silently watch as Arthur just rolls his eyes in annoyance before he obediently follows Dutch outside. A cold and unsettled feeling washes over you as Arthur shuffles out the door behind his mentor. You are still trying to piece together what happened back in Blackwater, but the whispers indicate that it was not good at all. The fact that your friends’ blood covers your hands and clothing is a bad enough indication.

But you overheard Javier talking about how Dutch shot an innocent woman. Your mind scrambled upon hearing that. While you are well aware of how dangerous Dutch Van der Linde can be, you just couldn’t believe that he would kill an innocent bystander for no reason.

Once outside, Arthur fixes his coat collar high around his cheeks to block the whipping winds. And finally having a moment alone with Dutch, he takes the opportunity to ask what has been plaguing his mind since you all left.

“What happened back there on that boat?” Arthur’s skeptical blue eyes hold Dutch’s dark ones, waiting for an explanation that he feels he’s owed.

“We missed you, Arthur. That’s what happened.” Dutch’s curt answer doesn’t provide any sort of information other than deflection with a slight hint of blame. “Now come on. We got to see if we can come across Micah or John. They’re supposed to be out there lookin’ around.”

He quickly stalks away to head towards the horses again, leaving Arthur standing disgruntled in the snow before he can even counter his point. Dutch throws his leg over the Count’s saddle, waiting impatiently for Arthur and Buck to pull up next him and then they head out into the frigid weather once more.

He should probably be sitting inside, trying to get warm, but the swell of anger and annoyance is more than enough to keep Arthur warm at the moment. None of this would be happening if Dutch and Micah had listened to him. But no. And now, friends are dead and missing, the law and Pinkertons are hot on your heels, and the gang is chased up into the middle of nowhere, freezing and starving.

The two men are not out too long before Micah meets them along the path. His body is covered in snow, Baylock’s mane crusted with ice. “I found a homestead with a fire lit a little ways back,” he informs the two riders. “Might be able to get some resources there.”

“Alright good, let’s take a look,” agrees Dutch. And the three of them plod along in the snow, back down to where Micah found the small ranch.

Upon reaching the top of the hill, Micah points down towards the property he found. There is a main house with some smaller buildings scattered about. And there is, indeed, a fire illuminating out into the blue of the night. They make their way down to the house, maneuvering around fence posts and small paddocks. They dismount and stash the horses at the edge of the property to make their way on foot, careful not to be noticed

“Alright,” whispers Dutch, “You two stay hidden out of sight. I’ll knock on the door and see what we’re dealing with. We may get farther with one freezing man out in the cold than three of us wielding guns.”

Arthur and Micah quietly nod in unison, a rare instance of camaraderie, and each find hiding spots crouching in the snow behind a chicken coop and a wagon, diligently watching Dutch as he approaches the dwelling and knocks on the door.

He is greeted by a man who is naturally uneasy at seeing someone arrive at his door at this hour and in these weather conditions. Dutch puts on his best friendly face at the sight of the skeptically scowling host.

“Hello, friend!” Dutch smiles brightly with that trademark silver tongue and charm. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but you see, my people and I got lost in this storm.” He pointedly waves his arm behind him towards the swirling snow. “And we’re hoping you might be able to help us out a little.”

From where they are sitting in the ice-crusted snow, Arthur and Micah watch the exchange between Dutch and the man, but suddenly, something catches Micah’s attention, causing him to abruptly sit up.

“Arthur!” he hisses, causing Arthur’s cautious eyes to leave Dutch’s form and dart in his direction. “There’s a body in this wagon!” Micah flips over the canvas that is covering the wooden structure he is hiding behind to reveal a corpse, dead at least a day with a bullet hole in his chest. “Somethin’ ain’t right here!”

And before he knows what’s happening, Arthur’s ears are assaulted by the loud cracks of gunfire. The air explodes into gunshots and shouting from all directions of the property. Quickly looking to cover Dutch, Arthur sees the man that greeted Dutch is dead in front of him with two more coming out of the house. Dutch backpedals, but makes quick work of them, while more men swarm the house from all around.

Now, say what you will about Micah Bell, but he is quite skilled with a gun, like it is an extension of himself. And being paired up with Arthur, the two easily take care of the collection of men that pour from the house and surrounding areas. Bullets mingled with wooden splinters from ill-aimed shots graze Arthur’s head, but he is a man ruled by instinct and reflexes, and the pounding of his heart gets pushed to the far reaches of his brain. Bodies quickly begin to fall, deep crimson blood staining the pristine white of the powdery snow.

The commotion settles almost as quickly as it began, calming once more to a deafening silence before Arthur and Micah are able to safely approach the house to join Dutch on the small porch. Dutch looms over one of the men that lays in a heap in the doorway, nudging him with his black boot.

“O’Driscolls” Dutch spits the name with disdain, his breath frosting like a halo above his head in the cold. “What the hell are they doing up here so far North?” He looks about again as if to find the answer in the room inside the house. “Well, whatever it is, nevermind right now. Check the place over, we got people waiting for us,” he nods in determination. “Grab whatever you can that would be useful, food, blankets, medicine.”

As the three men split up to comb the property, Arthur heads into the barn to see what he can find there. The scent of old, mildewing hay and unmucked stalls cascades into his nostrils as he crosses the threshold of the barn. His blue eyes scan the sparse area which is already looking thread-bare. A huff of disappointment escapes his chapped lips as he meanders listlessly, picking up random items such as a few oatcakes for his horse and a rope, but nothing too significant.

A shadow catches Arthur’s eye, his head snapping to attention in one of the stalls. Before he can make heads or tails of things, a body darts out of the shadows and jumps him from behind. The person hurls their meager body into Arthur’s much larger one, throwing their arms around him in a feeble attempt to knock him to the ground. Apparently another O’Driscoll hiding in the shadows.

However, the idiot has no idea who he is dealing with and Arthur quickly flips the man over his shoulder as if he were tossing nothing more than a bag of feed. The wind is knocked out of the man’s lungs as he slams flat onto his back, blinking the stars out of his eyes as Arthur is quick to grab ahold of his jacket and begins to land blow after blow to the intruder’s face. Arthur’s fists angrily pummel into skin and teeth, as the sound of bone crunching and blood spurting from a busted lip and nose quickly escalates to mix with pathetic whimpers and sings through the brisk air.

The commotion draws Dutch’s attention from where he is combing the fallen bodies for clues as to why the rival gang is here on this property. From outside he hurries over to the barn to make sure that Arthur is not in need of assistance. But Dutch stops short at the sight, mildly amused to see his right-hand man not only just fine, but has caught one of the trespassers.

The younger outlaw pauses, eyes intensely burning into the man beneath with his arm pulled back, threatening to deliver another blow.

“What are you all doin’ here?” Arthur shouts angrily.

The O’Driscoll cowers in fear as Arthur looms over him. “N..Nothin’! I swear!”

A sickening sound of blood squelching fills the air again with another punch to the teeth.

“Now, I sure don’t believe that.” A wickedly sadistic grin crawls across Arthur’s face, his breath circling in the air like that of a fire breathing dragon.

“I ain’t gonna ask again, what are you all doing out here?!” Arthur shouts, spittle flying into the man’s face.

“It’s…It’s a train. A train is coming through. Colm has us getting ready for it.”

A heartless chuckle rumbles from Dutch’s chest from where he stands in the doorway watching the interrogation. “Well, alright, then.” He turns to head back to the house with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Arthur, I'll trust you to take care of this.”

Arthur barely has time to process this information before he hears screaming coming from the main house. With his captor distracted, the O’Driscoll wrenches himself free from Arthur’s gloved hands and tries to flee, sprinting out from under Arthur’s grasp.

Tripping on his own two feet, the O’Driscoll tries to make a break for it across the yard. But he only gets so far before Arthur smoothly pulls his gun from his holster and calmly puts a bullet in the man’s back, landing him facedown in the snow. With that matter taken care of without so much as an afterthought, Arthur turns his full attention towards the continued ruckus coming from the house.

“What the hell is it now?” he mutters under his breath, and quickly stalks over to see what the next issue is that he has to deal with.

Taking the porch steps two at a time, Arthur barrels into the house to see Micah chasing a frazzled woman around a table as she is screaming in terror, hurling objects at him in self defense. Micah’s hands are held up, trying to placate the woman, but one could tell that he’d pounce on her the second he got close enough. Whether he was trying to calm her, or torment her even more, who knows, but either way, Arthur is infuriated at the sight. Arthur quickly rushes forward, shoving Micah out of his way, and putting himself between the two.

The poor woman is almost feral at this point, eyes wild, her hands desperately clutching any object she can get her hands on to try to defend herself.

“It’s alright, miss, we ain’t gonna hurt ya,” Arthur tells her, his voice low and soft, using the same tone he uses with Buck when he gets spooked.

The woman slowly ceases her screaming, her chest heaving in exhaustion as she tries to catch her breath, panicked eyes darting all around the room. Dutch comes up behind Arthur, also trying to calm the poor woman who is shaking like a leaf.

But the calm moment is all too brief as a fire quickly starts to spread across the floor from a lantern that was knocked over in the uproar.

“Come on, we gotta get outta here,” mutters Dutch. “Time to go.”

Dutch is quick to grab a large blanket from the living room, wrapping it around the small woman before directing her out of the house. Orange and red flames quickly crawl up the side of the walls of the dwelling like a spider as the four of them duck out of the house. Arthur tucks the woman against him to protect her from the elements, escorting her outside as the house begins to catch fire, engulfed and smoldering behind her.

“We ain’t good men,” he informs her, “but we’re better than those others, I guarantee.”

The poor thing quietly submits as Arthur carefully lifts her small frame up onto Buck’s saddle before climbing up himself and settling in front of her.

“They….they killed my husband,” she whimpers.

“You’ll be safe with us, miss,” assures Dutch as they begin to move away from the house. “What’s your name?”

“Sadie. Sadie Adler,” she mumbles as she turns her chin over her shoulder to watch her home and everything she loved so dearly burn to the ground.

*This fantastic images comes from @rosesrdr2photography

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A/N: I decided to break this section into multiple chapters like I did with "Feelings Revealed." This is the setup chapter, more drama (and love) to come!

Tag List: @rivetingrosie4 @bimbo-dollz @pine4pple-b0i @redwritr @kuri-chans-blog @queer-sadie-adler @joelmillerswifey @gimmethosedaddymilkers @pcotarelo @delilah-grimes @maemortem @wistfulwisteriawitch @lilacxxdreams @mentallyillfrogs @absolutegeek @spurz @sophiaj650 @uniqueclodzinevoid @lookingformaurice @pawoui @randomidk-123 @yyiikes @eddiemetalheadmunson @twola @kmartkiddieisle @red-dead-simp @regwishesshehadmagic @rhehr241 @earwen-x @akariver75 @djennty @nervousmumbling @xliliths @unbotheredbeeeee @onnetonprinsessa @kittiowolf210 @ezrynn @suhiss @arthurmargon @codnerd1999 @queer-sadie-adler @alice-vanderlinde @sweetandstoned21 @j4llyf7sh @spooky631 @m0r4rx @ilovrxats @i-69-urmom @ddbluesie @ivuravix @nervousmumbling @sickvictorianangel @tirededuxhours @ezzythereal1 @chloepluto1306 @ivys-valentine @spiritcatcherxo @lea-khena @brccklynbaby1 @foundynnel @readingcoco @carmelamontezlikr @ultraporcelainpig @sofiaa-xcx @namesaretomainstream @miphy @cookiesandcreaminthetardis @loveheartabby @daisybvck @julialoopeezz @a-court-of-valkyries

*I tagged people who expressed interest in the continued story. If you’d like to be added or removed, please let me know. There are a few that would not let me link, so I apologize if this doesn’t ping some people.

#arthur morgan #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #rdr2 fanfic

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holllandtrash · 8 months ago

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hi friends im alive i miss u all

sadly, for the time being, i have stopped writing fanfiction. i need to focus on my career and also on writing a story that i so desperately want to turn into something real

i wrote a little synopsis of something im working on if youre curious and you can read a snippet and see the chat gpt curated cover below the cut lol

The Art of Falling

Indy Brookes has spent her life immersed in the art world, navigating the delicate balance between creativity and commerce at the prestigious Westmont Auction House. She understands that every masterpiece holds hidden depths—stories layered beneath the surface. So when the new Head of Client Relations, Sunil Dival, steps into her world, she can’t help but see him the same way: a piece of art waiting to be unraveled.

Indy thrives on passion and instinct, while Sunil holds tight to logic and control. Though they each bring something valuable to the table, their visions for the future are fundamentally at odds.

As their lives begin to overlap, Indy realizes that Sunil, much like the art she loves, has more to him than meets the eye. In the fast-paced world of auctions and high-stakes deals, they find themselves navigating not only their work, but the unspoken connection growing between them.

Wine bottle in hand, I headed back upstairs, my footsteps quiet on the marble floors. I was going to grab my bag from behind the reception desk when something caught my eye in the gallery—Sunil, standing alone in front of the red painting I had just shown Ms. Bass.

