[COD MW2 HCS] 141 + Los Vaqueros + Knig With A Neutral Gender! Writer! Reader

[COD MW2 HCS] 141 + Los Vaqueros + König with a Neutral Gender! Writer! Reader

A/N : How come we never see a Reader as a writer in whatever fandom - or am I blind - in headcanons ? I mean... So many people writing amazing fanfictions or headcanons on this platform or everywhere else and... No ? Really ? We’re talking about a military Reader here, by the way. 

TW : none (for once) except the ugly typos you may encounter. Only one very little mention of smutty litterature 

John “Soap” MacTavish 

So... Let’s start with our lovely Scottish sergeant 

It is apparently canon that he likes to draw on a small notebook he keeps with him dearly. 

So he knows. He is acquainted with the ‘writer’s zone’ we flee into when inspiration holds us within its graceful arms. When the images of action flood through out brain when a stroke of genius light up our features and how we appear lost in some kind of parallel universe only us are able to interact with (well... it’s how it looks like for me, feel free to comment - writer or not - how your imagination works) 

However, Soap is mostly aware about the tropes and what we can consider as the technical side of writing such as relashionship dynamics for your characters - if it implies the said relashionships - 

I think he is the kind to prefer roomates universes because of the domesticity he is able to find there and friendship warms his heart. Although, that’s just an impression. 

He is actually the biggest help out of the 141 because when he draws he also uses the codes of his type of creation for his cute doodles you suspect him to scribble on the yellowed paper of his little diary. 

He knows what it is to lack of insipiration, even though he tends to throw his thoughts on the paper and reproduces his surroundings. 

He appreciates the smallest details that compose his world. He notices them all. 

But I digress. 

You two share a world not so accessible for the rest of the team. When you talk about [Insert fiction character of trope here] in a very specific context, the others gaze at you confused. 

More than writing, it is a little sweet thing you two share and you would never lose that for anything in the world.

Simon “Ghost” Riley 

He... Understands... Not like Soap. He doesn’t have that much imagination. 

He gets it is your hobby. It is as valuable as any other activity. 

Simon thinks it’s cute in some way. You, lost in thought, next to him, about and into something he can’t quite grasp. And a sheet of paper or the blank screen of an app on your tablet or whatever device you judged comfortable.

At first, you asked for his help about some details, or his opinion, or his advice. Then, you understood he was too down-to-earth and wounded by his abusive past to allow himself to relax this way next to you. 

Yet, you used your hobby as a way to stay with him as a support. He had just to tug a bit at your sleeve and all your attention would be on him. 

It was the first step. 

You understood quickly that your writing might be able to help him unwind and finally get comfortable. 

You write him silly stories, made for him to laugh, or to smile at least. It wasn’t a big deal, just fables. You have no idea what he does with it. You just hope it enables him to dream even if just during the day like a fleeting thought clinging to him. A distant echo of something nice his heart and his memory agreed on keeping dearly underneath his leaden shell. 

You also may be the one reading your own stories to him. But the mistakes, the inconsistencies or the lack of meaning and every little flaws in your writing may appear much more visible once clearly uttered. 

By dint of effort, you manage to soften him a bit. He doesn’t want to ask you if he could read either what you are writing or if you have something for him. However, he eventually hopes within the depth of his heart that he can flee from reality for a few minutes. 

He is so grateful to you even though he is bitter on the fact he can’t bring you much constructive criticism. 

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick 

Another one who understands one might have such a hobby but he may not relate. 

I don’t see Gaz as someone who reads a lot. It’s just not his thing. He’ll read for sport news or something related to one of his own hobbies. 

I guess he doesn’t have the patience to sit somewhere comfortable and allow his mind to wander this way thanks to your words. 

Except maybe when he desperately needs to unwind and his thoughts are too noisy so he needs to occupy his plagued mind with something totally different. 

However, he is curious about the creation process. 

He’ll ask about your ‘tools’ after you explain to him that your scenario and elements of the story doesn’t entirely pop out of thin air and you may have to rethink and to shape your ideas to make up a story both understandable and enjoyable. 

He laughs when he notices about your nonsensical Internet history. How can it be so weird ? And then, he remembers what kinds of research he does when the night isn’t kind to him and he doesn’t laugh anymore.

Sometimes, your brain amazes him. You sound so cool when you take the time to explain some of your ideas. 

