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istumpysk · 3 years

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Operation Stumpy Re-Read

AGOT: Jon III (Chapter 19)

My grumpy boy!

He had beaten everyone that Ser Alliser had sent against him, yet it gained him nothing. The master-at-arms served up only derision. Thorne hated him, Jon had decided; of course, he hated the other boys even worse.

Amusing little detail. At the beginning of this chapter Thorne actually likes Jon more than all the other boys.

And then...

+.+

No one had told him the Night's Watch would be like this; no one except Tyrion Lannister. The dwarf had given him the truth on the road north, but by then it had been too late. Jon wondered if his father had known what the Wall would be like. He must have, he thought; that only made it hurt the worse.

You’re doing a bang up job, Ned.

This whole strategy of keeping vital information away from your children, to the point where they bitterly resent you, is such a bright idea.

I can’t see it backfiring in the future.

+.+

Three days after their arrival, Jon had heard that Benjen Stark was to lead a half-dozen men on a ranging into the haunted forest. That night he sought out his uncle in the great timbered common hall and pleaded to go with him. Benjen refused him curtly. "This is not Winterfell," he told him as he cut his meat with fork and dagger. "On the Wall, a man gets only what he earns. You're no ranger, Jon, only a green boy with the smell of summer still on you."

For all the hate Waymar Royce receives for being pompous, he still waited half a year before his first ranging.

My grumpy, entitled boy!

+.+

As he watched his uncle lead his horse into the tunnel, Jon had remembered the things that Tyrion Lannister told him on the kingsroad, and in his mind's eye he saw Ben Stark lying dead, his blood red on the snow. The thought made him sick. What was he becoming? Afterward he sought out Ghost in the loneliness of his cell, and buried his face in his thick white fur.

Uhhh, let’s hope this was only misplaced anger, and not a prophetic vision.

+.+

If he must be alone, he would make solitude his armor.

I don’t think I need to say anything.

+.+

Not my mother, Jon thought stubbornly. He knew nothing of his mother; Eddard Stark would not talk of her. Yet he dreamed of her at times, so often that he could almost see her face. In his dreams, she was beautiful, and highborn, and her eyes were kind.

+.+

"Life," Jon repeated bitterly. The armorer could talk about life. He'd had one. He'd only taken the black after he'd lost an arm at the siege of Storm's End. Before that he'd smithed for Stannis Baratheon, the king's brother. He'd seen the Seven Kingdoms from one end to the other; he'd feasted and wenched and fought in a hundred battles. They said it was Donal Noye who'd forged King Robert's warhammer, the one that crushed the life from Rhaegar Targaryen on the Trident.

Jon casually having a conversation with the man who forged the weapon that killed his father.

+.+

"Yes, life," Noye said. "A long life or a short one, it's up to you, Snow. The road you're walking, one of your brothers will slit your throat for you one night."

Or, I don’t know, stab him.

+.+

"They're not my brothers," Jon snapped. "They hate me because I'm better than they are."

"No. They hate you because you act like you're better than they are. They look at you and see a castle-bred bastard who thinks he's a lordling." The armorer leaned close. "You're no lordling. Remember that. You're a Snow, not a Stark. You're a bastard and a bully."

"Four that you've humiliated in the yard. Four who are probably afraid of you. I've watched you fight. It's not training with you. Put a good edge on your sword, and they'd be dead meat; you know it, I know it, they know it. You leave them nothing. You shame them. Does that make you proud?"

I’m only enjoying this lesson in humility because of all the nonsense we have to hear about Sansa, elitism, and classism.

+.+

His uncle said the top was wide enough for a dozen armored knights to ride abreast. The gaunt outlines of huge catapults and monstrous wooden cranes stood sentry up there, like the skeletons of great birds, and among them walked men in black as small as ants.

Ants, you say?

The kind that climb all over you and bite?

+.+

"It's nothing special," Jon said. He wanted to ride with Benjen Stark on his rangings, deep into the mysteries of the haunted forest, wanted to fight Mance Rayder's wildlings and ward the realm against the Others, but it was better not to speak of the things you wanted.

Tell you what, I’m going to hold on to this quote, and return to it at a later date.

+.+

"I'll take that wager, Ser Alliser," Jon said. "I'd love to see Ghost juggle."

Jon heard Grenn suck in his breath, shocked. Silence fell.

Then Tyrion Lannister guffawed. Three of the black brothers joined in from a nearby table. The laughter spread up and down the benches, until even the cooks joined in. The birds stirred in the rafters, and finally even Grenn began to chuckle.

