Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1.

It was a rather warm, for the North, sunny day when Daenerys and Jon arrived outside Winterfell’s walls for a stroll. They walked close but at the appropriate distance, speaking of one thing or another, until Arya appeared in Jon’s vision. He halted the conversation to look at his sister. 

A warm smile spread across his face, and Daenerys tilted her head slightly in curiosity, watching as the younger girl approached. Arya, too, smiled—quite warmly, at least for her, from what Daenerys had gathered from her people.

When she finally reached them, Jon took a step forward, now closer to his sister than Daenerys, placing his hands on Arya’s cheeks. He looked at her for a long moment, their eyes locking as they took in the changes in each other’s faces, once again, after years of absence. Then he finally leaned in, his breath a faint warmth against her forehead before his lips touched her brow. The kiss was gentle, soft—a quiet greeting. His beard scratched lightly against her skin, a sensation that felt foreign, yet she was getting used to it. His hands stayed on her face longer than necessary, not wanting to let go, and Arya felt the same, wanting to preserve that moment forever. 

But…

Daenerys watched the exchange, and Arya felt the weight of her gaze. Expected it. Jon, king or not, behaved differently around Arya. Softer. Gentler. But only for her. And, well, maybe for Daenerys too, as of late.

What was interesting, though, was that Daenerys’s gaze wasn’t judging in any way. No jealousy. No coldness. Only… curiosity. Warmth, maybe.

But maybe Arya was wrong.

When Jon finally let go of her, they exchanged one last smile before Arya turned her attention to Daenerys. Her steps were slow, firm, yet near silent. Daenerys watched all the same.

Stopping just within reach, Arya nodded toward Daenerys’s hand. “May I?”

Daenerys’s eyes gleamed—playfully or dangerous, perhaps, or maybe Arya only imagined it. Either way, the queen nodded. So Arya took her hand. 

Whether Daenerys expected it or not, Arya kissed the back of her palm, lips barely grazing the warm skin. A small thing. Yet she felt the almost imperceptible movement of Daenerys’s hand in response.

It wasn’t a greeting of a lady to lady, nor even a way in which Brienne has done so, only taking other ladies’ hand but without kissing, and maybe it was more of a way in which a knight or a lord greets their lady, but frankly, Arya didn’t care. 

Well. 

She did and she did not.

Daenerys was an enigma. Her army spoke of her as a god, a messiah, while the Northmen whispered of madness and fire, of a queen unreasonable and dangerous.  Whatever was the truth about her, it was easier to search for her true traits in those little things. Things that are small but unexpected and may gain real reaction. 

So, that’s why she did that.

(And maybe, just maybe, because Daenerys was beautiful, and because Jon spent so much time with her, and because, maybe, somewhere in Arya’s heart, she wanted to be there, with them, too.)

When Arya finally withdrew, she lingered just a breath away, watching Daenerys through her lashes, searching, judging. Half of her expected to see what the Northmen expected in her—disgust, something false.

But she saw none of that.

Instead, Daenerys was watching her back. Their gazes locked, her beautiful purple eyes boring into Arya’s gray. Khalessi’s gaze was curious and intense, and for a second Arya nearly lost her breath.

At least, Dany smiled at her, a small and genuine, one side a little higher than the other in a small form of teasing, Arya decided. 

Arya… Well. She wasn’t exactly surprised. It could have gone either way, and anyhow, it wasn’t any big test. But… It was a pleasant reaction. Promising one. One that can, at least for now, let her rest easy at the fact that Jon was spending so much time with her.

Finally, Arya let go of Daenerys’s hand—slowly, gently—and nodded. They exchanged soft greetings, and Arya stepped back toward Jon, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.

And, unsurprisingly, he was grinning. A small one, but familiar.

It said, without words, See? I wouldn’t bow to just any woman.

Arya smiled a little harder, because he was right. She should trust him more. And she did, really, but trust in him wasn’t enough. She had to check the other woman for herself.

(And maybe his taste wasn’t so bad.)

She lingered for a few minutes of idle small talk, not wanting to be rude, before excusing herself. This time, she bowed, like a lady should, just as Sansa had taught her.

And with all her new information in mind, she walked away, leaving them to their time together.

2.

