Jon & Daenerys

“The North remembers,” her subordinates had said, and she believed it. Winterfell was…cold, its people were cold, she wasn't welcome and she knew it; the people seemed to despise her, not for being Daenerys, but rather for carrying the Targaryen blood of the Mad King.

Dany trusted the North, she trusted Jon, but it was all for nothing. She lost everything. The people she thought were her allies turned their backs on her. Viserion, her sweet child made of fire and ash, died, Rhaegal followed him. Jorah left her, watched him sacrifice his life so she could live, Missandei beheaded before her very eyes.

She was angry. No. Angry was an understatement. She hated Cersei, she hated the Northerners, she hated Jon Snow for making her miserable, and she hated herself for not saving those she loved, for not being able to hate Jon.

She got her throne. But she wasn't happy. No, of course not. She had to pretend she was at peace with the North, at peace with her people, with the Seven Kingdoms. But she wasn't.