Kyle is awesome at helping you for worldbuilding. He has a lot of imagination when he manages to leave his military universe on the side and peeks at yours. 

He is an excellent beta reader since he is actually very neutral about writing in general and he’ll try to give you the most help possible when you ask him. Too short ? Too long ? Not enough or too much emphasis on a detail ? He just aims at your betterment ! 

John Price 

You are a writer ? Well... As long as you do your duty you can be whatever you want. 

He is neutral with the idea of you being a writer. He is a soldier before anything. And a leader at that. He’ll support you because Captain Dad... I mean... Captain Price always supports his team but sometimes the said team gives a hard time to his comprehension and patience. 

You’re mostly quiet, with music for your ears, typing or penning something on a sheet of paper. Moreover, it seems like you have some sort of natural distance with Soap’s or Gaz’s - or both - usual chaos. 

Price has to say that it amazes him how you are distant of everything when you are in what Soap would call a writer’s fever. 

By the way, he happens to watch over you both when Soap draws and you write on the couch of the common room. If you both eventually show him what you created - if you don’t he will not force you - he’ll gaze at you like a proud momma duck despite his best behavior. 

He is mostly the one staring in disbelief as you use vocabulary, tropes, imaginary events for your own type of art since he can’t understand it even though you all speak the same language. 

Price notices very early you are a skilled writer, or at least you have some experience. The reports he gets from you are probably the best from the soldiers he got under his orders. He might have something to say about the spelling and the shape of your letters if you give him handwritten reports. Depends on you I guess. 

He will not ask to read what you write. You can call that the appropriate distance induced by hierarchy. You remain soldiers. You may as well act like it. 

Sometimes, you’d like his opinion. An outside point of view about your work is always good, no ? Well... John Price has a Ghost syndrome. He is annoyingly ass deep in his military life. Hence, he faces a very limited imagination except when it comes to interrogate an enemy. 

The worst about him is that he could be an amazing beta reader. Constructive criticism and probably giving you ways to improve yourself in what you already are so good at. 

Just give him time. He’ll get interested one way or another. First, you may try to be closer emotionally to him. Might be a good start to go past this military hierarchy and to know what his tastes are to get his heart beat only at the tone of your phrasing with your unique talent 

Rodolfo Parra 

He thinks it’s so cool to have a hobby as enjoyable as he thinks you have just by the way you act when you are writing. 

Rudy doesn’t have the time to delve that deeply into a hobby. Los Vaqueros constantly demand his attention. However, when he gets the time he - like Gaz - tries to ask about the process of writing. He even tries to write by himself. 

You explained about the tropes and dynamics and he seemed to get it immediately. Childhood friends to lovers is his favorite one by the way. 

It was just a little story he came up with. It was the first thing that stuck to his imagination, appearing out of an obscure place of his brain. It was uncertain, somewhat shaky but simple and, in a way, adorable.  

He almost took it personally when you said this small piece of text was just like him. 

However, before you sink even deeper in awkwardness, you dismissed this last interaction and tried to correct him the best you could. 

After that, he was looking forward the little time when you could write with him and he could learn. Another thing, it’s quiet around you, focused, relaxed. Alejandro knows where to find him when he is looking for his right hand. 

He could be an amazing beta reader if he wasn’t so kind. He forgives you everything. “Have you noticed inconsistencies or flaws ?” you’d ask. “Maybe a little something here but I’m sure it’s me” he’d reply. Unnerving, right ? The gentlest reader but you don’t need him to be so nice. You need him to be observant. 

He also comes up with very simple ideas when it comes to writing but his way of apprehending things has something one can’t quite describe. My closest synonym would be a vibe, something like raw talent that only needs to be explored thoroughly. It resembles to cutting a diamond, sharpen the edges to make it glistening and precious. 

His imagination is not too chaotic but his thinking and reasoning develops and fill in the gaps of his originality. 

Anyways, Rudy is amazing. As always. 

Alejandro Vargas 

There has to be one who does not take you very seriously. Well... It is Alejandro. The Mexican colonel is... something else, to say the least. He considered himself a man of action and not a man of words. So, to him, whatever you were doing with those scraps of paper during your free time was none of his business. 

He’ll try some kind of joke with you writing nasty things in the secret of that little head of yours. Two answers now. “No, colonel, I’m not into writing that kind of litterature” would be the first reponse with a hint of scorn hidden behind your deadpan aspect. 