Ser Alliser never took his eyes from Jon. As the laughter rolled around him, his face darkened, and his sword hand curled into a fist. "That was a grievous error, Lord Snow," he said at last in the acid tones of an enemy.

...he ruins it.

We’re going to need Sansa to train him on when to keep his mouth shut.

Final thoughts:

The “friendship” between Jon and Tyrion is entirely overstated.

-> return to menu <-

#operation stumpy re-read #agot #jon iii

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meowdymista · 4 years

Text

Van der Driscoll

Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader

Warnings; injury, Micah, angst

Part 2 & Masterlist

Redrafted and continuing on AO3

Notes: There hasn’t been an abundance of fic floating around (and what has been published is making my arthur head explode with love), so I figured I might as well throw out this old thing I thought I would finish but never went back to. I submitted a fic request to @the-awkward-outlaw who took a much less angsty approach. This is far from perfect, but eh

******

You swallow the blood filling your mouth, but it does nothing to wet your throat. A dozen faces have thrown you dirty looks mixed with confusion and apprehension. The cowboy that brought you here on the back of his horse has been retained in the large tent - which in turn is on the other side of the cart to where you’ve been bound.

You’ve been trying to eavesdrop, but all you’ve made out is bickering, scolding and multiple hushed insults aimed at you. Whenever Arthur begins to raise his voice, someone comes from around the cart to spit at you or kick your feet.

Closing your eyes does nothing to help your headache, nor the sting of the bullet wound in your side. Your tongue is repeatedly drawn to an unusual sharpness inside your cheek, making you wonder if the mexican broke a tooth when he smashed the handle of his gun into your face. Not that it matters. You were surprised you weren’t already dead, but still lacked any doubt of seeing another sunrise.

“What are you doing, O’Driscoll?”

You open your eyes in time to see a heavy bearded man grab a smaller man by the arm. The slosh of water hitting the grass is heaven, but also draws out the dire thirst in your throat as it's lost to the ground.

“N-nothin’, Bill.”

“Are you in on this? You set us up?”

“No! No, of course n-not! I’ve never even met her-”

“You gonna free her so she can slit our throats in the night?”

“No, sir! No! I was just-” He grunts as the man called Bill punches him in the stomach. A woman shouts and runs over, but Bill is stalking away into the trees, still growling threats at nobody in particular.

“I’m fine, Miss Gaskill," croaks the somewhat familiar man.

“Are you sure? He didn’t need to hit you!”

“I-I was comin’ over to see her. I jus’ wanted to know if she’s ok - bein’ tied to that tree, well, it ain’t no nice thing, Miss Gaskill.”

“I know, but Dutch is talkin’ with Arthur about it now. I don’t reckon they’ll keep a woman there as long as they did you.”

“I hope not.” The pair give you a forlorn look and disappear to the other side of the cart. You close your eyes again, trying to distract yourself from the memory of fresh cold water sliding down your throat.

You must fall asleep, because when the boots come into view your neck is stiff and the horizon is brightening the ink of the sky. You try to look up, but the muscles in your neck decide otherwise.

“What were you doing there?”

You try to speak but your throat is too dry to even cough. A hand reaches down and lifts your chin firmly. Arthur’s face is without humour, and his brow the lowest you’ve seen it. You inhale sharply as his lips thin with impatience.

“You been with’em this whole time?” You shake your head instinctively, but he catches your hesitation and releases your face with a grunt of disgust. “Shit.”

You close your eyes again, trying to ignore the crackle of his stubble as he rubs a hand along his jaw. A lump is rising in your throat, but you try to swallow it. Now is not the time to be showing weakness, but the deep sense of betrayal is suffocating you.

“You been-? Too?” you manage to choke.

“I been what?”

“Van der Linde,” you hiss, forcing your head up to glare at him.

He scoffs and shakes his head, turning on his heel and stalking away. You hear a frail voice call after him, but you don’t care anymore. The tall broad frame of Dutch Van der Linde himself is marching towards you with a thin frail frame of a man following closely behind.

“-be easy on him, Dutch. He thought he was doing the right thing.”

“You are both getting far too soft!” You yelp as Dutch pulls you to your feet, the restraints burning around your wrists. “Since when did Colm hire women to do his dirty work?” You snicker, but a slap across your face cuts it short.

“He’s always had working women in camp,” you manage to gasp through the blossoming stars. “Not like you, though. He doesn’t keep them round.”

“I mean as gunslingers. That’s what you are, ain’t it?”

“He doesn’t.”