The three of them walked together beyond Winterfell’s gates, the air biting and sharp. It was cold for Arya and Jon, but for Daenerys, it was unbearable. She struggled with the temperature, even as she was in the middle, and both Arya and Jon walked very close to her, as if sensing her coldness and wanting to help her. It wasn’t enough. Her nose felt frozen and her hands were numb despite the gloves she wore. She wouldn’t say a word about it, though. She refused to be seen as weak or more of an outsider than she already was.

But it didn’t matter much, since Arya noticed her struggles anyway. And with a slight tilt of her head and a certain look in her eyes, she conveyed the message to Jon—something Daenerys had noticed the two of them doing often. They didn’t need words—communicating strictly by eyes and body language. 

Jon hummed lowly at Arya’s message, glancing at Daenerys for a moment before two of them—and Dany by extension— started to slow down their walk.

Then, they stopped moving—not the best idea, since walking provided some warmth while standing still did not—and Dany huffed, struggling not to pout as her breath misted in the cold air.

Jon, the little shit, said something about how Sam, his friend and soon-to-be maester, had once told him about ways to keep warm in cold weather—really important knowledge for the Night’s Watch. 

Dany huffed again, urging him to continue, while Arya tilted her head; trying to follow Jon’s train of thought for sure. Meanwhile, Jon continued, saying that while many of those methods were useful, most were meant for situations where there was no warm castle to run back to. 

Here, Jon cracked a smile, and Dany liked it very much on his face. She didn’t mind at all that, as he did so, his gaze flickered between her and Arya. Somehow, Dany was okay with sharing his sweet look.

Jon went on, explaining that aside from dressing warmly and walking to generate heat—which they were already doing—there was one last method. This one, however, wasn’t for the men of the Night’s Watch, but rather something for men and women to share. There was a glint of mischief in his gaze. Dany gave him the tiniest tilt of her head as a sign of approval, and saw in the corner of her eye Arya moving even closer to her. 

Jon reached for Daenerys’ hand, his rough, calloused fingers wrapping around her own frozen ones, as he slowly removed her glove. He was warm, so warm, and Arya, on her other side, was so close she felt her warm breath on her cheek. She didn’t feel uncomfortable with the attention at all. But it did made her heart flutter in a strange way.

In the next second, warmth spread through her body—and to her face—as suddenly, all at once, she felt Arya kissing her cheek and Jon kissing her hand.

And really, logically speaking, maybe it should have been improper. But Daenerys mused that, on the other hand, it was normal enough—a woman kissing another woman on the cheek, a man kissing a woman’s palm… But… their lips lingered longer than a proper moment. And Dany knew they had planned this. Saw it with her own eyes. Did they do that to tease her or to help her feel warm again? Or was it both? 

Either way, it worked.

Dany blinked and let out a slow, shaky breath, as her gaze keep flickering between Jon and Arya. 

Jon looked entirely too pleased with himself. “Did that help?” he asked, entirely too smug, as he let go of her hand, yet without stepping back from her space.

Daenerys coughed, straightening, strangely missing the touch of their lips on her skin. 

She also didn’t miss the way Arya watched her, pleased like Jon did, yet a little wary still. As if she wasn’t sure about what they just did, as if she was afraid Dany would hate them for it. As if she followed Jon because she trusted him, and they both wanted it, but she didn’t know Daenerys enough yet, to know how she would react.

So, Daenerys cracked a little smile at them, a relaxed one, showing she didn’t mind the silly encounter. She enjoyed it ever, as weird and uncommon as it was. “Yes. A little.” She finally answered, softly. 

(and yet she was still cold, her skin still tingly. Would they do it again if she said she was still cold?)

3.

Jon had just returned from settling a bloody quarrel between the Northmen and Daenerys’ soldiers. There was tension between their soldiers for some time now, and they knew it would eventually happen. As King in the North and their host, it was Jon’s duty to intervene. Daenerys was supposed to go as well, but Tyrion had advised against it, saying it was too risky. Both Arya and Daenerys thought his logic was stupid, but at least they agreed to stay. Instead of Khalessi, Tyrion had gone in her place as her representative.

Both women knew enough of the world, of men, and of battle to understand that the encounter had likely been bloody and certainly dangerous. Daenerys was frustrated that she couldn’t use her dragons—it was too great a risk—and Arya was equally furious that she hadn’t been able to go with Jon. She couldn’t leave Sansa and Daenerys alone, but that meant Jon had gone alone, leaving both women restless and on edge.