The second answer though... “Yeah ! I write smut ! Now that we’re talking about that, do you mind if I use your features for my next...” and then you proceed to make a very descriptive, thoroughly explained speech about your imaginary Alejandro and what you planned him to do in this small story of yours. The point was to make the colonel embarassed. Although, it worked better on Rudy who went blushing like a tomato. 

If you choose the second option, it will end up in nasty jokes each time you meet each other. This silly game is absolutely unsufferable for everyone making the mistake to listen to you. 

If anything, your relashionship suffers from this disregard. You didn’t ask Alejandro’s appreciation, hardly tolerance even but it left a sort of bitter taste. Rudy is... Kinder. More understanding. 

However, what happens is that you tend to be consequently more distant from Alejandro. It may have been a silly joke about a pastime of yours but writing is so personal that it was as if he made a joke about your own self and this was intolerable. He had no business disrespecting you this way. 

Beyond that, you banished him from your writing process. His opinion, his hypothetical help, what he might like to see within a story - doesn’t matter how silly it may be - he was no part of it. 

If he changes his mind, you’d tend to retort him something alike “Let’s stay in our own field of expertise colonel. Let me dream about my stories. And you, dream about chasing El Sin Nombre. Good fences make good neighbors as one says”. 

Something that also might happen is that Rudy’s new habit of unwinding with you quietly in the common room and having long conversations with you about that hobby you were now both sharing made him feel weird. Alejandro was surely passionate and admitting he’s wrong - at least for this - was no part of his character but this was the proof he should’ve acted differently. The realisation took its time but he eventually accepts the fact he made an asshole of himself. 

He’ll apologise when he catches you alone, writing. Now the question may be about how much time do you want to play with him for having been such an arse. 

Eventually, Alejandro learns his lesson and he even asks you to read what you write. When he’s done, he is so silent, gawking. You laugh at him. 

König 

Our gigantic, adorable Austrian operator is a book worm. It’s horrendous. The heavy bullying he has been a victim got him to be safe between the shelves of library. The scent of old paper and the calm of the library got him out of his skin, journeying between worlds out of his appalling daily life. He was typically the dreamy, lonely kid who had characters inside his head as sole company. 

So yeah. Books mean relief, respite, getaway for him as well as a way to heal himself from the pain he received from his classmates or whoever hurt him in his younger days. 

He doesn’t have much time for reading anymore and these books are a little too bulky for the small package he was allowed to have. So having you near him is like a blessing. He can talk out his thoughts.  

Beyond writing, it is the vibe around you that convinces him to sit next to you in the common room. He tried to make himself small, to not take too much of the couch but you couldn’t deny his thigh touching yours. You raised your head and smiled at him. König did not utter a single word, already flustered to fail at conversing. But, as time goes on - and after numerous times he just sat next to you enabling himself to move a muscle - you made most of the conversation. He felt almost immediately at ease. 

You two daydream together now, talking about little things always related to writing or reading. It is also a way to relax after close calls and the danger of being killed. 

He is the KING at worldbuilding. König has always several ideas coursing through his brain. His mind is sometimes chaotic, full of details. He gave you the impression once that telling the history of one of this world would create a great saga on it own. Moreover, König is so passionate about these little bouts of thoughts put together. 

He is also very aware about tropes and dynamics. His favorite of the latter is the small protector x the big shy character because he can relate. And he also has a soft post for a good ol’ mutual pining or a hypothetical love at first sight - as unlikely as it seems in real life - 

He doesn’t try to write with you though. He knows he is not too good at this, which is weird considering the tremendous amount of time he can spend while reading. Although, König knows he may have a chance if he writes in German. It depends on you being able to understand him or not.

König is also a dissatisfactory beta reader, different from Rudy though. He doesn’t dare utter what he judges as flaws because he thinks he’d lose you. He is so happy to be the first reading whatever you are working on because it makes him feel so special. 

He always supports you and tries to relax you when pangs of frustration creeps inside your mind because your writing doesn’t go the way you plan it to be. 

Just like with Soap, what you two have is not understandable by the people around you. What’s more is that König’s anxious nature tends to keep you both distant from the people outside of your little bubble. 

Alexander Pennington here with the facts that hurt

Kindergartens AU scribble!

We all count on you, Luigi. Just to make us live the euphoria a bit longer.