“What do you mean he doesn’t?" he scoffs. "How’d you fall in with them?”

The thin man steps forward, scrutinising your mess of a face.“You a spy? A lookout of sorts?”

You force yourself to withhold the hysteria bubbling inside of you. “You think Colm has thought of using spies?”

“I think Colm is always thinking of ways to catch us out,” growls Dutch. “It’s more a matter of what we do with you now we have you.”

“Just kill me already.” After all, it would be easier. Arthur’s look of disgust turns your stomach and not just from guilt. If you had known, you would have steered clear or even shot him there and then.

You can almost hear the men musing in front of you. Bird song is beginning to erupt as well as life elsewhere in the camp.

“Is that what you want, Y/N?”

The sound of your name jolts through you. Your gang had never used it because you had never made it known to them. This was a man’s world, and the only way to protect yourself had been to become one.

So you had. You’d bound your chest, cut your hair and changed your clothes. Before the camp woke, you would use the ash from the fire to disguise your soft jaw and thicken your brows in addition to mascara from your past life. Escaping for a few days to hunt was an excuse to bathe and become yourself again. Packing your things into your saddle bag, you made a stop in a stream off the road to wash your face and change clothes. It was the only way you could guarantee yourself some solitude when O’Driscolls were so plentiful in the local area. Any enemies you had made would ride by you as you rested or hunted game.

It was after a bath you had first seen him. He had been trying to de-escalate an argument with the hotel owner - something about him beating a man who had hurt a friend of his. Seeing your wet hair curling over your shoulders, he had given you a nod.

“They run good baths here?” he asked.

“They run ‘em hot and private enough."

He had immediately set down a coin. “I’ll have what she had.” When advised of the wait, he had waved his hand. “If this lady reckons it’s worth it, I can wait.”

That had been weeks ago. It felt a lot longer, but multiple brushes with death every day made everything count that much more. You had brushed off rumours of Van der Lindes in the area. How bad could they be compared with the headless chickens you ran around with? After riding out with Colm to scope a new camp, you had returned to Cumberland Forest to find everyone slaughtered. Any stragglers were shot on sight. How could they be any worse than what you were already with?

“I don’t know, Dutch. She’s a woman.”

“She’s an O’Driscoll!” Your body was too tired to flinch as he got up in your face, trying to intimidate you. “Whether Colm knew it or not.”

“What do you want to do with her? We can’t let her go, not now.”

“Suppose we could always kill her. Or better yet, get Kieran to do it.”

Hosea shakes his head. “I don’t think that will go down too well.”

“How else are we supposed to deal with her? We already have enough mouths to feed, plus another O’Driscoll in camp is begging for trouble.”

Your mind wanders back to Arthur’s look of disdain. The hatred was on a different spectrum to the crinkle of his eyes when he had found you again in the saloon. The cold that rolled off him was nothing like the heat of his hand when it had brushed yours on the ledge overlooking Valentine. You’re too angry with yourself to worry about the outcome. Even if they let you go, Colm will make sure you’re strung up for deceiving them. All your things are back at camp, and you know you won’t be able to bind your chest again for another few weeks with the wound in your side.

You lean your head back against the trunk and close your eyes again, ignoring their chatter but still unable to stop a tear leak down your cheek as they walk away.

***

The smell of food makes your stomach growl, but you ignore it. A small boy walks past staring at you openly, but his mother ushers him away with an air of distrust. You can’t blame her; you know the O’Driscoll’s are nowhere near as reserved as this gang when it comes to robbing and killing. You had heard them boasting about a stage they’d intercepted, filled with women and children. Apparently they weren’t the first to stop them, but they were the first to go all out and rob them.

You knew at the retelling of the stories that it was best to remain a man.

“Who do we have here?” A sinister chuckle rolls you out of your thoughts. The first thing you notice is the thick handlebar moustache, followed by the thin curtains of blond curls from under his white hat. His sneer makes your blood run cold, and you are tied too tight to move your face out of his reach. His long fingers stroke along your jaw. “I gotta say, this set up?” He steps forward, his lips almost brushing your ear. “It’s working for me.”

You squeak as a knife thuds into the wood above your head. The stranger steps back, and scoffs.

“Didn't your daddy tell you not to play with knives, Morgan?” He reaches up and pulls it out, playing it between his fingers. His grey green gaze transfixing you, the cool blade touches your chin, forcing you to lift your head and expose your jugular. “Don’t want anyone to get hurt now, do we, cowpoke?”