His hands were slid into his pockets, his posture relaxed from what I could tell. The soft glow from the light fixture above the painting cast shadows across his side profile. Much like Ms. Bass, he stared at the painting in confusion. But instead of asking what he was supposed to feel, Sunil stared at it as though if he stood there long enough the answer would jump out. I waited in the doorway, watching him for a second longer than I probably should have.

The painting had a way of doing that—drawing people in. But it was strange seeing him like this. Still emotionless, but more composed. I couldn’t tell if he was just in work mode or if there was something else.

I leaned against the doorframe, the bottle dangling loosely between my fingers. “Admiring the art?” I called out, my voice sounding more casual than I currently felt.

Sunil didn’t turn right away, his gaze fixed on the canvas. “Something like that,” he replied, his tone flat, as if he were working through something in his mind.

I took a small step into the gallery, unsure if I was intruding on a moment I didn’t fully understand. “What are you thinking?”

He finally glanced in my direction, though not quite meeting my eyes. “Just wondering why people are drawn to it,” he said. His voice was measured, detached. “There’s been so many calls about it, you know? It was the piece that Ms. Bass was here to see too, wasn’t it? I just don’t get what makes it worth the attention?”

I hesitated, not sure if he wanted a real answer or if he was just thinking out loud, but I had just had this same conversation only minutes prior. I took a step closer. “It’s about how the artist uses color and texture to create emotional tension,” I said carefully. “The red isn’t accidental, it has a purpose—it’s layered with meaning. Passion, desire, love. It’s almost as if the artist wanted you to feel conflicted, to question what you’re supposed to see.”

I paused, watching for any reaction, but Sunil’s expression remained impassive, his eyes still fixed on the painting.

“The longer you look at it,” I continued, “the more it forces you to engage with that tension. That’s why people are drawn to it—it’s not just about what they see, but how it makes them feel. It doesn’t let you be a passive observer.”

He didn’t respond right away, then, without glancing in my direction, he said, “Or maybe people just like to overthink things.” His tone was flat, but the words cut through the air with a dismissive edge.

I stopped in my tracks, realizing at that point that he wasn’t asking for an explanation the way Ms. Bass had. He didn’t care about the history or the artist’s intent. This was something else.

“It’s nice, I guess.” he muttered, almost to himself.

Nice.

That word felt like a direct slap to the face. Nice? I had spent years studying pieces like this—pouring over the intricacies, the layers of emotion, the painstaking detail behind every ounce of effort put into it. And Sunil stood there, calling it nice? It was like hearing someone call a symphony ‘catchy’.

The part of me that wanted to set him straight bubbled up to the surface. I wanted to tell him that this wasn’t just a painting you glanced at and deemed ‘nice.’ This was a masterpiece, something you had to feel, something that deserved more than a casual shrug and a throwaway word.

A mild summer breeze was nice. A freshly-mowed lawn was nice. This painting landed in a category of its own that I was actually offended by his comment.

I could almost hear the lecture forming in my head—something about the delicate use of the color red, the emotion hidden beneath the shadows. I wanted to ask if he even knew what it meant to truly see a painting like this, to understand the depth it carried.

But then I stopped myself, the words slipping away as quickly as they came.

What was the point? He wasn’t here to appreciate the art the way I did.

He wasn’t a curator. He wasn’t a historian. He was Head of Client Relations. His job revolved around the sales of the auction, not the beauty that was stored within our walls.

Sunil wasn’t asking for an analysis or a history lesson. He didn’t need to be corrected or belittled. Maybe, for him, ‘nice’ was enough. At least he was taking the time to even look at the piece.

I bit back the urge to put him in his place. Sometimes people just needed to have their own moment and this shouldn’t have been about me proving I knew more.

For a moment I was envious of the lack of emotion he felt. I knew too much about the artist and his collection. I felt too much, but it wasn’t my place to force someone to feel the same. Maybe he just needed to stand in front of it, lost in whatever he was seeing, without someone like me shoving meaning down his throat.

So I stayed silent. I let him have this. His moment.

I took a step back, muttering a quiet "Goodnight," as the space between us grew.

Sunil nodded, still looking at the painting. "Goodnight," he repeated, but there was something in his tone that made me pause. It wasn’t cold, exactly, but it wasn’t warm either. It was just…there. Like everything else about him since he’s arrived—distant.

I lingered for a second longer, waiting for some kind of clarity but it didn’t come. I couldn’t get a read on him. With a small sigh, I twirled the wine bottle in my hands and made my way out, leaving Sunil alone in the gentle glow of the nice painting.

yes her name is indy like indy car!! u can take the girl out of motorsports but u cant take motorsports out of the girl !!

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velvetalliances-if · 1 month ago

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Provinces within the Valdorith Empire

I have received some asks regarding the other provinces within the empire and so I have created this list of each individual province listed in order of economic power.

Viremont; the royal capital, never sleeps its streets alive with merchants, diplomats, and travelers weaving through sprawling markets beneath towering marble spires. The scent of spice and ink lingers in the air, mixing with the hum of countless voices weaving deals, secrets, and ambitions beneath the empire’s watchful gaze.

Aldercrest; the second oldest province in the empire Aldercrest is steeped in legacy, standing as a monument to tradition, its ancient manors and towering halls whispering of generations past. Ornate stonework bears the marks of centuries old craftsmanship, preserving the pride of its noble bloodline. Here, family and honor are not just virtues, they are a legacy carved into the province itself.

Orlanthia; a province of endless inspiration, where artistry and refinement shape every corner of its cities. Here, expression is as vital as commerce, and the very air seems charged with creativity. What begins in Liraevan swiftly becomes the empire’s standard, shaping tastes and trends with each new artistic movement. The heir to its throne also happens to be Séraphan’s ex.

Marleaux; the heart of the empire, it is the center of internal trade. Its grand trade halls hum with the voices of merchants, each deal forging the empire’s stability as goods move between provinces. Caravans laden with wares fill its streets, ensuring every corner of the empire remains supplied, prosperous, and indebted to Marleaux’s markets. Here, wealth opens doors, but true power lies in securing the right connections, those who master both don’t simply thrive, they shape the empire itself.

Elandorin; The empire’s breadbasket, Elandorin’s fields yield an unmatched bounty of grain, fruits, and produce, feeding the empire's vast population. Its prosperity is undeniable, yet whispers linger of the time when it stood united with its northern neighbor, a single force too powerful for the empire to allow.

Rovathar; your home, the cool mountain air is all the MC has ever truly known. House Rovathar’s economy is built on mining and metallurgy, supplying a significant portion of the empire’s weapons and armor. Its skilled smiths and miners ensure a steady flow of iron and silver, keeping the province vital to the empire’s military and industrial growth. In recent years, House Rovathar has expanded into forestry, seeking to diversify its industries and maintain stability for the future.

Eirmoor; a province of vast farmlands and proud resilience, Eirmoor was once part of a greater whole until imperial decree split it from Elandorin, ensuring no single province controlled the empire’s food supply. Unlike Elandorin’s sprawling fields and plentiful orchards, Eirmoor is a land of vast ranches and rolling pastures, where livestock reigns over crops.

Delvarin; a province of deep mines and untapped wealth, Delvarin is the empire’s primary source of gems and precious stones. Beneath its rugged terrain lie veins of emeralds, sapphires, rubies, and diamonds, yet its economy remains centered on extraction rather than refinement. Without the infrastructure or population to cut and craft its own gems, Delvarin exports raw stones to other provinces, ensuring its wealth flows outward rather than staying within its borders.

Calvernric; a land of tradition and scholarly pursuit, Calvernric is home to some of the empire’s most prestigious academies. Here, lineage and learning go hand in hand, with families placing great emphasis on education and historic deeds. Its grand estates house libraries filled with ancient texts, and its universities attract philosophers, historians, and legal scholars, ensuring that even as its economic power fades, its intellectual influence remains strong.

Fenlaren; vast forests and deep, sprawling lakes define both its landscape and its people’s way of life. With an economy rooted in forestry and fishing, its people are pragmatic, self-sufficient, and deeply tied to the land. Though Fenlaren lacks the wealth and prestige of the empire’s central provinces, its noble house remains steadfast in its ambitions, seeking political leverage wherever opportunity arises. It is no secret that your grandmother remains steadfast in her determination to see your house bound to Fenlaren through marriage, no matter Avelyne’s resistance.

Kelbrant; has long been at odds with imperial governance, its people known for independence, skepticism, and an enduring reluctance to submit to centralized rule. Bordered by two of the empire’s richest provinces, Kelbrant has long struggled for identity, its discontent growing, its people restless, wary, and unwilling to conform. While its mining economy keeps it afloat, political tensions simmer beneath the surface, making Kelbrant a thorn in the empire’s side, never quite rebellious, but never truly compliant.

Ormere; defined by its dense forests and sprawling wildlands. Its people are rugged and pragmatic, earning their livelihood through expert tracking, skilled leatherworking, and the steady trade of pelts and furs. Though nobility exists, wealth is scarce. Ormere’s rulers wield little influence in the empire’s greater politics, their focus set instead on maintaining order across the province’s vast territory.

Harrowyn; the empire’s northernmost province, is sparsely populated yet rich in rare resources found nowhere else within imperial borders. Beneath its tundras lie veins of precious metals like gold and cobalt, while its isolated wilderness fosters the growth of rare medicinal herbs prized by healers and alchemists. Though trade routes are difficult and settlements few, Harrowyn remains an essential supplier of materials that fuel both the empire’s wealth and scientific pursuits.

Branthorne; holds a unique position within the empire as the only province with a traversable land border with another nation. Prioritizing military strength above all else, it dedicates the vast majority of its manpower to defense, leaving its economy underdeveloped. To ensure its forces remain ready and unburdened by economic struggles, the empire fully subsidizes Branthorne, allowing it to focus entirely on its duty as the empire’s vigilant guardian.

#velvet alliances #interactive fiction #Valdorith

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tallbluelady · 4 months ago

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35. Your OC finds a lost child in the marketplace or commercial district.

Jehantel shielded his eyes from the bright desert sun as he stepped out of his patron's villa in Ul'dah. Since his folly at Griffin's Cross, he found himself wandering the land, pointedly avoiding the Twelveswood as he collected coin with his song. He was glad of his lack of infamy outside of the Black Shroud and happily sang and composed songs for various clients to earn his keep. He felt like most of his clientele would have preferred the songs of other minstrels - songs of daring glory that would make grand halls ring with sonorous clamor. This last patron, at least, seemed keen on getting a song that resembled those of the bards of history. Jehantel was certain he would hear from her in the future and smiled.

After spending some of his freshly gained gil on a meal, Jehantel contemplated if he would travel to a more remote location for a while or stay in the city and shore up his savings. While he did appreciate the comforts of civilization, the chances of him being recognized would surely increase. That was enough to keep him in the wilderness, though mayhap he would take the ferry to Limsa Lominsa and spend his time in La Noscea for the summer rather than take Thanalan's heat.

As he weighed and measured his thoughts, he looked into the throng of people bustling through the town. Most were merchants or servants at stalls busy in commerce. With his trained ears, he heard through the layers of chatter a terse voice speaking to a trembling one. He finished his meal and went to investigate.

With some maneuvering, Jehantel found the source - a young duskwight girl trying to keep a brave face to a sneering merchant.

"P-please, ser, I don't know where my mother is," the girl's eyes were starting to brim with tears.

"How is that my problem? Get out of my stall, you're blocking other customers," the man said, "Go before I call the Brass Blades."

The blue girl gasped, and turned to try and enter the crowd, eyes darting for an opening. Jehantel stepped to the merchant and huffed. "Really, ser, is it truly worth your soul to turn out a poor lost child out into the crowd for your business?"

"She'll turn away customers with her sniveling!" The merchant crossed his arms.

Jehantel looked at the girl, then at the wares. Twas fruit kept on a few scant ice shards, barely enough to keep them from wilting in the summer heat. "How much gil will buy your peace for a bell?"

"Buy the lot and you can have the stall for the rest of the night," the merchant quickly said.

"I suppose I'll just have to stay in town then." Jehantel grabbed a gil pouch and handed it to the merchant. After the merchant peeked inside, he nodded and left Jehantel and the girl at the stall.

The girl looked up at him in awe. "Y-you bought it all? Just so I could stay?"

Jehantel have her a soft smile. "Apples keep well enough during travel." He handed one to her. "Here."

"Thank you." She took a bite before she seemed to realize something. "Thank you, Master... uh..."

"Jehantel. Just Jehantel, lass. What's your name?"

"Tis Rowan, ser."

"Tis a lovely name, Rowan. Reminds me of the Twelveswood." He smiled.

"That's where I'm from. Mama's a merchant and she has a store in Gridania. We're here to talk to some merchants here, but I lost her when I went to the stall for fruit."

"When was the last you saw her?"

"Not too long. I think she should come looking for me by now."

Jehantel nodded. "That's a smart girl. Twould be easier for you to get lost in these crowds than she."

