#daenerys targaryen imagine

Imagine you being the one to kill Daenerys, your sister, before the Battle of King’s Landing.

requested by: @raveenasblog
warnings: Season 8 spoilers! a little gore and violence.

After your sister had spoken with Tyrion, even with his persuasive plea on giving the unwilling human shields of King’s Landing mercy, you had your doubts. You questioned her sanity with the death of Missandei, Jorah, and two of her dragons and finding out that the man she loved, Jon Snow, was your nephew neither of you knew your brother had fathered in a secret union.

You frowned as you saw the sister you had once admired begin to unravel into what you had feared she’d become. An unfortunate ailment like that of your father and your brother, Viserys, and it saddened you to see she would succumb to the fate of your family’s curse of madness.

The devastation your brother would’ve caused was prevented with his death and murder of your father halted the chaos he could’ve further inflicted.

You bit your lip and felt your hands clench into tight fists at your sides as your thoughts wandered into a place you’d never imagined they’d go to.

You felt at the small dagger that was held in your sheath that your sister-in-law, Arya, gifted you after you married Bran. You took a shaky breath, everything in your body urging you not to do it. Not to spill the blood of your own.

But this had to be done.

You couldn’t let the storm of Daenerys’ mind manifest as such devastation that was bound to rain down on King’s Landing.

Your eyes glanced at her and approached her from behind, footsteps careful. Your dagger fit comfortably into your hand, as if it was calling your sisters’ fate. You raised it high. Flesh tore and metal hit bone, the very force of it echoing in your ears. But you only heard one thing in your mind; For King’s Landing.

written by: jesse

anon said: hey can you do a jon x reader where he cheats on her with daenerys and is very cold towards her ignores her and goes to dany chambers the reader finds out and is hurt but then angry she ignores him and he notices. after the battle of the night king he sees her and suddenly feels so much shame and guilt dany noticed he doesn’t even look at her and sees he looking at the reader she feels jealous and tries to get his attention reader notice and start laughing dany get angry can you do some part pleas

Jon should be back today.

You had been wondering for weeks when he would return to you, coming back from the invitation to Dragonstone. You didn’t like that he left, siding with Sansa and saying it wasn’t the right time for him to leave. The King of North should stay in the North, and you agreed. Jon didn’t listen, leaving Winterfell to Sansa and setting off to ask the foreign queen for dragonglass and her assistance.

Last you heard, he bent the knee to get it. Something the lords had said they would never do again, something you remembered when Robb was named king. You had been with him for a majority of his reign, working as a healer for the bannermen of the independent kingdom. You hadn’t attended the Red Wedding, which was how you survived long enough to hear what Jon had done.

You had loved the black-haired boy since the age of thirteen. Your parents moved into the Winterfell castle just after the Greyjoy Rebellion, your mother being a healer and the one to teach you her trade. That was when you met him, back when all the Starks were together and, for the most part, happy. Jon had returned your feelings, but nothing had come from them, him being too afraid because of his bastard status. He had given his confession the night before he left to the Night’s Watch, and then placed a kiss on your lips meant to be a goodbye.

When you saw each other again, post-Battle of the Bastards, did the small spark between you erupt into flames. He was no longer a brother of the Night’s Watch, he was the King of the North. And with that came the idea the king can love who he pleases, and he loved you.

You were given another goodbye kiss before he left the land he ruled over to meet with Daenerys Targaryen. You didn’t know much about her other than the fact she hailed from Essos with a great army, not enough to form a valid opinion on her. But you watched as Jon rode off with Davos at his side, and you knew your lack of knowledge would come back to haunt you.

In the time he was gone, both of his missing siblings had returned to Winterfell. It wasn’t you who sent a raven, but you knew he had received it. Sansa tried to keep you informed on Jon, knowing you wanted to be kept in the loop.

You were talking with Sansa when someone came rushing in, asking to be pardoned for the intrusion, before taking a breath. He’d been running to see the Lady of Winterfell bearing important news. “They’re back, my lady. Your brother saw the banners.”

If Sansa’s posture hadn’t already been perfect, you knew she would have straightened her back in anticipation. “Thank you, ser,” she says, and the man nods before leaving the room. You watch him leave, and Sansa turns to you. “You’re smiling.”

“Hm?”

“You’re smiling, Y/N.”

“I—”

“It’s good,” Sansa assures. “He’ll have even more people to welcome him home.”

*

Years ago, when King Robert came to Winterfell, you stood more towards the back of the masses. You weren’t highborn, not meant to be in close proximity to royalty. Now, however, you stood directly behind Sansa, waiting for her instruction to open the gates.