The humour is replaced with irritation at the click of a gun being cocked. He lowers the knife, and you realise you had stopped breathing.

“Try me, Micah,” Arthur growls, his revolver pointing at his temples.

Chuckling, he steps back from you and approaches his new target. “Sorry, didn’t realise you was practising your white knight act with Guinevere, here.” He throws you a look over his shoulder, looking you up and down and licking his lips. “I’ll be back, princess. Save some for me, hey?”

A gunshot rips through the camp. You’re breathless, blinking rapidly trying to work out where the bullet has entered your body, if you’re still alive. It takes all of ten seconds for you to realise Arthur had fired his shot into the sky.

You feel the rope tying your wrists together tugging up and down as Dutch storms around the corner with his entourage.

“What in God’s name are you playing at?” he spits as your hands suddenly fall free.

Arthur has already gripped your arm and is dragging you away from the crowd. You stumble, your legs having forgotten how to move themselves after days. You are dumbstruck as he reties your hands in front of you and hoists you onto a cart.

"I didn't bring her here for her to be Micah's plaything."

"What are you talking about, Arthur?" Dutch splutters. "Micah has been back all of two minutes-"

"I know I ain't put y'all in the easiest position bringing her back here, so jus' lemme take care of it, aight?"

Hosea walks forward, surveying you gently. "She can't go free. Not with the Pinkertons after us."

"I know," he growls, retying your hands to your legs to prevent you running off despite your lack of effort. “Don’t I goddamn know it...”

The old man reaches out to touch his arm. "Stay safe, Arthur.”

“Not you again!” you had teased as he waved a lazy salute in your direction.

“Any recommendations?” he asked, nodding at your plate. You shrugged and he ordered the same, bringing you over a fresh beer and sitting at your table.

“Fancy seeing you here, Mr Morgan.”

He smiled and removed his hat, running his hands through his hair. "I'm always in here, me."

"How odd… I seem to remember you getting barred for life a few weeks ago?"

"Ah, well. The bartender's a reasonable man." He shrugged, embarrassed as you laughed at him. "Can't say the same for that Tommy guy."

The sparkle in his eye has long gone. Not that you're looking at him, you're too busy trying to take in the smell of the trees and the birdsong, trying to ignore the fear in your thoughts. Who knows how he intends to kill you? Or where he will dump your body afterwards. What does it matter - no one is going to come looking for you. The O'Driscoll's mind their own and even if they did recognise you, you'd be strong up for treason. If the law recognise your identity, they'll consider it a blessing. You are on your own, restrained in a caravan with your captor.

"Why didn't you let your friends kill me?" you hear yourself ask.

His silence is stoic. You begin to wonder if you didn't say it out loud after all when he finally clears his throat.

"I couldn't."

"Why not?" You laugh, looking around. "Would've been easier than killing me out here - at least at my camp I was just another body from a gang fight. Out here you'll start a murder investigation."

"I ain't killin' yer." He throws you a sideways glance as you blink in disbelief. "Not yet at least."

"You just said-"

"What does it matter what I said?" He scoffs. "Like you're one to talk, Y/N."

"What's that supposed to mean?" You can feel the heat growing in your ears as you scowl.

"What do you think it means?" he snaps. Flicking the reins, he takes a steadying breath. "Why were you running with the O'Driscolls?"

"Why are you running with Dutch Van der Linde?"

"Tha's different!"

"Why?"

"Because I've spent my life runnin' with him an' the same can't be said for you if Colm doesn't know he's running with a woman yet." He scoffs. "He ain't ever taken kindly to surprises."

"You talk like you know him."

"I did for a while." He shoots you a look. "Way back when. How long you been runnin' with them? Since you don't know the history and you ain't been found out yet, I reckon five, six months?"

"Seven," you hiss. His brooding has relented enough to exude smugness and it's grating on you that he is still damn attractive.

"You gonna tell me why? Coz I ain't askin' a third time."

"Why does anyone become an outlaw? I needed money. It was only gonna be temporary but my cousin got shot up in that Blackwater massacre so I had to stay."

"Your cousin?"

"Yeah, Heidi. Your ol' Dutch should know her well."

#rdr2 fic #rdr2 fanfic #red dead fic #arthur x female reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur Morgan #arthur morgan x reader #Arthur Morgan x O'Driscoll

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mighty-ant · 4 years

Note

Fethsteel, Fethry tracing scars on Steel's arm and Steelbeak telling Fethry about how he got them

“What’s the story behind this one?”

Fethry’s fingers brushed delicately over the mess of criss crossing scars marring the knuckles of Steelbeak’s left hand.