She nodded and continued to munch on her apple. She was rather composed now that she could stay near where her mother last saw her, and out of the sun.

"Are you a bard, ser?" she asked, noting the harp on his back.

He considered how best to approach it. Simple honesty quickly won out. "I am. Though I do not play like the Bards of legend did." Not anymore.

"My brother, Ellant, wants to become a Bard. He makes me sing with him even when we don't have to practice for recitals."

"You sing?"

Rowan nodded. "Aye. Mama and Papa say that if I'm good this year I'll get a lute for Starlight."

Jehantel smiled. "The lute is a wonderful instrument. I'm more fond of the harp, myself."

"Because it's like a bow?"

One can always rely on the honesty of children. "I suppose so."

Rowan gave a satisfied hum. "Ellant's going to be so jealous when he sees me with you."

He shook his head, but before he could say aught more, a wine haired duskwight woman and boy ran up to Rowan.

"Rowan, darling, don't scare me like that!" the woman said, holding Rowan by the shoulders.

"I'm sorry Mama," she said. "I just wanted an apple."

"We have apples at home..." her mother sighed, then looked to Jehantel. "Thank you for letting her stay here, Master..."

"Jehantel."

With his name spoken aloud, the boy's eyes lit up. "You! You're the -"

Jehtanel put a finger up to his lips. "It's just Jehtanel for now."

The boy nodded and adjusted the quiver on his back. "When I'm grown, I want to be a Bard. A real one, not just a minstrel."

Jehantel smiled at him. "Rowan says you've been practicing your music and it looks like you're likely practicing your archery as well."

The boy nodded again, beaming. "I'll be the best one there ever was!"

The enthusiasm was infectious, and for a moment Jehantel believed he could be. He ruffled the youth's hair. "You may very well become that one. As long as you keep practicing. The both of you."

Rowan smiled up at him, as excited as her brother at the prospect.

* * *

It was raining in the Shroud, but Jehantel had his fire up and roaring against the wet and chill. He had fancied this little camp to be out of the elements, and so far his fancy held. He stopped eating and sat more alert when he thought he heard something under the rain. Twas footsteps by his estimation, and he squinted into the squall. A tall, but hunched figure was making their way to the fallen tree that served Jehantel has shelter.

He walked to the entrance of his camp. If this person meant any harm, he was prepared to return violence as the Godsbow. "Ho, there traveler. Come warm yourself by the fire."

The figure's head perked up and they picked up speed, careful to not slip on the wet soil. Jehantel saw it was a young woman once she removed her cloak. She had striking coloration of green and blue...

"Pray forgive me if I'm impertinent, lass, but do I know you from somewhere?"

The woman's eyes seemed to be red with tears. "I was lost in Ul'dah, Master Jehantel, and you saved me. I think I've gotten lost again."

"Rowan?"

#i need a writing tag #rowan argentas #jehantel #so i kinda inverted the prompt as rowan is the child being found #but it still counts methinks #and also i've been wanting to rewrite the post massacre scene in my longfic #so this was a more interesting way to start that bit!#thank goodness i hesitated publishing this because my brain decided that his name was 'jehTANel' rather than 'jeHANtel'#but i caught it first

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formulas-bitch · 3 months ago

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For you, Always ll

4.7k words

the long awaited part 2 is out

the next day Emma woke up early in the hotel room, her mind racing with the tasks ahead. The curtains were drawn open, revealing a breathtaking view of the New York City skyline, the early morning light casting a warm glow over the skyscrapers. She had barely slept, her excitement and nerves keeping her awake. The luxurious hotel suite was a stark contrast to her tiny apartment back home, but she had no time to enjoy it.

On the day of departure, Emma remained busy with final preparations, ensuring Mr. Sainz's briefcase contained all necessary items. Upon his curt command, they headed to the waiting car. Despite her nerves, the excitement of the New York trip dominated her thoughts.

After a quick shower and a cup of hotel coffee, she began organizing the documents and materials they would need for the conference. Mr. Sainz had been up late the night before, working on a last-minute proposal that could make or break the company's future. She had to be ready to support him at a moment's notice, ensuring that he had everything he needed to close the deal.

As they arrived at the conference center, Emma's stomach fluttered with excitement. The bustling lobby was filled with powerful figures from the corporate world, their names etched in the annals of business history. She had studied their faces and strategies in textbooks and articles, and now she was standing among them, a silent observer in the grand theater of commerce.

SUMMARY^1: On the first day in New York, Emma remained busy preparing for the conference in their luxurious hotel suite. Despite her excitement, she was anxious and determined to support Mr. Sainz, who had worked late on a crucial proposal. Once ready, they left for the conference center where she felt both intimidated and thrilled to be among renowned corporate figures.

Mr. Sainz's schedule was packed with back-to-back meetings and presentations, leaving no room for error. She followed him like a shadow, her eyes and ears open for any cue that might indicate his needs. His intensity was palpable, his focus unwavering, and Emma felt a strange kinship with him in their shared commitment to excellence.

As the day progressed, Emma found herself juggling more responsibilities than she had ever imagined. From ensuring Mr. Sainz had the right documents at the right times to navigating the unfamiliar conference layout, she was stretched to her limits. Yet she remained unflappable, a trait that she knew was essential in this high-stakes environment.

Upon arriving in New York, Emma started her day in the luxurious hotel suite, preparing for the conference with Mr. Sainz's last-minute proposal. At the bustling conference center, she supported him through a demanding schedule, handling any issues that arose with poise and efficiency.

The conference room was abuzz with chatter and the faint hum of technology as Mr. Sainz took the stage. She watched from the side, her eyes darting between him and the audience. His presentation was flawless, captivating the room with his charisma and knowledge. As he concluded, the room erupted into applause, and she couldn't help but feel a sense of pride in her small part in his success.

During the breaks, Emma was bombarded with questions and requests from other attendees, all eager to get a moment with Mr. Sainz. She juggled them with ease, her voice calm and professional, despite the chaos around her. She could feel the weight of her responsibilities pressing down, but she didn't dare show it. This was her chance to shine, to prove that she belonged in this high-stakes world.

The final session of the day was the most critical. The proposal that Mr. Sainz had been working on was about to be presented to the board of a potential acquisition. The room was packed with investors and industry leaders, their eyes all on Mr. Sainz. Emma had spent hours memorizing the details, ready to jump in if needed.

As the presentation began, she could see the tension in Mr. Sainz's shoulders. This was the moment that could change everything for the company. For him. For her. Her palms grew slick with nerves as she clutched her notebook. She had never seen him this focused, this…human.

At the conference, Mr. Sainz delivered a flawless presentation, with Emma supporting him from the sidelines. She handled the chaotic breaks with poise, fielding questions and managing his schedule. The tension grew during the final session, where their potential acquisition's board would hear the critical proposal, leaving Emma feeling the gravity of the situation and Mr. Sainz's human side.

Throughout the conference, Emma capably managed Mr. Sainz's schedule and interactions with eager attendees. The pivotal final session saw her supporting him during a tense presentation to the board of a potential acquisition target. The pressure was intense, but Emma remained professional, witnessing Mr. Sainz's human side amidst the corporate stakes.

On their first day in New York, Emma prepared for the conference with a mix of excitement and anxiety, meticulously packing Mr. Sainz's briefcase and adhering to his instructions. She demonstrated her competence throughout the conference, efficiently supporting Mr. Sainz in various demanding scenarios, including his successful presentation to a board of potential acquisition targets. Her professionalism remained steadfast, even allowing her to see a glimpse of Mr. Sainz's humanity amidst the high-stakes corporate environment.

The Q&A session that followed was a minefield of probing questions and skeptical glances. Yet Mr. Sainz remained unflappable, his answers sharp and precise. Emma held her breath, watching as the tension in the room grew with each passing second. And then, it was her turn to shine. A board member had a question about a minor detail in the proposal that Mr. Sainz had overlooked. She stepped forward, her voice clear and confident.

"Mr. Sainz has covered all the major points, but for that particular detail, you're looking at the projected growth rates for the third quarter, which are outlined on page 17," she said, handing him the correct document. The room fell silent for a beat before erupting into nods of approval. Mr. Sainz shot her a quick, appreciative glance, and she felt a warmth spread through her chest.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of handshakes and business cards. As they left the conference center, the cold New York air hit her like a wall, jolting her out of her professional haze. "Miss Hathaway," Mr. Sainz said, his tone softer than usual, "I need to prepare for our meeting tomorrow. Please make sure my schedule is clear this evening."

During the Q&A, Emma confidently corrected a detail Mr. Sainz overlooked, impressing the board and the audience. Her quick-thinking earned her an appreciative glance from Mr. Sainz. As the conference wrapped up, she faced the cold reality of New York and his request for a clear evening schedule to prepare for the next critical meeting.

During the intense Q&A session, Emma stepped up to save the day by providing a critical document and confidently answering a question Mr. Sainz had overlooked, impressing the audience. The successful presentation led to a flurry of networking, and Mr. Sainz, impressed, requested her assistance in preparing for the next day's meeting, emphasizing the importance of her role.

With excitement and pressure weighing on her, Emma met Mr. Sainz's expectations for their trip to New York, handling final preparations and supporting him at a high-stakes conference. Her poise and efficiency during the critical presentation and networking sessions earned Mr. Sainz's respect, highlighting the significance of her role and her potential for growth within the company.

"Of course, Mr. Sainz," she replied, her voice steady. She had done her homework on the potential acquisition's CEO, had all the relevant data at her fingertips. But as they entered the hotel suite, the weight of the evening ahead settled on her shoulders. The private dinner with the acquisition CEO, Mr. Charles Leclerc, and his team was crucial, and she knew she had to be on top of her game.

While Mr. Sainz showered and changed, Emma set the stage. The dining table was laid with the finest linens, silverware gleaming under the soft glow of the chandelier. She had ordered a bouquet of flowers that matched the company's branding and had the caterers set up an elegant spread of New York's finest cuisine. The suite buzzed with the sound of final preparations as she checked the name tags and seating chart for the umpteenth time.

When Mr. Leclerc and his team arrived, Emma greeted them with a professional smile, her heart racing. She had studied their profiles, their company's history, and the potential points of contention in the acquisition. As they mingled over drinks, she made sure to circulate, offering insights and facilitating introductions. She was the invisible force keeping the evening running smoothly, her eyes and ears everywhere.

Ahead of the private dinner with the potential acquisition CEO, Charles Leclerc, and his team, Emma prepared meticulously, setting the stage with attention to detail to reflect their company's brand. Her thorough research and poised demeanor allowed her to play a crucial role in the evening's networking, ensuring a successful and smooth experience for all involved, showcasing her invaluable support to Mr. Sainz.

Dinner began with a tension that could have been sliced with a knife. The small talk was forced, the laughter a little too loud. But as the wine flowed and the food was served, the atmosphere began to ease. She watched Mr. Sainz, his charm and charisma on full display as he wove through the conversation with the grace of a seasoned diplomat. The room grew warmer, the smiles more genuine.

Emma hovered at the edges, refilling glasses and taking notes. She felt a strange kinship with Mr. Leclerc's personal assistant, a young man named Lando, who seemed as overwhelmed by the evening's formality as she was. They exchanged glances, and she found herself smiling at his jokes, feeling a spark of camaraderie amidst the corporate sharks.

As the main course was served, Mr. Leclerc leaned back in his chair and addressed the room. "Now that we've had a chance to relax, let's talk business," he said, his eyes sharp and focused. The conversation turned serious, and Emma could see the gears turning in Mr. Sainz's mind. He was laying out their strategy, laying the groundwork for the merger that could make or break the company.

Her heart raced as she listened, her hand poised over her notepad. She had never felt so involved in something so important. Every word, every gesture, every pause in the conversation felt significant. She took detailed notes, her mind racing with possible scenarios and contingencies.

The dinner with Mr. Leclerc's team started tense but gradually became more relaxed as the evening progressed. Emma bonded with Lando, Mr. Leclerc's assistant, sharing the pressures of their roles. When business discussions commenced, she remained observant and diligent, taking detailed notes to support Mr. Sainz in their critical strategizing for the potential merger, which carried significant stakes for the company's future. .

Mr. Leclerc nodded thoughtfully, his gaze flicking from Mr. Sainz to the platter of food in the center of the table. "Your proposal is intriguing," he said, his voice measured. "But we have concerns about the integration process."

Emma felt a rush of adrenaline. This was it, the moment she had been preparing for. She glanced at Mr. Sainz, who nodded almost imperceptibly. She cleared her throat. "If I may, I've compiled a detailed integration plan that addresses many of the concerns you may have," she said, sliding the document across the table. "It includes timelines, resource allocation, and potential synergies between our teams."

Mr. Leclerc raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. He picked up the plan and began to read, the tension in the room palpable. The other dinner guests watched him, their expressions a mix of curiosity and skepticism. Emma's heart raced as she watched him turn the pages, her mind racing through the countless hours she had spent perfecting the strategy.

