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The taste of blood was on her tongue. The kiss of steel had put it there. Part of her had known, like the rest of the ungrateful Northerners that were his people, that Jon Snow was not a type of man to simply give, no matter how much one had done for them. She should've known his lips had been a trick. A distraction.
But she didn't.
Now Valyria will die with her. For it surely won't live on through a vessel as spineless as her supposed nephew, whose fire had long been doused by those Tully women first, and its ashes spread on the Wall thinking itself ice.
Somewhere in the room, dragonfire. Charred bones had a smell to it that she was expecting, but even her son hadn't seen it fit to feast on the crow turned king. The dagger in her chest seemed to twist at the thought of her Drogon sparing Jon to replace her for his rider.
Her only consolation is the smell of melted steel in the air.
If I can't sit on that Iron Throne, neither will he. No one will.
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Death took a long time. Longer than she thought. She almost envied Ned Stark. A beheading would've further defiled her body more than Jon Snow and his Lord's kiss on that damn ship, but it would've been quick.
She knew the Seven Hells awaited her today, for burning King's Landing. For burning many of her people. All those men, women, and children, that she'd sworn to liberate in Westeros, like in Mereen.
"Children - little children - burned!" Jon Snow had told her, only moments before deeming her too dangerous to survive.
She finally succeeded where her father, the Mad King, failed.
Her braid itched, begging to be cut. Dothraki customs have it that khals only cut their hair after a defeat in battle. She was a khaleesi, she once told herself, so she'd never cut hers.
Not when her traitorous Hand, Tyrion Lannister, lost her three kingdoms to Euron Greyjoy. A pirate, of all people.
Not even now, while she lay bleeding to death from a lover's betrayal, did she desire her silver locks shortened.