Purple-eyed envy | Daemon Targaryen; Harwin Strong:

Neglectful!Daemon x F!Targaryen!Reader x Harwin

Wonderous music belted loudly across the ballroom walls as countless Lords and Ladies of the Seven Kingdoms spinned and swirled over the Dornish sandstone floors of the Red Keep. Joyous laughter flowed between them, coming and going as quickly as did the cups of fresh mead and summer wine.

Young and old Lords walked through the towering pillars and food-stocked tables, eyeing whichever woman went by with lust-heavy gazes and darkened smirks. It seemed, as the ladies twirled about in their iridescent tules and shiny velvets, that no noble girl could want for less than a thousand more of parties like that one.

The so-called Silver Siren of the Dragon house, however, seemed to think otherwise.

Her moonstone eyes lingered over her dear uncle's lithe frame, and the smaller one of her not-so-dear older sister with a reddish shade of contempt swirling in the pits of her pearly irises.

It stung, still, despite the passing if years and the encouraging self-talk, that she couldn't bring herself to accept Daemon had eyes only for Rhaenyra.

And, as spoiled as it seemed, it was comprehensible.

Years of pining, and dreaming, and wanting had left her restless, unable to understand why was it that the only man she ever wanted would love her own sister, of all people in the world.

Perhaps it were the gods that would punish her.

Heavens knew it wouldn't be the only aspect of her life that they had cursed.

Putting thoughts of vengeful daities aside, the siren leaned against a gray-painted pillar, swirling a cup of High Garden rose liqueur in her hand, and reaching her memory backwards to a time long past:

She remembered her first words, her first steps, her first dragon ride. She remembered how her father was too busy wanting for a son, and her mother too busy caring for her frail pregnancies. How her sister had accomplished those feats before her, and so stolen all the glory for herself. She recalled the pitiful looks she got from Lady Alicient, whose condolatory brown eyes seemed always to find her when she wanted everything but to be seen, and the humorous smirks she received from the mean-spirited Rhaenys, who had spent every second since the siren's birth relishing on each an every single one of her failures.

From all those sad reminiscences, the only half-positive ones she could pick off the top of her head were those where she ran around after her uncle, feeling her heart flutter in her chest and her skin tingle as he looked back on her.

He wasn't particularly sweet, or any at all, and in full truthfulness, the only times he looked at her for something other than to purr out some double-edged comment about her appearance were to ask about Rhaenyra's whereabouts.

But despite his clear lack of interest, and the near condescending mockery with which he treated her obvious fancy for him, being in love with Daemon was the closest thing from true joy she could remember experiencing.

Sure, Ser Criston Cole might have been a good and well-meaning friend, and her dragon brought her comfort and provided her with a thrill she couldn't otherwise experience, but there was an element of forced fulfillment to both of those bonds. Criston and Araphel loved her, yes. But they did not do so simply out of the whims of their heart. They did so because, in some aspect, they felt to owe her reciprocation for the hours upon hours of time she had but into them.

She had built Criston the very sword that earned him his fame, covered him in pentoshi leather and valyrian iron, filled his ear with all manners of encouragement.

She had raised Araphel from hatch. Fed and washed him, healed and mended whatever part of him gave the slightest suspicion of disease or infection, taught and guided his every move.

The Gods had fashioned tragons to love their riders. And it was only natural that fighters owed some form of loyalty to their sponsors. And while all that that love and loyalty filled her chest with pride and gratitude, it was not enough to fill the void left by the love that should have been, but never came. Her father's. Her mother's. Her sister's.

What worked with her fighter and her dragon had never worked with her blood. It seemed that the more she did for them, the less they wanted to see of her.

No amount of loving gestures and hand-made gifts could win them over.

No amount of attempts at bonding time and quality moments could get them to feel anything but violent repulse or irritated embarassment.

And perhaps that was the very reason she had fallen so hard for Daemon: he represented that otherwise non-existent middle ground she never knew.

Daemon was the personification of diplomatic negligence.

He was outwardly sweet enough to evoke sympathy and absent enough to evoke a feeling of missing. There were no extremes. No heightened sense of polarity. Daemon was just Daemon. Intelligent, witty, heedless, Daemon. There were no obvious falsities or intentionally hurtful sincerity. And for that the siren had always appreciated him.

She had wanted nothing more than for people to be as gracefully ommiting and critically truthful as him.

