Jon & Daenerys

“The North remembers,” her subordinates had said, and she believed them. Winterfell was… cold, its people were too; she wasn't welcome and she knew it. The people seemed to despise her, not because she was 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 believed were her allies turned their backs on her. Viserion, her sweet boy made of fire and ash, died; Rhaegal followed. Jorah left her, she watched as he sacrificed his life so that she might live; Missandei, beheaded before her very eyes.

She was upset. No. Upset was too small a word. She hated Cersei, she hated the Northerners, she hated Jon Snow for making her miserable, and she hated herself for not having saved 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, that she was at peace with her people, with the Seven Kingdoms. But she wasn't.