Knowing you were nervous by the sway of your feet, Bran turned his head back to you. His eyes were cold and curious, doing little to settle your anxiety. It was odd, Bran was odd. You wondered what happened to him in the time he left Winterfell and the time he returned home. He turned away, knowing something you didn’t.

Something you couldn’t ask.

When the gates opened, Jon’s horse was first to enter. His eyes glanced over the crowd before ending on his only brother left, immediately getting down from his horse and running towards Bran.

Jon kneels down, wrapping his arms around Bran, and pulling him into a hug. While you don’t see Bran’s expression, his body language doesn’t change and you can assume neither does his face. “Look at you,” Jon hold’s his hand to the back of Bran’s head, taking in how he looks. The last he saw the boy, he was unconscious and might not live; now there he was, his former Tully looks darkening to look more like Ned than Catelyn. “You’re a man.” His smile makes your heart warm, and brings a smile to your own face.

“Almost,” Bran responds, leaving it at that. Jon squints in confusion, and looks to Sansa.

She, too, smiles at him, as he gets up and embraces her too. Sansa wraps her arms around him, pulling him closer, until she sees who’s followed him in.

“Where’s Arya?” He lets go. When he does, he turns, refusing to meet your eyes. Your smile falls, watching as his back is turned so he doesn’t greet you. Sansa glances back at you, a phrase she can’t say aloud said through her look. Something is wrong, different.

Sansa’s line of sight is trained on a foreign woman standing away from Jon. The other woman’s eyes are on Jon, as are yours. Until you see her, and then you cannot bring yourself to tear away.

“Lurking somewhere,” Sansa answers. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smirking, knowing exactly her implication.

Seeing where Sansa is staring, Jon calls over the woman in white furs with elaborate braids in her silver-gold hair. Her horse was also a pale white, and you wonder just how colorless she is compared to her wardrobe. When Jon’s hand moves from her direction to in between her shoulder blades, your eyes narrow. You don’t speak out, simply watching the woman offer false courtesies and a smile. You watch her, and wheels turn in your head, thinking. It doesn’t take a great player in the game of politics to draw such a simple conclusion, only a pair of working eyes.

For all his faults, Petyr Baelish had been right. The Dragon Queen was beautiful, and it was a dangerous thing.

*

If you had been trying to avoid Jon, it wasn’t hard.

You knew a battle was coming, knew there would be a time when the multiple armies now under the King of the North’s care—former king, you meant—and with them came more work for you. More supplies to gather and prepare to use, because even if it was unlikely the lot of you won, men would be injured and you wouldn’t leave them to die.

Since the first night of his return, Jon holed himself away in his chambers. You tried to see him once, knocking on the door. He told you to leave before he even knew it was you.

Sansa told you about her conversation with the new queen after Jaime’s trial. Explained she had no intention of allowing the kingdom to remain independent, how there was a sense of… oh you forgot what she said. Arrogance? Smugness? Either way there was something about her that Sansa didn’t like.

She didn’t tell you how their conversation had changed to Jon; didn’t tell you what the queen has said about him. It wasn’t that she wanted to keep it from you, but Sansa knew it wasn’t the time to tell you that Daenerys may have been in love with her brother.

It was something you would have to find out for yourself.

After days of his self-proclaimed isolation, you’d had enough. He hasn’t acknowledged you before he shut himself away, let alone now.

The Winterfell halls were familiar twists and turns. Jon know occupied a different room than he did years ago, but you memorized the route to his new one quickly. On your way, you passed a pair of bannermen, simply nodding your head and walking by. Didn’t even listen to their conversation as they kept going; you were on a mission.

The closer you got to his room, the less you wanted to. The walls weren’t thin in Winterfell, an attempt to keep the rooms warm, but they were never thick enough to be soundproof. Not thick enough to hide the voices you heard just outside his door.

It makes you stop, standing just outside his room and door. You can hear the voices, but not what they say. Jon is quiet, allowing the woman he’s with to speak. You recognize the voice, but you can’t pair it to it’s owner.

It’s not Sansa, not Arya. Not little Lady Mormont, she had no reason to see him, and besides, her voice was higher pitched. Alys Karstark you had seen earlier with some of the ironborn, it couldn’t be her. Other women were elsewhere, either with their families or waiting by the crypts.

A muffled expression comes through the door, an expression you’ve heard Jon say in defense of his decision to bend the knee, and you knew who else was behind the door. Your new queen.

Curiosity got the best of you, your hands inching towards the handle of the doorknob. The metal was cold against your fingertips, the hinges quiet as the door opened slowly, as to not startle the two people inside.

You didn’t want to go in, you knew better than to interrupt private conversations. You didn’t know better than to eavesdrop, though, not many did. The door was opened just wide enough for you to see them, Jon’s face in the queen’s hands. Their words were hushed now, only meant for each other to hear. You could see her pale hands run through Jon’s dark hair, your heart falling further the longer her hand lingered.