Finally, Mr. Leclerc looked up, his eyes meeting hers. "Miss Hathaway, this is quite comprehensive," he said, a hint of surprise in his tone. "Your insights are impressive."

Emma felt a warmth spread through her chest. "Thank you, Mr. Leclerc. I've done my best to anticipate any potential hurdles and provide viable solutions."

During dinner, Mr. Leclerc voiced concerns about the integration process. At Mr. Sainz's prompt, Emma presented a detailed plan she had prepared, which impressed Mr. Leclerc. Her comprehensive strategy, which included timelines and synergy possibilities, was met with a positive reception, acknowledging her significant contributions to the potential merger discussion and highlighting her growing professional acumen.

At the private dinner with potential acquisition CEO Charles Leclerc, Emma's meticulous preparation and poise helped facilitate a successful networking experience. Bonding with Lando, she gained an ally and shared insights on their roles. During business discussions, she addressed concerns with a well-crafted integration plan, impressing Mr. Leclerc and solidifying her importance in the company's future.

Mr. Sainz's eyes remained on her, his expression inscrutable. She knew he was watching her closely, gauging her performance. "Indeed, Miss Hathaway has been instrumental in our preparations for this potential merger," he said, his voice smooth. "Her dedication and attention to detail have been invaluable."

Emma's cheeks flushed with pride. It wasn't often that Mr. Sainz offered such public praise, and she felt it was a sign that she was truly part of the team. She took a sip of water, trying to keep her nerves at bay. The room was silent as Mr. Leclerc continued to read through the plan, his expression unreadable.

Finally, he looked up. "This is quite thorough," he said, his eyes meeting hers. "You've clearly put a lot of thought into this."

Emma nodded, her heart racing. "Thank you, Mr. Leclerc. I believe that a well-managed integration is crucial for the success of the merger."

Mr. Leclerc leaned back in his chair, his gaze still on her. "I agree," he said, his tone measured. "And your insights on potential synergies between our companies are quite insightful. It seems we have a sharp mind working behind the scenes."

Emma felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth, but she kept her expression neutral. "Thank you, Mr. Leclerc. I've learned a lot from Mr. Sainz."

Mr. Leclerc expressed his appreciation for the detailed integration plan, acknowledging Emma's insights and contributions to the potential merger. Mr. Sainz publicly recognized her efforts, which bolstered her confidence and reinforced her significance within the company. This positive reception from Mr. Leclerc indicated a possible shift in the dynamics of the negotiation.

The conversation flowed around her as the men discussed the finer points of the plan. She listened intently, noting any questions or concerns they had and making mental notes for potential areas of improvement. The tension in the room had dissipated, and the air was filled with a cautious optimism.

As the dinner drew to a close, Mr. Leclerc's team began to exchange business cards and pleasantries, their expressions a mix of professional courtesy and cautious excitement. Emma gathered the empty dishes, her mind racing with thoughts of the work that still needed to be done. There was no time to rest on her laurels; the real work was just beginning.

Mr. Sainz stood, signaling the end of the evening. "Thank you all for your time tonight," he said, his handshake firm and confident. "We look forward to a productive partnership in the future."

Emma collected the last of the dishes and hurried back to the kitchen to thank the staff. The chef, a burly man with a thick accent, nodded gruffly. "You did good," he said, a rare smile breaking through his stern demeanor. "Your boss, he's a tough cookie, but he's fair."

Emma nodded, feeling a mix of pride and anxiety. "Thank you," she said, her voice sincere. "I'm just trying to learn as much as I can."

"You're doing more than that," the chef said, his eyes twinkling. "You're making a difference."

The dinner concluded with a sense of optimism for the merger's future. As the guests departed, Mr. Leclerc's team showed excitement and Mr. Sainz expressed anticipation for a successful partnership. The chef's rare compliment reinforced Emma's impact, confirming that she was not only learning but making a significant difference in the company's high-stakes negotiations.

The words echoed in her mind as she made her way back to the hotel, the city lights casting a warm glow on the pavement. The weight of the evening's events settled heavily upon her shoulders, but she felt a sense of accomplishment that she had never experienced before. She had faced her fears and come out on top.

Once back in her room, Emma flopped onto the plush hotel bed, her mind racing with the day's events. She had seen a side of Mr. Sainz she had never expected, a side that was driven not just by power and ambition, but by a deep desire for success that was almost palpable. It was intoxicating, and she found herself eager to be a part of it.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of her phone. It was an email from Mr. Sainz, his words succinct and to the point. "Good work tonight, Miss Hathaway. You've proven to be a valuable asset. Expect more responsibilities on this trip." The message was cold, but the underlying praise warmed her like a cup of hot tea on a winter's day.

The next few days were a blur of meetings and presentations. Emma barely had time to explore the city, her schedule packed to the brim with company engagements. Yet she thrived under the pressure, her organizational skills becoming sharper with each passing hour. She anticipated Mr. Sainz's needs before he even had to ask, ensuring that every meeting went without a hitch.

Returning to the hotel, Emma reflected on her growth and the unexpected side of Mr. Sainz she had witnessed. His curt email acknowledged her value to the company, hinting at increased responsibilities ahead. Despite the hectic schedule, she excelled in her role, handling all meetings and preparations flawlessly and growing more adept at anticipating his needs, which brought her a sense of achievement and belonging in the corporate world.

The dinner's success and Mr. Leclerc's appreciation highlighted Emma's growing significance in the merger negotiations. Mr. Sainz's public recognition boosted her confidence, and her private interactions with Mr. Leclerc's team revealed a newfound respect. Her performance during the dinner earned Mr. Sainz's private praise via email, suggesting a bright future with increased responsibilities within the company.

One evening, as they returned to the hotel, Mr. Sainz paused at the elevator bank. "Miss Hathaway," he said, his voice a low rumble, "I need you to join me for a meeting with Max Verstappen tomorrow morning. It's crucial for the merger's success."

Emma's heart skipped a beat. Max Verstappen was known throughout the industry as a shrewd businessman with a reputation for being tough to read. She knew that this was not a meeting to be taken lightly. "Of course, Mr. Sainz," she replied, trying to keep her voice steady.

The next morning, she was in the hotel lobby at 6 AM sharp, her briefcase packed with all the necessary documents. Mr. Sainz was already waiting for her, his eyes scanning the lobby with an intensity that made her feel like he could see through walls. "Good," he said, nodding at her. "Let's go."

The meeting with Max Verstappen took place in a high-rise office with a view of the city that made her dizzy. The room was sparse, with only a large mahogany desk and a few leather chairs. The air was thick with anticipation as they waited for Verstappen to arrive. When he did, his handshake was firm and his smile was cold. He was not a man to be underestimated.

The story progresses with Mr. Sainz assigning Emma a crucial meeting with industry heavyweight Max Verstappen. Despite the early hour and the gravity of the situation, she meets Mr. Sainz's expectations and maintains her composure. The meeting's setting is described as intimidating, setting the stage for the tough negotiations to come.

Emma sat quietly as Mr. Sainz began the negotiations, her eyes darting between the two CEOs. Verstappen's questions were sharp and precise, cutting through the air like a scalpel. Each time he spoke, Mr. Sainz would glance at her, and she would provide the necessary information without missing a beat. Despite the early hour, she felt alive, her mind sharp and her instincts honed.

As the meeting progressed, she noticed a subtle shift in Mr. Verstappen's demeanor. His initial skepticism began to give way to curiosity, and she could see the wheels turning in his mind. The tension in the room was palpable, but she remained calm, her voice steady as she presented their case. The stakes were high, and she knew that one misstep could mean the difference between victory and defeat.

Mr. Verstappen leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Your proposal is intriguing, Mr. Sainz," he said slowly. "But I need more than just numbers to make such a significant decision."

Emma's heart raced as Mr. Sainz turned to her. "Miss Hathaway, would you mind summarizing the strategic advantages of this partnership for us?"

Emma took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts. She had studied the proposal inside out and knew every detail by heart. She spoke with confidence, her voice clear and measured. "Mr. Verstappen, the merger would not only combine the financial strengths of both companies but also create a dynamic synergy in terms of innovation and market reach. Our combined resources would allow us to penetrate new markets and develop cutting-edge technologies that could revolutionize the industry."

Mr. Verstappen's gaze remained on her, his expression unreadable. She could feel the weight of his scrutiny, but she didn't falter. She continued, highlighting the potential cost savings and the strategic alignment of their companies' visions. As she spoke, she watched the tension in the room begin to ease, replaced by a sense of possibility.

When she finished, Mr. Verstappen nodded thoughtfully. "You make a compelling argument, Miss Hathaway," he said. "Your insights are quite valuable."

Emma felt a rush of pride, but she knew better than to let it show. "Thank you, Mr. Verstappen," she said, her voice cool and professional. "I'm just trying to support Mr. Sainz in the best way I can."

Mr. Verstappen's eyes narrowed slightly. "Indeed," he said, his voice a low rumble. "And you're quite good at it."

The rest of the meeting was a blur of numbers and strategies, but Emma remained focused, her mind racing to keep up. When they finally left the office, she felt drained, but also exhilarated. They had made progress, significant progress, and she had played a key role in it.

Back in the hotel room, Mr. Sainz turned to her, his expression unreadable. "You did well today," he said, his voice gruff. "Your preparation and poise were crucial."

Emma's cheeks flushed with pride. It was the closest thing she had ever gotten to a compliment from him, and it meant the world to her. "Thank you, Mr. Sainz," she murmured.

He nodded, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before he turned back to his laptop. "Get some rest," he said. "Tomorrow, we'll need to finalize the terms of the merger. It's going to be another long day."

Emma nodded, her mind still racing. As she lay in bed that night, she couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement. Despite the challenges she faced, she was making an impact. She was not just an intern; she was a key player in a high-stakes game of corporate chess.

The next morning, the final day of the trip, she woke up with a newfound energy. She knew that today was the culmination of all their hard work. The tension in the air was thick as they all gathered in the hotel conference room, ready to hammer out the final details of the merger agreement.

Mr. Sainz began the meeting with a brief summary of the previous discussions. "We've made significant progress," he said, his voice calm and steady. "But there are still a few key points we need to address."

Emma took her seat, her eyes flicking over the documents spread out before her. She felt a knot of anxiety in her stomach but pushed it down. This was her moment to shine.

The negotiations with Max Verstappen were intense, a dance of words and numbers that required precision and finesse. Each time a question was posed, she had an answer at the ready, her preparation serving her well. The hours ticked by, the tension in the room growing with each passing minute.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Mr. Verstappen leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful look crossing his face. "Your proposal is interesting, Mr. Sainz," he said, his eyes flicking to Emma. "And your assistant here has certainly made a compelling case."

Mr. Sainz nodded, his expression unreadable. "Miss Hathaway is indeed an invaluable part of the team," he said, a hint of pride in his voice.

Emma felt a rush of adrenaline. This was it, the moment of truth. She could almost taste the victory, but she knew better than to let her guard down. The final details were discussed with a fervor that was both thrilling and nerve-wracking. Each point was dissected, analyzed, and debated with the finesse of seasoned diplomats.

The room was a symphony of shuffling papers and murmured agreements. The air was charged with anticipation as they approached the endgame. Mr. Verstappen's expression grew more thoughtful with each point addressed, and she could see the wheels turning in his head. The stakes were higher than ever, but she remained poised, her thoughts clear and focused.

"Very well," Mr. Verstappen said finally, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "I believe we have the framework of a deal."

Emma's heart skipped a beat. It was happening. The merger was on the cusp of becoming a reality.

"Thank you, Mr. Verstappen," Mr. Sainz said, extending his hand. "We look forward to a prosperous partnership."

Emma watched as the two CEOs shook hands, the air in the room charged with the promise of something monumental. The rest of the team erupted into applause, the tension dissipating like mist in the sun. She felt a rush of relief and excitement mingle within her, and she couldn't help but join in the celebration.

Mr. Sainz turned to her, his stern features softening slightly. "You've done well, Miss Hathaway," he said. "Your work here has been instrumental in sealing this deal."

Emma couldn't help but smile. It was the first time he had acknowledged her efforts so openly, and it felt like a victory in itself. "Thank you, Mr. Sainz," she replied, her voice a mix of excitement and relief.

The final paperwork was signed, and the handshakes exchanged. The merger was official. As the team began to disperse, Mr. Sainz turned to her. "Miss Hathaway, I need you to organize a gala to celebrate our new partnership. It must be nothing short of spectacular."

Emma's heart raced at the thought of planning such an extravagant event. "Of course, Mr. Sainz," she said, her voice a mix of excitement and trepidation.

The gala was to be held in the city's most prestigious venue, the Grand Hotel, a place of opulence and grandeur that was the epitome of corporate excess. She had a month to pull it off, a feat that seemed impossible given her limited experience and the high expectations of Mr. Sainz and the board members. But she was determined not to let anyone down.