Therefore in turn, he was all she ever wanted.

And one of the many things she never got.

So to have this taken away by someone who had immediately received all she ever made mention to desire, was, in the least, revolting to the girl.

Why was it that Rhaenyra deserved everything, the things she earned and the things she barely even paid enough mind to work for, all because she was the first born?

Their mother's love.

Their court's respect.

Their father's interest.

She had it all.

And the siren had none of them, all on account of being born a year too late, on the day of some foredoomed profecy that an insane old man had clamoured towards the clouds some three thousand years before.

It was outrageously unfair.

And though she loved her sister as bottomlessly as the ocean was deep, a small fraction of her, that same one that was so distinctly Targaryen, couldn't help the searing feeling of resentment that boiled within as she looked at her.

Daemon's eyes passed through her as he scanned the room, turning back to his beloved with a smirk that delated nothing if not the scornful dismissal he felt for her, he whispered some type of humorous quip, immediately turning his face elsewhere in a lofty attempt not to give himself away. In turn, Rhaenyra looked as well, gazing over her shoulder in curiosity only to reel herself back towards her uncle, unsubtly hiding her giggles behind her small hands.

The joke wasn't funny anymore.

The way they took pleasure in humiliating him had long stopped being something she could brush away, pretending not to break.

Her face burned red.

Her eyes screwed themselves closed.

The siren turned away, wishing for nothing if not for the ability to become invisible and disappear into the wall behind her.

Scortching wrath bubbled and steamed inside of her, starting to condense into an ardent lava stone, that weighed deep in her, as if she had swallowed half a pound of solid iron.

Only looking at them, together, laughing and judging all who stood around, drove the siren sick.

She couldn't stand it.

And so she turned, with a thought set to leave that sweltering room without a look back and head directly to Araphel's den. Ride the wind with him underneath the blackwater, so as to not be seen, and hopelly end up on the most distant piece of land she could find in the thousands of silk paper maps kept on the dragon keeper's treasure chest.

Her plan, however, collapsed into a distant memory, as soon as she was met, and quite honestly, tackled by, the half-familiar face of a towering man in a ill-fitting iron shirt. Storm-filled eyes met her ashen ones with interest, holding a gaze so blisteringly severe, that for a second the silver girl barely felt how the man's hands held her waist in a bruising iron grip:

- You must tell me where a lady as beautiful as yourself is going off to in such a hurry, I have a feeling I'd like to see what could bring a siren to run. - His voice roared over her like a tidal bore, a big mass of salty black water that crashed upon and submerged everything it touched in an airless stupor. A man two meters of height, chestnut brown coiled curls, and in posession of mercury grey eyes hovered over her like death's reaper. - Harwin Strong, at your services, my Lady siren.

Lord Harwin must have seen how the mighty Silver Siren froze at the sight of him, for his wolfish smile widened into a full grin as he brought her delicate hands to his lips in a double-edged kiss that had the insides of her curling and clenching in horror.

The princess attempted to swallow her fright and brush away any signs of trepidation. She gave the hand that held hers a soft, almost unoticeable, squeeze, feigning a gracious smile as she parted her rose-tinted lips and pulled in a short breath. The words however, never made it past her mouth, seeing as Lord Strong spoke before she ever could:

- There is no need for introductions, Lady. Any man that has been to Westeros knows of you. - His eyes gleamed with uncanny interest, and he moistened his wine-stained lips with careful ardor. - Tales of the Silverfury of old Dragonstone travelled far and wide through the Seven Kingdoms.

- Tales of me? - Raising a perfectly manicured brow, the Targaryen girl fought the urge to snicker. - Your Lordship must have me confused with another.

- Oh, but I have not. - A crescent moon tore his weather-beaten lips into a bloodcurling leer. - If my eyes do not fail me, then your hair is in fact like molten silver, and your eyes do remind of the jasper stone that the conqueror split between his two wives. So unless the bard that wrote this melody is wrong, then I am correct, and you really are the silver siren.

- You are kind, my Lord. I have been called that once or twice, but I do doubt anyone would write a song about myself.

It was his turn to stifle laughter:

- I apologize in advance for my crassness, but your grace must be mad if you think a girl who burned five crab-feeder ships at the age of fourteen does not deserve at least a sonet.

Silence.