(They both didn’t want to think of a real reason for their feelings. Arya said it's because he’s a family, and Daenerys said it’s because he’s an important ally. And yet, they were both aware it was only a half-truth)

When Jon finally returned, his hair was a mess, his face bloodied with fresh scratches, his hand wrapped in a bandage, and his clothes torn in places. He found them waiting in the hall, and before he could say a word, they practically crashed into him. Both were small, petite enough to fit perfectly against his chest, just enough for him to wrap his arms around them both. Daenerys’ silver hair brushed against his jaw, soft and pretty, while Arya’s dark locks tickled his neck, warm and familiar. Their bodies pressed into him, one on either side, as if they were two halves of a whole. As if he was the last puzzle to make them whole.

Neither of them cried or wept, but their grip on him was painfully tight, fingers curling into his cloak as if he would disappear if they let go. Jon exhaled, holding them as close as he could, hoping it would bring them—and himself—some peace. His mind played tricks on him, as he could swear that he could feel the rapid beat of their hearts against his chest, their breaths shallow and uneven, mingling with his own.

After a long moment, they shifted, almost in eerie synchrony, both women pulled back just slightly, lifted their heads, and—before Jon could anticipate it—kissed him on the highline of his cheek. Gently, softly, yet firmly.

They didn’t realize what they did, that the other woman did the same. But Jon did, and it sent a shiver down his spine.

Jon didn’t quite understand the gesture. Not fully. He thought he might have once overheard Sam or Sansa gushing about the custom—how ladies kissed their lovers there as a sign of gratitude, happiness, and affection. But that didn’t apply here. Did it? They were allies. Partners. But not like that.

(Even if his heart ached for it.)

Still, he pulled them both closer, holding them tighter, and murmured, “I’m back,” before pressing a kiss to their hair—first Daenerys’, then Arya’s.

For a long moment, they simply stood there, wrapped in each other. No one was there. No one was watching.

So they could stay like that a little while longer.

4.

Arya had just returned from outside, where she had been speaking with the people of Winterfell. It was a common activity for her—she liked knowing how they were faring, what they were doing, and if they needed anything. For now, they were well. There was enough food, and she and others made sure there were no bloody fights or rapes. Even with war creeping closer by the day, the people were as content as they could be.

Now, back within the castle, she hummed softly as she walked—until she suddenly stilled. Her head tilted in curiosity.

A sound.

A breathless, pretty sound. Familiar.

Arya bit her lip, considering her options. She should walk away—it wasn’t her place to snoop (well—). But at the same time… she was curious. She had seen enough in her life, and if this turned out to be something silly or gossipy, she’d have something new to talk about with Sansa.

With that thought in mind, she turned toward the source of the noise. Her humming ceased, her breath steadied, her steps light. Like a shadow. Like a cat. Like a mouse.

She crept closer, and when she finally reached the right angle—her body went still. Her eyes widened. Her lips parted in silent shock.

There, in one of the abandoned halls, against the stone wall—

Jon. And Daenerys.

Jon had her pressed against the cold surface, his body flush against hers in a passionate, intimate embrace.

They were kissing.

Not soft pecks, not brief touches of lips, but deep, fervent kisses. Desperate. Longing. They only parted for the barest moments, just enough to catch their breath before finding each other again, unwilling to let go.

Arya swallowed, her body growing war m as her gaze wandered.

Jon’s hand was on Dany’s waist, the other cradling her neck. One of her hands was tangled in his curls, the other cupping his cheek. They were already pressed impossibly close, but it seemed as though they were still trying to pull each other in—closer, closer , as if they could melt into one another.

Arya lifted a hand to her cheek, feeling the heat rising there. She was blushing furiously, yet she couldn’t tear her gaze away.

It wasn’t just what she saw.

It was what she heard.

Little noises.

Breathless gasps.

Jon’s low groans—growls?—and Dany’s soft, shaky sighs. Their sounds fit together so well, blending into something almost melodic. Arya wasn’t sure if she was imagining it, but she heard everything all the same.

She knew she shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be listening.

And yet, she still couldn’t move.

The longer she lingered, the more her own feelings crept to the surface. Her pulse pounded in her ears, a strange, muffled white noise filling her head. She was hyperaware of every sound, every breath, every flicker of movement. Her hands were clammy, her body uncomfortably warm, and deep in her stomach—butterflies.

And then there was also arousal.