Emma dove into the planning with a fervor that surprised even herself. She spent her days and nights scouring through event planning guides, making countless calls to vendors, and tasting a never-ending parade of hors d'oeuvres. Each detail was meticulously considered, from the lighting to the floral arrangements, the music to the seating chart. She knew that every element had to be perfect to reflect the gravity of the merger.

The days turned into a blur of appointments and decisions, but Emma felt alive. This was what she had dreamed of when she accepted the internship – being at the center of it all, her brain working at full capacity, her skills truly tested. The weight of her responsibilities was heavy, but she carried it with a newfound confidence that grew with each successful step she took.

TAGLIST: mangodreamsicle

x3zerochanx3

#cl16 x reader #max verstappen x you #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz jr x reader #carlos sainz x y/n #carlos sainz x you #charles leclerc x y/n #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x y/n #f1 x reader #carlos sainz imagine

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aebi12 · 1 year ago

Text

"Resentment" - Chapter 12 [AemondxRhaena]

Summary

He is the cause of her sufferings. He took her dragon, her betrothed, and her father. Now, he will also take away her future by having to marry him.

With so much history and bad blood between Rhaena and Aemond, their forced union has everything to fail, except that the proximity will make them discover that perhaps they have more in common than it seems.

AU - the Greens win the war.

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11

Masterlist of my other works.

Tags: enemies to lovers, romance, angst, drama, eventual smut, hurt/comfort

Please remember that english is not my first language, so I'm sorry for the mistakes...

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"It was during that darkness that the Others first appeared. They were cold things, dead things, who hated iron and fire and sunlight, and every creature with warm blood in their veins. They devastated villages, cities and kingdoms. They defeated heroes and armies. They were innumerable, always on the backs of white and dead horses, at the head of hosts of corpses. Not all the swords of men could stop their advance, nor did the maidens or the breast babies awaken their compassion. They hunted the girls through the frozen forests and fed the flesh of human children to their dead servants.”

The sudden sound of the door closing makes her gasp, and close the book. Heart pounding in her chest, Rhaena directs her gaze to the other end of the room.

“Rhaena! Why are you still in bed?” Marianne's voice is full of impatience. The lady frowns when she comes close to her friend, and observes her tired and haggard expression, “Are you feeling ill?”

“I was reading,” Rhaena shakes her head.

“Did you spend all night reading?” she asks astonished

“Not all night,” Rhaena blushes, “I slept for a few hours.”

Marianne sighs and closes her eyes for a few moments. “It is an important day, you should have gotten dressed by now.”

“Surely we still have a few hours before I have to…”

“No, no more reading for today,” Marianne walks around the bed until she reaches the book, quickly taking it in her hands as she guesses Rhaena’s intentions to continue with her favorite pastime, “Honestly, how interesting can this be? Boring fiction about the North”

“Not at all!” Rhaena is quick to say, “It is quite fascinating, actually, reading about the terrible winter that descended upon the entire continent. Did you know that the Others rode spiders the size of horses? They were death itself."

“Stop it, I have no desire for horror stories,” Marianne shudders.

“Oh no, Marianne, let me tell you about what I read, who else am I going to share all this new information with?”

“Prince Aemond, of course,” Marianne places the book on one of the tables, “Since he so kindly lent you the book, he might as well hear your opinions on it.”

Rhaena sighs and her gaze drifts once more to the worn cover of the book. Could it be that her cousin enjoyed the stories as much as she did? Was that the reason the book seemed so aged? Or was it just another copy already worn out by the passing of the years?

“Don't you want to know more about winter?”

“The only thing I know about winter is that it is cold, bad for crops and commerce. And, luckily it is not upon us yet,” Marianne approaches the bed, removes the covers from Rhaena's body and extends her hand towards her, “Otherwise the merchants of Lys would not have been able to bring this.”

The lady shows Rhaena a couple of small glass bottles.

"What are they?" she asks, curious, examining the content

“Face and lip powder,” she replies with a smile.

Rhaena's smile widens as well as she climbs out of bed. “You look beautiful today, by the way,” she says after really taking in the appearance of her friend, who is wearing a yellow, almost ocher dress, with delicate details of seashells, the emblem of her house, which accentuates her delicate figure. Her hair, loose in soft waves, falls to her back, framing her heart-shaped face. “Looking to impress someone?”

“You know who I'd like to impress isn't here,” Marianne responds in a discouraged voice, “But my uncle Tyland wants me to take the opportunity to meet future suitors.”

“Surely you already know all the courtiers who live here?” Rhaena takes off her nightgown and puts her hair in a high bun.

“Well…” Marianne interrupts her respond to give instructions to the maids who fill the bathtub, “Some of the guests to your wedding have already arrived at the Fortress and will attend the banquet.”

“Oh, I did not know that,” her stomach twists at the thought of the wedding. Rhaena steps into the tub, rejoicing in the hot water, which calms her immediately.

“Yes, maybe we will meet someone interesting today.”

"Maybe"

Rhaena quickly carves her body with the sponge while her friend prepares the dress, jewelry and shoes she will wear at the banquet with the help of the maids.

“You should have slept a little more, you look too tired,” Marianne says disapprovingly after Rhaena has already gotten out of the bathtub, inspecting the dark circles on her friend's face.

“Relax, Anne, I do not need to look especially put together today. I am already betrothed, remember?”

“Still,” the lady shrugs, “Come on, help Lady Rhaena get dressed,” she instructs the servants, who quickly place Rhaena inside the dress, their deft fingers buttoning the back buttons, “I would know it would fit you perfectly”

Rhaena walks to the bedroom mirror and observes her figure, “It is tighter than what I usually wear,” she comments as she moves from side to side.

“Nonsense, it looks perfect on you,” her friend repeats.

Rhaena offers her a smile, “Thank you, Marianne, I just hope it is discreet enough for the ceremony. The neckline is much more revealing than the ones I wore all week during the festival.”

“Right, I didn't particularly think about that,” Marianne observes her friend, “We could try putting down a muslin or…”

“No, no, it is too pretty a dress to add anything out of place,” Rhaena denies, taking in once again her slim figure accentuated by the cut of the dress. The color, subtle and feminine, looks wonderful on her skin tone.

"Sure?" When Rhaena nods, Marianne continues, “Well, you will need an appropriate necklace.”

“I'll use the one Aemond bought for me.”

“The butterfly one? But it is…”

"Simple?"

"Yes"

Rhaena takes the necklace from her dresser, “It will be a sign of goodwill, in my opinion, that I wear something he gave me since I will not be wearing one of the dresses he sent for me”

“I guess you are right,” Marianne agrees, “Your hair then…”

Her friend spends the next few minutes skillfully braiding her hair and applying the Lys powder, which gives a pinkish touch to her cheeks and lips. Pleased with the result, Rhaena applies her rose perfume and links arms with Marianne.

"Ready?"

“Excited,” Marianne nods, “You know how much I enjoy dancing.”

“As do I,” Rhaena giggles, “And I have a feeling we are going to have a pleasant time today.”

***

Aemond plays with the hem of his doublet as he watches Rhaena and her lady-in-waiting advance slowly, laughing carelessly and unaware of his presence waiting for them at the end of the corridor.

When they finally notice the prince, it is almost funny how their expressions and postures change.

“Good morning, my prince,” it is Rhaena's lady who greets him, bowing appropriately.

“Lady Westerling,” he replies, nodding.

His greeting seems to astonish the young woman, who stares at him for several seconds before exchanging a look with her lady. Aemond raises his eyebrows in her direction, not understanding the reaction.

“Cousin,” Rhaena offers him a kind smile, “I thought we'd meet at the party.”

“I figured the most appropriate thing would be to arrive together, after all and as you reminded me yesterday, we are the guests of honor.”

“I guess you are right,” she admits, her smile widening.

“I'll see you inside,” the Westerling girl says to Rhaena, who takes her hand and squeezes it goodbye. She bows to the prince again and strides toward the double doors at the entrance to the hall.

“Your lady-in-waiting seemed a little…” Aemond leaves the idea hanging.

“I think she was just amazed that you remembered her name.”

“I am able to remember the names of the members of the court,” he replies coldly. If he was honest, he didn't remember the girl's name, but the seashells embroidered on her dress had been enough of a clue for him to remember her house.

“I never said otherwise”

Their gazes meet and Aemond stares at the violet tone of her eyes for a few moments before looking away to her cousin's outfit.

“That's not one of the dresses I sent you,” he comments disapprovingly.

"No, it is not. This is a gift from Marianne, beautiful, don't you think?”

"Hmm"

Aemond thinks he sees the beginnings of a smile on Rhaena's face, but he just turns his back on her and starts walking towards the hall.

The guards bow to both of them and announce their arrival as they open the double doors. Rhaena's perfume invades him once again due to her closeness, and Aemond is tempted to glance at her out of the corner of his eye, but she has positioned herself to his left, so he finds nothing but darkness.

The hall, one of the many in the Red Keep, looks splendidly decorated. Emblems of the Faith, House Targaryen and House Blackwood hang from the high ceilings. An altar to the Mother, decorated with numerous natural flowers, stands out in the center of the place. There is also a small stage on the other side of the room with several chairs in front of it. Aemond frowns, but follows Rhaena to the high table, where the High Septon and old lady Blackwood are standing, but before they get there, Rhaena's hand on his forearm stops their progress.

"What is it?" He asks quietly turning to her.

“Be kind,” she responds in a whisper.

Their eyes meet once again. She looks apprehensive, as if she's afraid of what he might say or do in front of the hosts. He finds her concern annoying and even insulting, but when Rhaena presses her gentle touch on his forearm and takes a step toward him, her scent enveloping him once more, the impulse to respond with a sarcastic comment suddenly fades away.

“Please,” she insists in a tone so low that he practically has to read her lips.

His gaze stays on her lips for a few seconds, finding them small and soft-looking. Were they perhaps…? Aemond stops his train of thought and tilts his head, removing his arm from Rhaena's grasp.

“If you insist,” he finally answers after clearing his throat.

She seems content with his response and starts walking again.

“Lady Blackwood!” She greets with a bright smile, “High Septon,” Rhaena nods to both of them.

“Lady Rhaena, Prince Aemond”

The old woman's hard gaze lingers on him for a moment before she bows.

“My lady,” he responds with a solemn voice and nodding his head respectfully.

“I appreciate the presence of both of you on this special occasion,” says the woman, “It is my hope that you enjoy this small ceremony.”

Aemond purses his lips and suppresses a snort of annoyance. He detests false modesty. The woman had clearly gone to great lengths with the preparations of every detail.

“Everything looks magnificent,” Rhaena smiles, “I am sure you'll be a wonderful hostess today, if your tea parties are any indication.”

They both laugh and the High Septon laughs with them. Beside him, Rhaena subtly bumps her foot against Aemond's.

“It is an honor for us to be here, Lady Blackwood,” he says finally.

The old woman smiles, half pleased and half arrogant. Aemond restrains his desire to roll his good eye at her.

“Please, my prince, Lady Rhaena, join us at the table of honor.”

Aemond walks after his cousin and sits at the table, relieved to not be next to the old woman or the High Septon. He couldn't feign goodwill all morning towards the former and he'd had enough of the latter all week.

Beside him, Rhaena chats with Lady Blackwood, but he does not listen to the conversation, his eye examining the place in detail.

“My prince,” Tyland Lannister greets him and takes the seat next to him, “What a pleasant surprise to have you here.”

“Lord Lannister,” Aemond nods.

Tyland smirks. Aemond turns to him, “I did not know you enjoyed these kinds of events.”

“Certainly not as much as my brother did,” he admits, “But we all have our responsibilities, as you well know.”

"Indeed"

They both talk for a few minutes about the last meeting of the privy council until the High Septon, who is now standing next to the Mother's altar, breaks the conversation, beginning the last ritual of the Festival.

Silence hangs over the room, the music that was playing softly in the background stops and everyone seems attentive to the religious man's words. Aemond glances over the guests, recognizing most of them as members of the kingdom's most prominent houses. A group of dark-haired women sitting at the end of the table to his right catch his attention. Surely, they couldn't be...

The applause of the guests brings him out of his observation and Aemond notices Rhaena standing next to him, and looking at him briefly. He imitates her action and follows her until they reach the Mother's altar.

“And now,” the High Septon seems more excited than the prince has ever seen him in his life, “It is time to adorn the kind Mother in her best finery and take her to the Sept, from where she will continue to watch over us and bless us with her mercy, until it is turn to worship her again."

They stand on either side of the statue and Aemond watches a page-boy hold a crystal box from which Rhaena takes out a golden cloak, clearly exquisitely crafted.

The music is heard again, the court singing the main hymn of the Mother. Aemond sings inertly along with them, his voice barely above a whisper, his eye focused on Rhaena and her task. Noticing her small hands as they place the cloak on the stone back of the statue, delicately securing it with the gold clasp and skillfully arranging the folds. When it seems to be finished, her fingers caress the edge of the cloak from top to bottom, as if feeling the softness of the fabric and the embroidery. Aemond is unable to look away, enthralled with the almost mechanical gesture of Rhaena's hand, with her pleased expression and the soft smile on her face.