Her forehead and his were pressed together, standing in front of the fire place to keep him warm. The bed, unmade, and what seemed like an obvious reason why.

The queen’s words were low and clear as her hand went from Jon’s hair, then against his jaw. Her thumb traces his bottom lip and breaks your heart in one stroke. You see her move closer, and you know exactly what she does.

You don’t care if you slam the door as you run away, don’t care if they know someone saw. In the time since they first got here, Jon avoided you like you were some sort of plague.

Now you knew why.

The idea the king can love who he pleases, and he loved you.

He did, you thought he did. But if he loved you, he wouldn’t be in the arms of someone else.

Is this how Lady Stark had felt all those years ago, when Ned brought back an infant boy claiming him as his son? A living, breathing piece of proof of an infidelity not meant to be paraded around? Jon had sired no bastard—none you knew of—but you could see it. There was no hiding his new affections for the queen, not even behind closed doors, no sense of guilt.

Almost as if the two of you were nothing, as if you are nothing. Thrown to the side for another woman he found beautiful, throwing away all those nice things he would say.

Had he meant any of them at all? Were you not beautiful enough for him anymore? Not willing to do things perhaps the Dragon Queen did? Were you not… anything?

It was an endless cycle, harsh words about yourself circling through your mind.

Not enough, not enough, not enough.

Silent tears began pouring down your face, leaving trails of water for more to spill over until you truly did cry a river for him.

Why? The only thing you could think of, why would he do that, what gave him the right? Was it because you weren’t there?

No.

That couldn’t be it, it couldn’t be the fact you weren’t there. He hadn’t wanted you there… he hadn’t wanted you.

Tears ran down your cheeks, dropping onto the neckline of your gown. You refused to look up, not wanting to see anyone in passing. All you wanted was to go to your room and be alone, wrapped up in a blanket by the fire. If you had to enjoy what could possibly be your last night, that’s what it would be.

It used to be with Jon, but that wasn’t an option now.

As soon as you were in the security of your own room, you fell against the back of the door you slammed shut. On the cold floor, you pulled your legs as close to your chest you could get them, resting your forehead by your knees.

How could he… how dare he?

You knew it couldn’t be for the sake of an alliance, Jon’s mind didn’t work like that. But you couldn’t help but have a small sliver of hope.

You run your own fingers through your hair, stopping quickly. That’s what she did with him. What you used to do.

How could she take that away from you…?

No.

While Daenerys was the new queen, and though you were not her biggest fan—especially not now—it wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t her fault that Jon found her beautiful, found her more enticing that he did you.

It was his.

And if he didn’t feel guilty about it, neither would you.

*

The crypts were dark and crowded, women and children and a few men who couldn’t fight all in rows against the statues.

Statues holding dead Stark lords—all buried, never burned.

When the weights broke through the concrete, you were stuck hidden behind the statue of Ned Stark, hands covering your ears not to hear the sounds from the people and the undead behind you. Gods, you should have been fighting. Why hadn’t you learned to fight?

As more and more of them appeared, you cowered into a ball. Like that would save you.

Your mind wonders how the men outside do it, how they all fight the creatures, how they kill them. You wonder, even, how Jon can do it, if he was alright.

The Dragon Queen would have him, though. If he were in danger. You hated her motivations for it, but you knew them to be true.

Even if he didn’t love you like he used to, you wanted him to make it out of there alive.

*

The aftermath was not what you were expecting. You were expecting dwindling groups of soldiers, broken limbs, and shocked expressions; you expected the grounds of the courtyard to be smeared with blood and corpses.

When you emerged from the castle, however, you were greeted with melting ice, proving the wights had been defeated. Nothing like the aftermath of any battle you had seen in all your years.

Quickly you were rushed off to the surviving soldiers. So many were lost, you quickly noticed. So many left injured and alive.

The patient you were tending to refused to look anywhere but the sky. He couldn’t be much older than Rickon Stark would have been, he had no place on the battlefield. He had a head wound, the blood drying from where it trailed down from his temple. His wrist was sprained and he had a series of scrapes over her legs.

“Don’t close your eyes,” you tell him. Your voice is low, quiet, so you don’t startle him. “What’s your name?” He doesn’t answer, and you sigh. His brown eyes still look to the horizon. Moving on, you grab a clean bandage from the too small a stack you brought with you. You take a bottle—near empty—of alcohol used for cleaning wounds. “This might sting a little,” you warm as you dampen the cloth. He winces when it’s placed against the gash. He’ll need stitches, you conclude. But you don’t have a needle or anything to stitch it with in the small basket of supplies you brought with you. You would return to him in time. You have to.