The siren stuttered for a moment, flashes of that rage-blurred day running through her mind as she heard him: The blue-sailed ships and their canons approaching Blackwater bay; the absolute failure to act of the royal guardians; the dragon ride to the ocean; the short, rage-fueled dialogue with the vile pirates that screamed obcenities at her child self, refusing to negotiate any matter of importance.

From that day, what always stuck out to her the most was not the moment she yelled 'Dracarys!', Or the sickly-sweet smell that rose from the burning fleet as the flames consumed them, but the face of her family as she landed Araphel on the dragon's den.

Her father's disgusted face, her sister's contemptuous stare, Lord Corlys' satisfied little smirk. How they whispered behind her back, spinning yards about her insanity, talking of how the gods flipped a coin when a Targaryen was born, heads for greatness, tails for madness. How the lovely Rhaenyra had gotten the most favorable option of the two, while herself was cursed with the inescapable insanity that some old gods' coin had determined for her.

The pain of their judgement had burned to the core, only worsening the guilt and despair that had fallen on her as she dived her dragon into the water and barreled into the decks, trying to save any of the hostages the crab-feeder had kept to blackmail the king into surrender. She had returned with only four of them on dragonback, burned and battered, but miraculously alive.

Their tearful cries of thank you had filled her heart with suffocating remorse. Not even Daemon's proud little pats on the back managed to restore the girl from the regret her impulsivity caused her.

- And you are smiling as you say that. - Shame hung to her words like a cloud of heavy rain that loomed upon the winter stormlands. - As if what I did was not an atrocity. As if an untold number of people hadn't died on account of my selfishness.

- I do not understand. Should I not smile in the presence of a hero?

- Hero? - She laughed, though her face was barren of any humour. - That is by far, the most interesting way I ever heard someone pronounce the word 'murderer'.

She turned her face away in disgrace, though the man before her only seemed to lean further into her with every breath. - There is no way someone made you believe yourself to be the villain after you saved your city from a pillaging raid.

- And you must know all about raids and pillaging, mustn't you, my Lord? A man from one of the most peaceful and honorable houses in all of the Realm, such as yourself.

- We might be honorable, but we are no saints. - He smiled. - I'm sure you heard of the deserters that were hunted down from Winterfell to Harrenhall, how they were maimed and brutalized only to discover that they were, in fact, only some poor restless peasants that the Starks had mistaken for men of the Black. - The hands he held around her waist slithered upwards in soft languid motions that reminder her of a snake, they landed atop her shoulderblades in a comforting, almost patriarchal manner, soft strokes of his thumbs rubbing patterns into her skin as his eyes deepened. - You must have heard the dreaded tales of Harrenhall, I'm sure. Cursed place, though it is. Piled over the blood of those who built it. Separated from the rest of castles by the gods themselves. Like a country of our own. We make the laws. We built the gallows. We bring our own justice. Much like you did, to protect your people.

The silver-haired princess felt the caress of Strong's calloused palms against her back, keeping her gaze trained on the worn leather boots he wore, no doubt stolen from some poor merchant that was too arrogant to realize the unholy place in which he stepped. A man who had a life. Probably a family. A man who likely had once held someone as sweetly as Harwin held her now.

She thought about the men in the crab-feeder ships. She knew some of their names, remembered most of their faces. Often wondering about their lives, if they loved, if they had been loved. They might have not had wives, but brothers they had, mothers and fathers surely. There must have been someone who missed their presence.

Someone who looked upon the sky as news of the deaths reached their ears and cursed the day she was born. Someone who would miss them as much as she regreted taking their lives away.

She wondered if Harwin ever thought about the families of the 'deserters' who had tried to escape his Lamd. She wondered if wearing their posessions made him feel like he held their souls with himself.

- Your words are beautiful, your Lordship. But they are of no meaning to me.

The princess' statement hung in the air between them for a minute, lingering in the midst of her shameful silence and his astounded hush.

Though still shaking inside, the Targaryen girl joined up enough bravery to look him upon his face, only to find something had changed in the expression of the reaper.

It was not disgust.

Nor was it horror.

A manner of shock, curiosity, and even admiration colored his bearded face.

The silver girl's face twisted into a confused frown.

Harwin had thought never to meet a single truly sincere person amidst the snakepit that was mainland society.

King's Landing people were known to be two-faced and self-interested. They were notorious for their ability to ring roses around stories of their lives only to paint the currently most useful portrait of themselves to the people around them.