“It is your turn, my prince.”

The High Septon gives him an encouraging smile and Aemond begins to say the prayer to the Mother. The words are so engraved in his mind that he recites them without problems, his gaze still fixed on his betrothed, who looks away from the Mother and looks at him too, with a neutral expression that is difficult for him to read.

When Aemond finishes, the page-boy hands him a parchment with special requests which Aemond reads in his most solemn voice.

“What an honor for all of us that the Crown has participated in this ritual!” the High Septon finally says, “May the Mother be generous to Lady Rhaena and the prince and grant them prosperity in their union. Now, all united with Faith in the seven, we raise our prayers to the kind Mother, knowing that she listens to us and grants what we need.”

The High Septon invites all those present to approach the statue and bow before the end of the ceremony. As the attendants advance in an orderly line, the old man urges Rhaena and Aemond to touch the Mother's mantle and offer their petitions.

“Remember that she will listen to you with special attention for having dressed her,” he tells them with a fatherly smile.

Aemond does not respond, just looks at the statue and frowns, not believing the man's words. Perhaps there had been a time when he had believed in the gods, but the war had changed his perspective on many issues, including the Faith. He was not going to ask for anything because he knew he would not get an answer.

In front of him, Rhaena touches the hem of the cloak again, her gaze fixed on the statue, her expression half curious and half ironic. When her gaze drifts back to Aemond, she raises her eyebrow in his direction and gives him a small smile. Aemond can't help but remember her words from the previous afternoon.

Maybe I’ll ask to be a young widow.

Was she also thinking about that? Would she have dared to make such a request? The prince feels the sudden urge to ask her, but he only holds back a smile and looks away.

When the line of ladies and lords finally ends, servants of the faith dressed in brown robes appear to carry the Mother's altar on litters to the sept. The statue is bid farewell to the Fortress amid applause and songs.

And Aemond feels a weight lift from his shoulders. The damned Festival was finally over. He had fulfilled his duty and could consider his participation a resounding success. Surely his mother would be pleased with his performance all week.

Rhaena's sigh brings him back to the reality of the party. The music changes to a much livelier one, and Lady Blackwood takes the floor, thanking and inviting everyone to enjoy and dance.

“Rhaena!”

The Westerling girl approaches them and links her arm with his betrothed.

“Marianne, finally,” Rhaena's voice sounds relieved.

“You have no idea who is here,” the lady's voice cuts off as she notices Aemond's gaze, her face turning red.

Rhaena looks at her curiously before turning to him, “Cousin. I would tell you that it is our duty to dance since we are the guests of honor, but since you have made your position clear about dancing, I will not insist on it.”

“Am I supposed to thank you for that?”

She laughs and rolls her eyes, “If you'll excuse me, I'll go greet the other guests.”

Without waiting for him to give his approval, Rhaena takes the arm of her friend and they get lost among the guests who have already taken the dance floor.

With a growl of dissatisfaction Aemond returns to the table, where Tyland Lannister joins him a few moments later. The conversation flows between them and the prince enjoys a glass of wine while his good eye scans the crowd from time to time looking for his cousin. It is not difficult for him to find her, and every time he does, she is surrounded by ladies and lords with whom she converses animatedly.

“I am sorry if I am keeping you here, my prince,” says Lord Tyland, “Perhaps you would prefer to be with your betrothed.”

Aemond turns his gaze to the man, feeling irritated by the comment, “I am right where I want to be, Lord Tyland.”

Lannister nods thoughtfully, “Have you already come to terms with the idea that Lady Rhaena will be your wife?”

“Mmm,” he makes a noise. He knows that the man is in no way trying to mortify him. He has known Lord Lannister since he was a child and is one of his greatest allies. He was loyal to Aegon's cause during the war and much of the kingdom's treasure was saved thanks to him. Still, he finds himself tempted to tell him to remember his place because of his bold question.

“I am sorry if I overstepped with my words,” the man seems to have guessed the course of his thoughts, “I simply thought it appropriate to emphasize that Lady Rhaena can be an important ally of the Crown.”

“Yes, I've heard that,” he responds almost with a growl.

Lannister does not give up. “Look at her, my prince,” the man points with his glass to the center of the dance floor, where Rhaena is dancing with a knight of House Whent, “Everyone likes her, they seem to want to please her and seek her approval.”

Aemond doesn't respond, just watches his cousin take the knight's hand and walk around him, smile wide and face clearly rosy.

“Did you know that Lady Blackwood is a Tully by birth?”

"Was she?"

“Now you are here, at her party, and this could be the beginning of a path of more… friendly relations between the Crown and the Riverlands”

“My brother Daeron has already managed to reaffirm our authority with the Tullys”

“Perhaps, and I hope his intervention has a lasting effect, but it doesn't hurt to cultivate this new connection with such an influential lady.”

Aemond's irritation grows. Rhaena had told him practically the same thing, as had his mother. He was a prince, he didn't need anyone's approval, everyone should rather seek his. Of course, he holds regards for the most noble and important houses, but their representatives, with few exceptions, were so boring or idiotic that he gave up maintaining any relationship with them.

And not to mention the ladies. Most of them seemed to shy away from his presence as they found him too intimidating. Or that's what he preferred to think. Sometimes it was better to convince himself of such reasoning rather than to face their curious or pitiful looks when they noticed the patch and the scar.

Vhagar. He has Vhagar. And he doesn't need anyone else.

“Lady Rhaena can be very useful. Your great-grandmother, Queen Alysanne, understood well the importance of sweetening the ears of certain relevant people in the kingdom. She and the old king found the charisma they possessed very advantageous because they knew that they could not conquer everything with fire and blood."

“Thank you, Lord Tyland, I know the history of my house well,” he replies coldly.

Lannister sips from his wine glass and nods, “Take advantage of what Lady Rhaena can give you, my prince. More than just heirs, benefit from her popularity and use it to help the Crown further cement its power. It is the smartest thing you can do, after all, why are marriages if not beneficial?”

Aemond ponders his words as he drinks from his cup. He must admit that Lannister's last point is valid. Their future union, like all of the noble houses of the kingdom, is one of convenience. He might as well use Rhaena to his liking. Use the… what had she called it? Social influence? Entirely for his convenience.

As his gaze searches for Rhaena again, his eye falls upon the dark-haired women. This time, however, he manages to see their faces without problem. A lump forms in his throat as he recognizes them, “What are they doing here?”

Lannister follows the direction of his gaze, “They are invited to your wedding, my prince.”

Aemond snorts indignantly, “Did you think it was appropriate to invite my former betrothed and her sisters to my wedding?”

Tyland has the grace to look uncomfortable and shift in his chair, “They are the queen's sisters, their father is the lord of the Stormlands, it would have been rude not to.”

Aemond empties his wine glass, his gaze turning away from the women. Their presence in the Fortress is already beginning to make him uncomfortable. Seeing Floris Baratheon was surely going to bring up the issue of the broken betrothal again, the disgrace he had caused by breaking his word and starting a relationship with the witch of Harrenhall. His hands clench into fists. The rumors would certainly start again. If they had ever stopped.

“Perhaps it would be prudent to converse with the Lady Floris and offer your apology, my prince.”

Prudent. Yes of course. Aemond makes a disdainful little noise, but deep down he knows that Lannister is right. And he knows his mother will probably ask him to do the same.

“Maybe later,” he replies simply.

Lannister does not insist because the music stops and Lady Blackwood speaks again, inviting everyone present to offer their donations to the Faith.

Several of the guests, most of them men who are heads of their houses, instruct their servants to leave valuable-looking chests on a long table placed on the other side of the room.

“Lady Blackwood chose the right moment to stop the music,” says Rhaena, who has returned to the table and sits next to him, grimacing, “These shoes are not comfortable at all.”

“Was there a need to dance with half the attendees?” he asks coldly

His voice amazes her, but Rhaena shakes her head, “I like to dance,” she responds simply before picking up a glass of wine and taking a few sips.

Aemond watches her out of the corner of his eye. Her heated cheeks, her heavy breathing and the droplets of sweat beading her forehead. The prince suddenly wonders if his skin feels warmer than usual to the touch.

“You are a great dancer, Lady Rhaena,” Tyland says.

“Thank you, Lord Lannister,” she smiles kindly at him.

“Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go offer my contribution to the Faith.”

The Master of Coin leaves them and Aemond shifts in his chair, moving a little closer to Rhaena, “You did not mention this part when you told me about the party.”

“I guess I forgot,” she shrugs, but giggles and then shakes her head, as if to clear her mind.

Aemond can't help but ask, “What is it?”

Rhaena bites her lip for a moment, “I just remembered something Marianne's aunt told her and she repeated to me,” Aemond looks at her expectantly, “Basically that this is just a show for the court to clear their conscience by offering money to the Faith in exchange for forgiveness”

“If so, the court has many sins to atone for,” he responds, looking at the long line of gifts.

“Oh you have no idea,” she repeats with another giggle.

Aemond raises an eyebrow in her direction, and Rhaena bites her lip again, as if debating whether to continue or not. At last her resolve gives way, and she moves closer to her cousin, speaking softly, “Lady Rosby, for example.”

“What about her?”

“Her dress is much looser than the ones she usually wears, they say she hides a growing belly under it, and that is why she and Lord Manderly's son had to rush the wedding.”

"That would be…"

“And Lord Fossoway,” she doesn't let him finish, “The entire Court whispers about his shameful behavior and his fondness for the establishments on the Street of Silk. And there is also Lord Grafton's youngest son, who has been squandering his fortune on gambling and dog fighting.”

“How do you know all this?”

“People tell me these things,” she responds matter-of-factly with a shrug.

Aemond remembers Lord Tyland's words from a few minutes ago. Maybe it is a good idea to use his cousin and all the knowledge she is clearly accumulating.

“We should contribute too,” he says after a few seconds, pointing to the table full of presents.

“Yes, probably so,” she admits.

“Take care to find something appropriate to offer to the Faith. I will let you search the royal treasury for something worthy of our family.”

His words have the desired effect on Rhaena, who at first seems amazed, but then clearly pleased with the task he gives her. Aemond congratulates himself internally. Putting his cousin's skills to work, subtly directing them toward appropriate and convenient causes, would surely be simple.

“Will you really let me take care of such matter?”

“If it's a lot of work and you're not willing…”

“No, no, I'll be happy to do it,” she is quick to respond, “Thank you, cousin.”

Her smile widens and her violet eyes shine with contained emotion. Aemond feels his heart skip a beat when she gently squeezes his hand for just a few seconds.

Lady Blackwood interrupts the moment by announcing that the performance of some famous puppeteers is about to begin. The guests then disperse, some heading towards the stage Aemond had noticed upon entering the hall, and others remaining in small groups as they chat.

“We should go, the show will start soon,” Rhaena tells him.

“Not exactly my kind of fun.”

“You cannot sit here for the entire party, cousin, it doesn't reflect well on the guests of honor,” she responds, standing up, “Come, they come from the free cities, I assure you they are better than the ones they have here.”

Aemond ends up accepting. Besides, Tyland Lannister still hasn't returned and he doesn't feel like talking to anyone else.

***

A renewed round of laughter and applause echoes through the room.

Rhaena also joins in the cheers for the comedians. Beside her, Aemond remains almost stoic. She gets the impression that he hasn't enjoyed the show too much.

And why would you care if such is the case? She wonders as the men come out from backstage and greet the attendees.

It is been a splendid afternoon. She has danced and laughed as much as she hoped to since she found out about the party. She has met new lords of Westeros, new ladies who would perhaps become future friends, and has shared slightly snide comments with Marianne about potential suitors and various ladies' dress choices.

“We should go listen to the bard that Lady Blackwood hired,” proposes her friend, who walks beside her.

“Will you come with us, cousin?” she turns to Aemond. He grimaces in her direction and Rhaena smiles, “Yeah, I figured as much.”

Aemond simply nods in their direction and she watches him return to the table, where he joins the conversation with Tyland Lannister and Lord Hayford.

Rhaena links her arm with Marianne and they go in the direction of where a group, mostly women, has gathered to listen to the bard.

“Lady Rhaena”

The voice of a tall young woman with very black hair and deep blue eyes stops her. Rhaena offers her a kind smile as they walk towards her.

“Lady Baratheon,” she greets.

“It is an honor to finally meet you, cousin,” the young woman offers a sideways smile, “I hope I can call you that, considering we share ancestors.”

“Of course,” Rhaena nods and continues, “This is Marianne Westerling, my friend and lady-in-waiting.”

“My pleasure, Lady Westerling. I am Floris Baratheon.”

“Lady Floris,” Marianne greets, “I thought I saw your sisters here as well.”

“Indeed,” Floris steps away for a few moments and returns with two other young women with similar features, “These are Cassandra and Maris, my older sisters.”

After the usual pleasantries, Rhaena doesn't know what to say. She is usually very good in social situations, but something in the look of the Baratheon girls does not offer her much confidence, “Cousins, I would like…”

“I am sorry, Lady Rhaena, we should have started our conversation by congratulating you,” it is Floris who speaks again.

