Silver [Daenerys Targaryen Imagines]

As Poison Blooms, The Flower Withers

Daenerys Targaryen x witch!reader

Summary : Someone picked up and mended her broken pieces, yet she paid it back by doing the complete opposite.

Words : 11.1k (take a breath and sit down, y'all.)

Warning(s) : talks of death, depression, blood, (kinda) suicide, some angst, this is not good for your mental health I think

A/N : I miss putting out works that would destroy your day idk. Please tell me how this looks, I want to write more!!

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The dragons bellowed in the far distance. Not a war cry – for the war was already over; dust piling up into dirt and the humidity cooling down as fire and the sun left the city – but one full of grief, for they couldn't save her; the one who mattered most to them, to you. Skies fell upon King's Landing, fire rained down on stone walls and screams, so many, filled the air for almost the whole daylight, ashes rising to meet the burning sky, grey clouds so thick you couldn't breathe, no one could.

Daenerys Targaryen struggled to breathe even then, her heart constricting in her chest painfully, a scalding burn in her lower back bringing tears to her eyes yet she did not cry out, did not beg for help or mercy. Jon Snow had decided his fate that day; his face was but a shadow now, towering over her with hatred in his orbs, an ever present frown the last thing she remembered before it went dark like the tunnel she hid in as a child; and she was trapped.

Maesters flocked her sides, as if she was a mother hen and they the chicks, pressing and prodding at her skin, shoving liquid down her throat and scraping her wrist with how much they touched it – Daenerys made no comment, her eyes glassy and lips pressed into a thin line, a faraway look in her violet gaze. It was vain, it always was.

The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, six, now, laid helpless in her chambers, unable to climb up even to relieve herself in the bathroom, couldn't sit properly in a chair, couldn't brush her own hair. The Khaleesi refused to acknowledge even Missandei, disregarded her army's head, paid no attention to her subjects. She spoke few, only when needed to. Her hand ruled in her stead, feigning her exhaustion after winning back her throne as an excuse for her absence.

There was no reason to bring in anyone else to witness her downfall, yet Missandei insisted it was crucial that she was tended to by someone expert. Daenerys cared not what she had to say.

You've heard of her; listened to whispers in the winds and knowledge carried by crows from Astapor, where she stumbled upon the city and liberated it – the world was a better place with Mhysa ruling over them, slaves tasted freedom and praised her as if she was the Queen of the world and she was, for a time.

Now, Daenerys couldn't even make a rule for herself in her own bedroom, as everyone always expected her to break by the simplest nudge of her foot. Her ears rang, voices muffled most of the time, blocking out words that would surely scar her more than she already was; 'Paralyzed from the waist down,' She didn't need to hear it. 'It's temporary, Your Grace. With proper care, you'd assume your role back at court in no time.'

The Khaleesi made no responses, her expression impassive – they would not accept a weak leader; her Khalasar, the unsullied. They would run rampant, they'd break, she'd break, she already did, though not entirely. Daenerys spent years, suffering under the mocks and scrutiny, running and facing her enemies with her head held high, three dragons watching over her shoulders; and it took a literal knife to the heart to bind her back.

•×•×•

"Queen Daenerys gave the North freedom, yet your brother betrayed her. How do you plead?" Missandei, standing as Daenerys' trusted friend and advisor, took charge of the private meeting with the Northerners in regards of the prisoner waiting execution; Jon Snow, the man who shoved a knife through her flesh and into her heart.