And by extension of the amount of Westerosi people he met that fitted that exact description, he assumed all of them were like that.

Yet here she was.

At the very apex of Westerosi court, lied someone with their feet planted firmly on the ground. Something quite ironic, seeing her position as a dragon rider.

And though she was ashamed, a certain wrath bubbled inside of her. The wrath of what she had not been allowed to say in ove a year.

- You may say whatever you wish to excuse yours and mine own crimes against the people we killed. - She continued. - I do believe you may even have had a good intention in your heart of hearts during your raids, but I did not. What I did, I did out of anger and childishness. No amount of euphemisms will make it different, regardless of how much I would wish it did.

Guilt.

A feeling the great break-bones of house Strong had hardly ever known. After all, that who does not sow, as goes the old saying, does not regret. But Harwin could swear he felt a squeeze in his chest as he saw the lip of the silver siren quiver in painful reminiscence.

What was this feeling?

What had it brought out on him?

Harwin Strong laughed, as he hadn't done in many years, from utter disbelief. A bright, battered sound, so unbelieving and so unique, that he would find many faces turning to look upon where he and the princess stood, hidden in the shadows of the wide ball room.

Two pairs of purple eyes found their sights upon him, turning confused and almost enraged at the scene that played out behind the sandstone pillar.

They stared at his iron-covered hands as they pressed deep into the soft silk-clad flesh of the Silver fury, a belittling glint in their judgemental gazes, as if his riverman arse was not worthy of standing near an honorable Targaryen.

The rogue prince stared into him with severity. His eyes commanded Harwin to let go and step away. He mouthed something incomprehensible, but otherwise direct. Something that said "get away from my niece."

But instead, the Lord of the Riverlands placed the softest of kisses upon the Silver Siren's head, closing his eyes and breathing in the sweet scent of firewood and rose liqueur, before he kneeled, closer now than he had been before, hands gripping her shoulders, eyes looking deep into hers:

- They have poisoned your mind with guilt-breeding lies, my lady. - His hand caressed her teary face, in a move so soft and delicate that it nearly seemed to hover above instead of touch. - We do not carry our intentions on our sleeve, as one might do with a weapon to flaunt. We often think them to be the opposite of what they are, thanks to the wretched comments of those who stand against us. You might not know this now, for your useless court members would not tell you the truth in fear of your growing strenth, but I will. What you did in Blackwater bay is the only reason why the crab-feeder, his army, your father's army men and the people's blood aren't littering the ground of King's Landing right this moment. - The girl tried not to think of the scene. She tried, she really did, but her eyes closed and she saw the carnage right before her. Her knees buckled, and a sob escaped her lips, only causing Harwin to hold her even tighter. - Those men came to your port drunk, with wounded hostages and half-dead war slaves, threatening the safety of your people. They did so for one simple reason: criminals do not respect kings they know they can fool. And I say that with the experience of a criminal who holds as much respect for your father as I have for what drop in my toilet every morning. - A small, bistered chuckle flew past her mouth at that, the man's quiet laughter only fueling the fire in her as he spoke. - It is true, is it not? After what you did, the crab-feeder fell silent didn't he? He collected his things and retreated further into the shit piles of the free cities, where he hopes you cannot find him. For not only does he fear you would burn him to the stake, he respects the strenght you showed that day when you burned down his least valuable joes for their disrespect.

His words were like a bout of smoke that hung through the air bringing warmth and left the space surrounding it breathless. The siren breathed it in, allowing him to hold her to him chest as she leaned her face on his shoulder. But the guilt would not go away.

- It does not yet make it right. - The younger princess wailed as her mind reeled back to the faces of the hostages she had taken from the fire. - Some of them were young, most of them weren't old enough to join the city's watch.

- And yet they all chose to stand behind a man they knew to be a torturer and a cold-blooded killer.

- They could have been forced.

- If they were, the crab-feeder would have hunted their ships as soon as they touched water, and done much worse than what you did to them. - He hushed her as she parted her lips, ready to give voice to another posibility that would have driven her mad with guilt and pain. - Quit your tears, my sweet girl. You should know what you did was right. You gave those killers, thieves, and pirates a death much more merciful than the one they would recieve at their own leader's hands. They are gone. You are not. Your people, the people of King's Landing, lived to see another day because you chose to save their lives, the lives of good and honest working people, over the lives of those rogues. You made the choice neither your father, nor your maesters were brave enough to make.