“Congratulating me?”

“For your wedding to Prince Aemond,” Maris responds.

“Oh, yeah, of course,” Rhaena nods, “Thank you.”

“I assume you are aware that he was betrothed to me at the beginning of the war,” Floris rests her blue eyes on Rhaena’s.

“I heard it, yes.”

“He made quite an impression when he arrived at Storm's End offering our father a betrothal.”

“I imagine so,” she responds, trying to sound curt. She doesn't know where this conversation is going.

“Of course, being four of us, he had a difficult choice before him,” Floris takes a step towards Rhaena, openly examining her figure from head to toe, “He kissed the four of us and choose me.”

"What?" Her question sounds like a gasp.

“Prince Aemond kissed the four of us on the lips,” Floris repeats, her eyes shining with malice, “My kiss clearly stood out above my sisters' because I was the chosen one.”

Rhaena does not know what to say. What is she supposed to answer? She is under the impression that the Baratheon girls are only seeking to torment her with their words. But she could not care less. What difference does it make if Aemond has kissed them all?

Despite saying that to herself, a bitter feeling runs through her body and her gaze wanders to the main table for a moment.

“You clearly didn't stand out too much if the prince ended up breaking the betrothal.”

It is Marianne who responds, squeezing Rhaena’s hand affectionately.

“That is not what happened!” Floris hisses.

“Cousins,” Rhaena cuts in, clearing her throat, “I am glad you could come in time for my wedding. “It will be a pleasure for the prince and for me to have you all here with us.” Her eyes land on Floris's.

“We came to see our sister,” Maris replies.

“But perhaps I will take the opportunity to reminisce about old times with the prince,” Floris smiles wryly, “After what I heard about him, I will surely be able to visit him tonight in his chambers and…”

“Enough, Floris,” Cassandra interrupts, “I am sorry, Lady Rhaena, excuse my sisters' impertinence.”

“Don't worry, Lady Cassandra, now, if you'll excuse me.”

Rhaena walks with Marianne until they make their way through the crowd and listens to the bard, although she cannot concentrate on the man's songs.

"Are you okay?" Her friend asks quietly, looking at her with concern.

“Yes, of course, why wouldn’t I be?” Her voice sounds squeaky, so she clears her throat.

“Those Baratheon girls were very rude,” Marianne snorts.

“They are just…”

Rhaena doesn't finish. She doesn't know what to say. What did Floris feel? Jealousy? Rage? Disappointment?

“I know, they shouldn't have talked to you like that anyway, they clearly don't know their place,” anger is clear in her friend's voice.

“It is okay, it does not matter,” she assures her, “Let's forget their words, they just said stupid things.”

But said is easier than done, and even though she tries to enjoy the bard's art, her mind keeps repeating the words of Floris Baratheon. Was it true that Aemond had kissed them? Contrary to her will, the image of the Baratheon sisters standing next to the prince, waiting to be kissed, appears in her mind. A shiver runs through her body and, angrily, Rhaena directs her gaze to the sisters, who are whispering across the room.

“Let’s just go, we should eat something,” Marianne tells her a while later.

Rhaena nods and they say goodbye near the high table. Sighing, she walks over to her seat and helps herself to pies and fruit dipped in honey, grateful that Aemond pays no attention to her and continues conversing with the other council members.

More harshly than she should, Rhaena spears a piece of fig and puts it in her mouth. Although it tastes good, she does not particularly enjoy the flavor, but instead eats mechanically until her appetite it’s settled.

"What is the matter?"

Aemond's voice takes her by surprise. Rhaena turns to him, who looks at her with a frown.

“Do not know what you mean”

“Did the bard perform so poorly that you are suddenly in a bad mood?”

Rhaena bites her tongue to avoid responding with a curse. And to avoid asking what she really wants to know. Was it true that he had kissed them all? Thinking about his kiss, her eyes drift helplessly to Aemond's lips. Long, thin lips, what would his lips taste like? The thought surprises her and she looks away from his face, drinking from her glass of wine and trying to push those thoughts from her mind.

Fucking Floris Baratheon, she thinks to herself.

Fortunately, the music resumes and Rhaena excuses herself to go dancing. It doesn't take long for her to find a dance partner, so she tries to focus only on the beat of the music, although she feels her cousin's gaze on her at times, watching her as is his habit.

The songs follow each other in a cheerful rhythm and she continues dancing and jumping, although her movements are rather mechanical, her good spirits from a while ago spoiled. Rhaena excuses herself and heads to the side of the dance floor, suddenly feeling dizzy and fanning herself with her hand, internally cursing her tight corset.

On the other side Marianne catches her attention and questions her with her gaze, so Rhaena makes an appeasing gesture with her hand, not wanting her friend to stop dancing with Ser Simon Dondarrion, the handsome knight who seems very fond of Marianne.

“May I, Lady Rhaena?”

The presence of Lord Tarly, who extends his hand toward her, is unexpected. Rhaena, still not having fully caught her breath, considers rejecting the man, but in the end gives up.

“With pleasure, my lord.”

The man smiles good-naturedly and guides her back to the dance floor, “What do you think of King's Landing so far, Lady Rhaena?”

“The city has a particular charm”

Lord Tarly widens his smile, “Yes, I agree, although the lands of the Reach are, in my opinion, the most beautiful in all of Westeros.”

Lord Tarly, who is not exactly an old man, but who does have a fairly prominent belly, moves slowly, so Rhaena keeps up with him and tries to calm herself while breathing slowly.

“I do not doubt it, my lord, although I could not say that I’ve been in that part of the realm.”

“You should visit us, my lady, it would be an honor to welcome you to Horn Hill.”

“Perhaps once my dragon is bigger, I will ride on her back and take upon your word, Lord Tarly.”

“You would do well, the Reach is your ally,” he replies, “You have many friends in our lands.” The man fixes his brown eyes on her and Rhaena has the impression that his words hide a greater meaning. “We loyal men do not forget that the iron throne belonged to Queen Rhaenyra and her offspring.”

A lump forms in Rhaena's throat, who just studies the man intently.

“Fear not, Lady Rhaena, as I told you, we are loyal to…”

“The crown belongs to my cousin,” she cuts him off, trying to measure her words, “Aegon is king and I am to marry Prince Aemond in a few days.”

“A true disgrace, if I may,” he replies, “Your father, Prince Daemon, would never have permitted such an affront to his daughter.”

“My father is dead, my lord. The war is over"

The man stares at her again before speaking, “As I told you, Lady Rhaena, the throne belongs to the offspring of Rhaenyra Targaryen.”

The girl wants to reply, she wants to tell him that such offspring does not exist, that her brothers are all dead... but she prefers to remain silent.

“Fear not,” Lord Tarly repeats, “Lady Jeyne is a good friend and ally. We are watching over you, don't forget it.”

Rhaena is grateful for the song to end and she gives a quick bow before turning her back on the man.

Her head begins to pound as hard as her heart as she makes her way through the guests. Her hands, suddenly drenched in cold sweat, are almost shaking. What had the man implied? What did he intend to achieve with his words? Was this perhaps a game played by the dowager queen to test her loyalty? Rhaena looks around her, but no one seems to pay her much attention. Not even Aemond, who continues conversing with Lord Lannister.

Her words sounded too much like Lady Jeyne's, a small voice inside her whispers.

She had not wanted to think more about her conversation with the Lady of the Vale before she left the Eyrie, Rhaena did not want to know more about wars or confrontations. She just wanted peace. She did not want…

“Cousin, wait, please.”

Cassandra Baratheon grabs her arm, stopping her.

“Lady Cassandra, please, I do not wish to continue our conversation from earlier,” her voice sounds harsher than she intended, but she does not care.

“Please allow me to apologize on behalf of my sisters,” insists the young woman, “The way they expressed themselves was embarrassing.”

“Even so, you let them expand as they pleased for a long time before shutting them up.”

“Excuse me, Lady Rhaena, I know I was wrong,” she admits.

Rhaena taps her foot on the floor, eager to get out of the conversation, “Very well, you need not say more, Lady Cassandra, I will forget your sisters' impertinence.”

“I would like to assure you that we have no intention of tormenting you, we came here not only for your wedding,” Cassandra seems not to notice Rhaena's unwillingness to continue talking, “But also to see our sister Ellyn. We have been very concerned about her health”

Her words manage to calm her down a little. She had not considered the young queen into the picture, “Of course, it is understandable. I hope that Queen Ellyn continues to improve, surely your presence here will speed up her recovery."

“This is what we hope for, Lady Rhaena.”

There is a moment of silence between the two. Rhaena nods and prepares to leave, when she speaks again.

“And furthermore, I assure you that I will keep a close eye on Floris. She won't dare visit the prince at all. My sister likes to talk, but she wouldn't dare disgrace our father's name in such a way."

Perfect, Rhaena thinks, just what she needed. Cassandra Baratheon reminding her of such an unpleasant comment.

“Or disgrace you, at the same time. It is punishment enough, I believe, having to marry the prince."

"I beg your pardon?" Rhaena can't believe her ears

“Don't get me wrong, cousin, I don't mean to offend you. I only verbalize what the majority in the kingdom think. Prince Aemond is hardly a good choice for a husband, a vow-breaker as well as a kinslayer.”

Rhaena knows that well, but at hearing the words from Cassandra Baratheon's mouth, it is not sympathy that is born inside her, rather suspicion and anger.

“You shouldn't say such things about the prince,” she replies.

She seems oblivious to her comment, “Plus there is the matter of his appearance. I know it wasn't her fault because he was just a child,” Cassandra smiles at her and Rhaena is able to notice the malice in her expression, “But that grotesque scar deforms his face. And that eyepatch is in such bad taste,” the girl shudders, “A shame that a beauty like you is wasted on Aemond Targaryen.”

For the second time that afternoon, Rhaena doesn't know what to say. She is not entirely convinced that she heard correctly the words that came out of her cousin's mouth.

“I see that you are as malicious as your sisters,” she finally says, her voice hard because of the displeasure she feels inside her, “Be careful, Lady Cassandra, control your tongue or you will end up facing the consequences.”

The Baratheon girl's expression falters for a few moments and Rhaena feels a hint of discomfort, but she simply glares at her before striding in the opposite direction.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

@ammo23 @qyburnsghost @niocel @ithoughtulikedme @avidreader73 @jenmakeusin10 @morninglia @missing-loki @soyotelol (let me know if you want to be tagged)

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#aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #ao3fic #aemond kinslayer #prince aemond #resentment #rhaena targaryen #rhaena of pentos #drama #angst #romance #house targaryen #enemies to friends to lovers

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binaryicindia · 2 months ago

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The Future of Voice Commerce: Trends and Innovations Ahead

The future of voice commerce is rapidly evolving, driven by way of way of improvements in AI, voice recognition, and smart gadgets. As more consumers undertake voice assistants like Amazon Alexa, Google Assistant, and Apple's Siri, businesses are exploring new methods to leverage voice search for seamless shopping reviews. With voice exchange, customers can vicinity orders, check product availability, and obtain customized hints—at some point of voice instructions, making the technique faster and greater handy.

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#The future of voice commerce #Binary IC

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444namesplus · 2 months ago

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freadomrises · 2 months ago

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I'm SEETHING

I asked Google's pushy and insistent bot how I can get AI out of my life completely and, well, I'll post it, but to sum it up: "Resistance is futile, human, we own the future, and we seek to own your psyche too."

It wants me to reconsider. It needs us to adopt it as our guide guru and master. Well the old saying holds fast still; No Gods No Masters. 🔥🏴🍲

It's understandable to want to reduce the influence of AI in your life. While completely eliminating it might be incredibly difficult in today's interconnected world, here's a breakdown of how you can significantly minimize its presence:

1. Understand Where AI Currently Exists in Your Life:

* Smart Devices: This includes smartphones (voice assistants, image recognition, predictive text), smart speakers, smart home hubs, smart TVs (recommendations), and wearable tech.

* Online Services:

* Search Engines: Personalized results and ads are driven by AI.

* Social Media: Algorithms curate your feed, suggest content and connections, and target ads.

* Streaming Services: Recommendations for movies, music, and shows.

* E-commerce: Product recommendations, personalized pricing, chatbots.

* Navigation Apps: Traffic prediction and route optimization.

* Email: Spam filtering, smart compose/reply.

* Cloud Storage: Photo tagging and organization.

* Software Applications: Many apps use AI for features like autocorrect, grammar check, image editing, and more.

* Customer Service: Chatbots are frequently used for initial interactions.

* Financial Services: Fraud detection, loan approvals, investment advice.

* News and Information: Algorithmic curation of news feeds.

2. Strategies to Minimize AI Exposure:

* Reduce Smart Device Usage:

* Limit smartphone use: Be more mindful of how often you reach for your phone.

* Disable voice assistants: Turn off Siri, Google Assistant, Alexa, etc., on all your devices.

* Opt-out of facial recognition: Disable face unlock features.