Eventually, you move along in your line of patients. Small children who ran off in the crypts, women who tried to protect them, Unsullied soldiers, Stark bannermen, a few Knights of the Vale, wildlings. So many gone, and yet, so many left.

With minimal injuries sustained, the former king stands watch as you move through the masses. Jon remembered, from long ago, you following your mother around after the Greyjoy Rebellion. Soldiers had been staying in Winterfell temporarily, and their had been so many maesters you and your limited medical knowledge didn’t do much then.

“Why are you doing that?” He remembered asking.

He remembered your answer clearly: “I want to help them.”

Jon swore you stole his heart right then.

You didn’t feel his eyes on you, too engrossed in wrapping a stab wound on a man’s forearm. I want to help them, and you did. You had a good heart.

A good heart Jon knows you gave to him, he knew it, and what had he done with it? He left you, he betrayedyou.

And now… now he wanted to make up for it.

*

The feast was a dull affair for a group of people who thought only a day before they could all be dead. You understood the silence, everyone drained of all their energy from fighting or losing people or both.

You say across from the same boy you gave stitches to hours earlier. He still hadn’t said his name, but he was a good kind of quiet company. He listened to anything you said, nodding along as he ate his food. Next to him was his older sister, and she didn’t speak much either. There was a space between them, like they were still waiting for someone to come in from the farewell.

Up at the high table, where Jon usually sat between Sansa and Daenerys, he wasn’t there. Instead there was an empty chair where he usually sat, and then Tyrion Lannister wedged in between like a would-be buffer.

Instead, you see him having moved not too long ago, sitting with Tormund, Sam, and Davos, a quiet conversation—as quiet as Tormund could make it—among the four of them. The men all had cups of ale in their hands, and you couldn’t help but wonder what they were talking about.

Davos was quiet, listening to one of Tormund’s odd stories or comments, you were never sure which one. Sam was quiet, too, eyes glancing across the room in search of Gilly and little Sam.

You tried not to look at Jon, but it didn’t work. He was listening, facing towards his friend who was speaking. He took a sip of ale just after he laughed, and even if you couldn’t hear it, you remembered you loved the sound.

He isn’t yours anymore, stop staring.

Remember what he did.

You tried, you really tried, to look away from him, but you couldn’t. He must have known you were staring, and looked your way. When your eyes met, you wanted to look away, wanted to be mad because now after near-death, he cared.

He gives a small smile, one that’s genuine and happy, one you don’t return. You just look at him and wonder where that boy of thirteen went, the one you fell in love with all those years ago.

With both your eyes on each other, you don’t see the queen’s glare. Don’t see her stand up, but you hear a chair move.

She moves away from the fire she’s always been close to, walking towards Jon and the other three. Daenerys places her hand on his shoulder, trying to turn him away. A familiar twist of your stomach makes you look back across your own table, to the boy and his sister beside him.

When you look back, he shrugs off her hand, turning back to face you across the room.

Daenerys follows his gaze, and though the woman has an affinity for fire, her glare is cold.

The three other men at Jon’s table look between each other, awkwardly aware of Daenerys and Jon and what they’ve done.

Her head dips lower, her lips right next to his ear. You see her mouth move but don’t know what she says; you don’t want to.

Jon is quick on his feet, standing and moving away from her. He’s jumpy. You don’t blame him.

His friends are watching, curious, and so are you.

Jon says something to Daenerys, and though she doesn’t shrink back, you know she wants to. Her jaw is clenched now, only released and her lips parting when Jon steps away from her.

You hold your breath as he walks towards your table, hesitant when he actually asks to sit next to you. “Y/N,” he says. You wonder when was the last time he said your name—before he left to Dragonstone, you’re sure.

“Jon.” Your voice is monotone, trying to show no emotions despite the very fact you might cry or scream or something you don’t want to do in public.

“Y/N,” he says again, taking the limited space next to you, and placing his hand over yours. You want to snatch it away, but you can’t will yourself to move it yet. “Can we… can I talk to you.”

Your hand slides out from under his, and when he tries to catch it, he fails. “What is it you want to talk to me about?”

He looks around, nervous. You know exactly what it is he wants to talk about. “It’s better if we’re alone.”

You look at his eyes, sad and dark as they always are. You look behind him, to the queen standing in burgundy red, with arms crossed and an angry glare. Her eyes are squinted in your direction, and her lips pucker into a pout.

She’s jealous.

Your eyes meet hers instead, and you’re fortunate her dragons are tired and injured, and won’t burn you alive. The longer you glare at her the more people catch on. She doesn’t want to make a scene, but she will. You know she will. You can’t help but laugh at her reaction. You can’t help but laugh at the whole damn thing.