Steelbeak glanced down at them briefly. “Back in the ring, I punched some guy in the face like thirty times or something. He was a bear so, y’know, lots of teeth.”

Fethry hummed and resumed tracing swirling symbols on the back of Steelbeak’s hand. It was soothing, and coupled with the softness of the bed beneath them, the television lowly in the background, not to mention Fethry himself, tucked flush and warm against Steelbeak’s side, it was enough to lull him into a pleasant, half-asleep state.

“What about this?” Fethry asked, sweeping his thumb over Steelbeak’s wrist. He didn’t have to look down to know which scar Fethry was referring to.

“Knife fight in Berlin. Tore the sleeve of my second favorite suit.” Steelbeak didn’t need to elaborate that he hadn’t been the one with the knife, nor who the obvious victor had been.

What he’d originally believed was just Fethry acting on a spur of curiosity was clearly something more when he slipped out from under Steelbeak’s arm and turned to face him, continuing to trace up along his array of scars.

“Knife,” he said, before Fethry could ask, as his hand drifted up Steelbeak’s forearm. “Another knife. Kni—actually no, that was a shiv. They really are as popular in prison as people say.” Fethry arrived at a thick, almost two-inch long scar in the crook of his elbow and looked up at Steelbeak with a worried little frown that he’d rather kiss away than have to explain the story behind this particular scar.

“Uh, I had to cut a tracking device out of my arm. It was in deep.” Steelbeak wasn’t the best liar, especially under pressure, but it still said something about how closely Fethry had come to know him when he simply met Steelbeak’s lie with a dubious expression.

Steelbeak closed his eyes with a groan. “My first and only time fishing,” he said. “The line got wrapped around my arm and the fish hook—”

Fethry gasped, pressing down on the scar with the palm of his hand. “No!” he exclaimed, aghast.

“Yup,” Steelbeak said, a grin slowly curving his beak at the sight of his partner’s dramatic dismay. “Had to yank it out with a pair of pliers, blood everywhere—”

“Stop, stop,” Fethry said, flapping his hand at Steelbeak with a burst of laughter. “I get the picture.”

“You sure, doll?” Steelbeak said teasingly, his fingers dancing up Fethry’s side. “I could go into more graphic detail.”

“I’m sure,” Fethry replied primly, but winked at Steelbeak to assure him no feathers had been unduly ruffled. His hand moved up to Steelbeak’s bicep, where a short jagged scar broke up the smooth expanse of his feathers. Fethry tapped it lightly with his index finger. “What’s the story behind this one?”

“Broken arm,” Steelbeak replied, and neglected to mention that it happened when he was ten. He decided to ask what had been on his mind since Fethry started this odd inquisition. “What’s with the sudden story time, anyway? I mean, not that I’m complaining, but...”

Fethry leaned back to look him in the eye. “I like learning new things about you,” he said, with eyes dark and warm, and Steelbeak found he didn’t have a ready answer. Fethry moved forward to trace a scar on Steelbeak’s shoulder that started at the end of his collar bone.

“Wasn’t careful enough climbing over a barbed wire fence,” he explained, before Fethry even had to ask.

Fethry hummed in response, but didn’t speak further.

Thinking his little exploration finished/curiosity sated, Steelbeak started to close his eyes again. They snapped open in the next moment when he felt Fethry pick up his hand again and press a kiss to his knuckles, right over the crisscrossed scars.

“Uh, Fethry what—” Steelbeak’s word died in his throat when Fethry kissed the inside of Steelbeak’s wrist. He continued up along the trail of scars, laying longer and longer kisses to each, leaving Steelbeak’s skin tingling in his wake. His face was burning by the time Fethry got to the crook of his elbow and his breathing staggered when he dropped a kiss to his shoulder.

He expected Fethry to stop there.

Instead, he nearly gasped when Fethry kissed the base of his throat, trailing kisses up the side of his neck. Steelbeak grabbed a fistful of the back of Fethry’s jacket as he pressed a kiss against the underside of his jaw. He cradled Steelbeak’s face tenderly as he kissed along the side of his sharp beak before finally meeting him in a proper kiss, languid and deep.

As it broke with a soft, wet sound, Steelbeak asked dazedly, “What was that for?”

Fethry shrugged, smiling as he settled warm against Steelbeak’s side once more. “It’s a little late but I thought I might kiss them better.”

#ant writes #fethsteel #uh dont don't look at me #fethry duck #steelbeak #I know steelbeak isn't getting a redemption arc but I can dream

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