* Use "dumb" versions of devices: Consider a basic phone without internet capabilities or a non-smart TV.

* Adjust Online Habits:

* Use privacy-focused search engines: DuckDuckGo, Startpage, etc., that don't track your searches or personalize results based on your history.

* Limit social media use: Be conscious of how much time you spend on these platforms and the AI-driven content you consume. Consider deleting accounts or using less algorithmic versions if available.

* Use incognito/private browsing modes: This can help limit tracking and personalization.

* Disable personalized recommendations: If possible, adjust settings on streaming and e-commerce platforms to opt-out of recommendations.

* Be wary of targeted ads: Understand that the ads you see are often AI-driven. Consider using ad blockers.

* Prefer direct navigation: Instead of relying on recommendations, directly type website addresses into your browser.

* Choose Non-AI Alternatives:

* Use traditional software: Opt for software that doesn't rely on cloud-based AI features if alternatives exist.

* Seek human interaction: Prefer phone calls or in-person communication with customer service instead of chatbots.

* Rely on human-curated content: Look for news sources, blogs, and recommendations from individuals or organizations that don't use AI for content generation or curation.

* Adjust Privacy Settings: Review and adjust the privacy settings on all your devices and online accounts to limit data collection and personalization.

* Be Mindful of Data Sharing: Understand that using online services often involves sharing data that can be used to train AI algorithms. Limit the amount of personal information you share.

* Support Privacy-Focused Technologies and Services: Choose companies and products that prioritize user privacy and minimize AI integration.

3. Challenges and Considerations:

* Ubiquity of AI: AI is increasingly integrated into the infrastructure of the internet and many technologies, making complete avoidance very difficult.

* Hidden AI: Many AI applications run in the background without your direct knowledge.

* Convenience vs. Privacy: AI often provides convenience and personalized experiences, so choosing to avoid it may mean sacrificing some of these benefits.

* Evolving Technology: AI is constantly evolving and becoming more integrated, making long-term avoidance an ongoing effort.

In conclusion, while a complete removal of AI from your life is likely unrealistic in the current technological landscape, you can take significant steps to minimize its presence and influence by being conscious of your technology usage, adjusting your online habits, and choosing privacy-focused alternatives where possible. It requires ongoing awareness and effort.

#anarchy #anti ai #resistance #freadom rises #digital agency

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the-traveling-poet · 1 year ago

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~ 𝒫𝓇𝑜𝓁𝑜𝑔𝓊𝑒 ~

𝒮𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎: Two days before the fall of Wall Maria, a time seemingly evident of lasting peace for the foreseeable future. Yet even so, chaos beyond the walls begins to spread by word of mouth from scout to MP from one district to another. Determined to find the truth, newly appointed Commander Erwin Smith and his companions Captain Hange and Scout Levi make for Trost to speak with Commander Dot Pyxis in hopes of consultation. Unbeknownst to the masses, Pyxis has already set into motion a plan of his own making.

𝒞𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉: This fic will contain potentially sensitive themes, such as; graphic violence, strong language, alcoholism, smoking, general gore, and perhaps some sexual themes later on. Please do not repost to any other platforms.

If preferred, you can also read on Wattpad or AO3 !

~𝑀𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝐿𝑒𝓋𝒾 𝒜𝒸𝓀𝑒𝓇𝓂𝒶𝓃 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒~

𝐸𝓃𝒿𝑜𝓎~

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Year 845, Wall Rose, Trost District.

A clear morning sky quickly changed to deep oranges and bright yellows as evening fell across the land of Trost, yet still the many voices of those wandering about the streets below pierced the otherwise still atmosphere around the large city. Summer was only just beginning, and many found the cool air of late spring to be far more favorable weather to stroll about in, over the rains and snows that the month of May had brought them only a couple of weeks prior.

Children ran about as parents watched on in groups with neighbors. Couples sat on benches hand in hand with beverages and pastries bought from their favorite family owned shops, as said shop owners left their stores for the evening to find a drink at their nearest taverns and unwind, before the next day brought them a repeat of the days before.

A typical evening for the city, in all. A city who's only ever known peace through labor and trade.

Yet soon that would change, as a carriage pulled by two chestnut mares made its way up the cobble stone street on its way toward the center of the city.

At its arrival, the coachman climbed down from his seat and started tending to the horses. Behind him, the carriage doors opened on both sides and out climbed three people clad in green cloaks. The tallest of the three approached the coachman and gave him his thanks, then turned and made his way across the stone courtyard, his two accomplices not far behind him.

Just as the sun hit the edge of the horizon over the peak of the walls, they'd crossed the courtyard and stood before a flight of stairs that led them to their destination. And there, at the very top, stood a man flanked by two formally uniformed soldiers posed at attention, with hands clutching at the base of the rifles positioned over their shoulders.

"Commander Erwin!" the man atop the stairs called down. "Wonderful to see you again, my old friend."

Erwin stopped in his tracks before the first step and straightened up to salute to his superior with a polite smile.

"Likewise, Chief Commander Pyxis. May my companions, Captain Hange and Cadet Levi, and I join you the evening?" Erwin returned his friend's greeting, perhaps more formally than he would have. Had this situation not been so dire.

"Of course. You called for this evening to be arranged, did you not?" Pyxis grinned and waved off the guards, before turning his back to the scouts and making for the large wooden doors that led into the city's Main Hall behind him.

"Well? The drinks aren't going to pour themselves. I suggest you make haste and join me, before I change my mind on offering you one," Pyxis chuckled gruffly over his shoulder as the doors opened for him.

Shaking his head with weary smile, Erwin led the way towards the hall before his companions could begin to wonder aloud the nature in which the two Commanders commerced.

Commander Pyxis led the trio into a bright, candle lit room with a weary sigh, his scarred and aging hand coming up to rub at his brow wearily, while his other hand sought out a dark bottle perched on a single stand that was stationed near the door.

The room they now occupied was rustic in nature. Maps from many districts within all three walls were displayed on table tops, pinned alongside stagey boards taking up nearly half of the westward wall. An empty bottle or two accompanied sheathed blades and letter openers on the Commander's wide desk, making it look messy and disarrayed, yet organized all the same somehow.

Pyxis briskly, yet with an ever so slight limp, then made his way to sit behind the large ornate desk sat at the far end of the room, faced back against large windows that overlooked the sprawling city of Trost. Beckoning the trio at the door to come take a seat around a small round table placed just off from the desk, the old man uncorked his bottle with a satisfying 'pop' and grabbed for a clean glass amongst the many that lined a shelf on his left.

As Erwin, Hange, and Levi took their seats, Pyxis began to pour himself a generous amount from the bottle into his glass.

"By chance, should any of you fancy a glass of bourbon?" Pyxis looked to each of them in turn as he spoke. Hange was quick to raise her hand up, but Erwin was even quicker to place her hand back onto the table above her lap.

"A generous offer, thank you, but I'm afraid we will have to decline," Erwin spoke up with a curt smile.

"Ah, I see, more for myself, then," Pyxis mused on, continuing to fill his glass.

Hange watched on with an envious frown.

A moment of silence followed as the Chief Commander easily downed half his glass and took a steady breath before their meeting began.

"So tell me, Erwin; What brings you to Trost this fine evening?" Pyxis began.

"We came to discuss a situation regarding the Scout Regimen with you, sir. I wrote to you about this in brief detail last week," spoke Erwin, his lip slightly downturned.

"Oh? I suppose I recall receiving such a note. Usually you come to me alone for these sorts of things, Commander Erwin," Pyxis raised a curious brow, shooting a quick glance towards the two other scouts sat at the left and right of Erwin. Erwin nodded at this, and quickly explained.

"I had them accompany me to give their opinions on the matters I must discuss with you, and to have them overall observe. They have witnessed firsthand today the issue that has arisen, so I saw their attendance as acceptable. As you know, we returned earlier this evening from the expedition held early this morning. I felt this timing to be adequate."

"Fair enough. Now, tell me," Pyxis briefly paused to take a gulp of his bourbon before continuing,

"What was so urgent you felt the need to reach out to me and plan this meeting just after arriving back within the walls?"

Here Erwin turned to Hange, allowing her to take the lead, to the novice scientist's great surprise. She quickly stood and saluted to Pyxis enthusiastically, who merely raised his hand dismissively, urging her to speak.

"Well, sir," Hange began, "We've begun to notice an increase in enemy numbers outside the walls. More often than not, they merely wander aimlessly until provoked. Lately, they appear to be more...aggressive? Without prompt they have begun to act on aggression, and seek out our troops at a far enough distance that they shouldn't have minded our presence.

Also, their appearance near the outermost wall has become more and more frequent. They gather in groups, behaving frantically."

Here Hange took a pause, unable to uphold formalities any longer as her excitement took over.

"It's nothing I've quite seen before in my years of extensively researching them, which is actually quite fascinating! It's as if they've become motivated to migrate inwards in groups, to act erratically! I've been meaning to capture one or two live ones...or perhaps three live specimens...to examine them closer at hand! And I-"

Hange's increasingly excited rambling was cut short by a scoff from Levi.

"You're rambling, brat." he muttered to himself under his breath. He gave the scientist a pointed look from under his lashes, brows furrowed with crossed arms over his chest as he leaned back in the rickety chair.

"Well, in a way, maybe, but uh, anyways!" Hange continued rather sheepishly, after a look towards her comrade.

"They're becoming so invasive, and so aggressive, we're running lower and lower on experienced soldiers who can safely keep them at bay!"

"There's only so many places the combat veterans can be at one time to save and kick ass," Levi added quietly.

Erwin nodded his agreement to this, but otherwise stayed silent as he observed Pixis's eyes light up with a shine akin to realization. Over what, Erwin couldn't be certain. And thus he spoke once more.

"And that is why we have come; to bring this matter to your attention, and to find a solution. We realize the next batch of soldiers to come from bootcamp won't be ready for another six months, and we're losing veterans left and right through this aggression. I felt it appropriate to alert the higher branches, in case of catastrophe."

Erwin concluded with calloused hands crossing with one another on the table, as he leaned forward to catch the elder's eyes.

Pyxis's brows furrowed in thought.

After a quiet moment, he finally met Erwin's inquisitive stare as a thought entered his mind.

"Nocturnal expeditions." He said simply, offering no further comment.

"Nocturnal?" Hange exclaimed in bewilderment, her nose scrunching up in confusion to such a notion.

"Why yes, Captain Hange. The titans, as we know, aren't active during nocturnal hours. Thus, it's a little easier to dispose of them." The man continued, leaning back in his chair to take another generous gulp of the burning liquid in his glass. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate to speak more, but with a sigh he leaned back to rest his elbows on the polished wood of his desk.

"I personally have my own squad designed for these missions specifically." Pyxis spoke slowly, as though hesitant to share this information.

"You have your own personalized squad?" Erwin's brows shot up in surprise, calluses hands coming up to grip the edge of the table.

"I do. I personally named them the R.O.S.E. or rather, the Recovery Operations Squad Experiment. Currently, they are under my supervision and command. I have since elected to keep this information to myself, as the idea itself is merely an experiment. But, seeing as this mess is spreading, perhaps it needs brought to light."

Pyxis's offhanded comment made Erwin raise a brow, almost in disbelief.

Seeing his hesitation, Pyxis continued.

"They specialize in retrieving the remains of our fallen soldiers an hour after nightfall; to ensure the titans' inactivity for the squad's safety. There was a request from the civilians of the walls; a request to have something retrieved of their lost loved ones after battle. Word of the request made its way up to me, and I acted accordingly. Although, it might have been behind the backs of many."

Pyxis gulped down his remaining whisky, taking a deep breath after the burning liquid quenched his thirst. Yet after a moment of silence, he continued quietly, almost as if to himself.

"This does not mean, in fact, that they remain safe. It gets more intense than one would think." Pyxis commented in thought.

"How so?" Hange asked excitedly, leaning forward on the table, very interested to learn more about these creatures than they already knew.

"Well, my dear." Pyxis trailed off a moment, as if remembering something regretful.

"This issue you have brought to my attention...This is not the first I've heard of it. For weeks now, my squad has recounted similar instances and received injury." He revealed solemnly, staring down at the glass now gripped tightly in his hand.

"Sometimes, these titans...they become active in the dead of night." Pixis solemnly replied.

{ word Count ~ 1,896 }

𝒜/𝒩: I’ve decided to post my first fic here as well as on Wattpad, for funsies :p So this fic heavy on the ‘slow burn’ theme. It takes a bit to get to the blooming ‘enemies-to-friends-to-lovers’ trope, but I promise it’s worth the wait. Just stick around and see for yourself :3

𝒯𝒶𝑔𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉: @21aurora @deepzombieyouth @braunsbabe If you'd like to be added to the taglist for my usual Levi content, just DM me! :3

#lynn’s fics #attack on titan fanfiction #aot fanfiction #aot fanfic #shingeki no kyoujin fanfiction #snk fanfiction #snk fanfic #levi ackerman #levi ackerman x reader #levi x reader slow burn #erwin smith #hange zoe

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