- My uncle would have done better. He would have known better.

- You are a fool to think that. - Harwin spat, making sure to look directly at an ever-nearing Daemon when he did so. - If you think a man who cut the hands off of a child who stole bread to survive simply because is what his gold-cloaks thought was fair would do better than what you did, then you truly are a fool.

- But--

- He is not worthy of your high regards. - He whispered, though his voice boomed as smooth as honey poured over thunder. - Forgive me princess, but Prince Daemon does not serve his people. He does not serve his family. He serves only himself. You may say he could have done better, and perhaps he could, but in that moment, when the ships approached your port and the men threatened a raid into the city, he didn't even stand from his chair. He did nothing. He did not care if the crab-feeders killed the people. So he didn't even move. You were the one that stood for the lives of your people. You were the one that fought. You served King's Landing. You and nobody else.

She swallowed, breathing the air of clarity that had descended upon her as he blew away the clouds of doubt and guilt that had loomed over her eyes for the last two years.

- Valar Dohaeris. - The siren affirmed, sweetly, with a bashful grin on her reddened lips, though not a shadow of hesitation could be traced in her words.

- All men must serve. - He nodded, smiling in soft reassurance as his hands squeezed her own within his palms. - You served. And yet not even a man you are. Your gods will be proud of you, princess. As I am sure the Realm is.

For a slipt moment, it seemed the world stopped.

Harwin pulled her from his arms and looked upon her, swearing he had faced the entire eternal world for a second. And as she looked back at him, she saw the one thing she thought never to see in the eyes of any man: respect.

For the first time since there was a Harwin Strong, he allowed himself to relax, free of any second-thoughts or distrust.

- Thank you. - She whimpered. The honeyed tone of her tearful voice mesmerizing him into a state of tranquility he had never known could be possible in sobriety. - Thank you, my Lord. Thank you.

The drowned god himself couldn't have willed words out of his mouth in that moment. Harwin merely sighed, a breath that left his body bringing in nothing but relief, and as his now warm navy irises met the furious purple ones of Daemon Targaryen, he only laughed again.

All the Lord Strong did was look down onto his Siren. Still holding her waist, he guided her closer to the Lords and Ladies of the realm, now dancing like fools around the throne room, and offered his arm. - There is one thing I could never help bur wonder, princess.

Wiping the stray tears that had trickled down her face, she turned to him. Silver eyes overtaken by a mischief that had Harwin's heart pacing up. - Then wonder away, and the answer shall be yours, my Liege. - Her voice was sultry, almost suggestive. But her smile was of a breath-taking joy.

- Can sirens dance?

She pondered for a moment, pointer finger resting over her chin in mock. - Over the watery graves of any foolish sailor, surely.

- I am not sure I would want to meet one at sea, my princess.

- You'd be wise not to, Ser Harwin. - She grinned, wolfish tone wafting into his ears like the sweetest melody. - But while on land, sirens can be most charming.

- Are they, now?

- You do not believe me, my Liege?

- I think I need to be convinced, your Grace.

- Do you, now? - Her smile widened, an edge of danger to them, as if there was something in her eyes that told him she was about to drag him to his own watery grave. If all sirens were like her, then Harwin would be glad to shackle himself to am ancor and jump into the furthermost parts of the sea. - I think I know just the one to convince you.

The same couldn't be said, however, for the Rogue Prince.

With violet eyes burning fire, the Rogue prince watched from the very same pillar his niece and the city watch's commander had leaned against, the hushed, solemn whispers they had exchanged now long forgotten for the joyous worlds and red-hot laughter.

They seemed happy as anyone could be.

For as the Lord of Harrenhall bathed himself in the warmth that his niece provided, he himself knew only the sour cold.

The cold, lingering feeling of having lost something he didn't even know how much he loved.

hi!! do you still do requests? and if you do, do you have guidelines? have a good dayyyy :)

Hiiii ! Hope you're doing well !

Actually... I've never taken any requests and I don't think I'll be able to. All of these scenarios I've written are just at my heart's content. Thus, I don't think "guidelines" make any sense in here. Or have I not understood what you meant in the first place ?

I just don't have the time to write for other people. Personal stuff mostly.

I don't know if you were really planning to request me something but I'll be denying every proposal about headcanons of whatever fandom. It's just the way it is.

Sorry.

Have a nice day/night !