But more than that, there was something deeper.

At first, she had thought she was jealous. And she was, in a way—jealous of Dany for holding Jon’s attention, jealous of their effortless, comfortable bond. But she was also happy for them, for their new bond, for their newfound happiness. Even if it was mixed with her own sadness. And as she stood there, watching, she realized—

It wasn’t that she wanted to be one of them.

She wanted to be with them.

Both of them.

She wanted to kiss them, to be kissed by them, to find the same happiness and comfort they had found in each other.

Arya bit her lower lip, her mind swirling with unfamiliar thoughts. The idea itself was new—something she hadn’t allowed herself to consider before. But now, as she watched Jon and Dany, as she saw them finally brave enough to act on their feelings, to admit—if only in the quiet shadows—that they wanted this, she realized something.

She realized how much she yearned for it. For their attention, their smiles, their touches. It wasn’t new, but she realized that just now, as she watched them.

Maybe she could be brave too.

She could make sense of her own emotions, no matter how complicated they were.

But not now.

Now, it was time to leave.

She had been here too long. Much too long. Longer than she should have been at all.

Finally, she forced herself to step back. Slowly. Silently. Her gaze lingered on them until she disappeared behind the corner, leaving them to their moment.

+1

A few days had passed since Arya saw Jon and Daenerys kissing in that secluded hallway, and on the surface, not much had changed.

Well.

Arya still acted like herself, though she found herself stealing more glances at both Jon and Daenerys, stepping a little closer to them than before. If anyone noticed, they didn’t say anything.

As for Jon and Dany, they weren’t exactly secretive, but they weren’t open about it either. They refrained from kissing or embracing in public, yet to Arya, the air between them had shifted—something softer, more natural, undeniably romantic. There were more glances, more quiet reassurances, little gestures that were subtle enough to go unnoticed by others but were impossible for her to miss.

And it wasn’t as though they excluded Arya from their company. They didn’t have to include her, really—Jon and Daenerys were leaders, while she was just his sister, not someone with an army or a high title. But they treated her as if she belonged among them, discussing Winterfell and the war as though her opinion mattered. It made Arya’s heart race a little every time.

Then there were the quieter moments—when they weren’t strategizing or talking of war, just strolling the castle grounds or sitting by the fire, sharing idle conversations. Arya always felt included, always felt wanted, though deep down, she wished for something more.

(Pity she never noticed the lingering glances and fleeting touches both Jon and Daenerys sent her way.)

Now, once again, it was just the three of them—Arya, Jon, and Daenerys—alone in a chamber. Sansa and Bran had already retired for the night, but they had stayed behind, too stubborn and workaholic to do the same. Besides, there was wine, and good wine at that. Arya had been seated with them at the table but had since wandered to the bed, lying on her back, staring at the ceiling, half-listening to their conversation.

And then, unbidden, her thoughts drifted back to that kiss.

The memory resurfaced, along with all the emotions she had thought about for days. Before she could stop herself, she spoke, her voice laced with teasing bravado—masking her nervousness beneath it.

“I think,” she started, drawing Jon and Daenerys’ attention as she sat up straight, fixing them with an intense stare, “you shouldn’t be kissing that passionately in the halls. If Sansa saw you, she’d probably have a heart attack.”

She finished with a grin, though she didn’t miss the way their eyes widened nor the way her hear picked up its rhythm from nervousness. They exchanged glances—Daenerys looking at Jon firmly, Jon shaking his head, and Dany huffing in irritation.

Arya wanted to laugh at how adorable they were. If only her heart didn’t ache so much.

At least Daenerys, visibly done with Jon, pushed herself up and walked over to Arya, settling beside her on the bed. She studied her for a moment before cracking an easy, teasing smile.

“Yes, we shouldn’t. Sansa is too important.”

Arya grinned back. Ah, how she loved that woman.

But then Daenerys’ expression shifted, becoming more serious. “Listen, Jon and I—”

“Dany,” Jon interrupted, his voice firm, but she didn’t even look at him.

“Yes, we kissed,” Daenerys continued, her tone unwavering.

“And I saw,” Arya interjected, head titled.

Dany nodded. “You did. And we didn’t know it until now, and we’re not mad about it, but…” She hesitated momentarily, glancing at her clasped hand on her lap, and then again at Arya’s face with new confidence. “I have to ask. How do you feel about it? About us?”

There was something hopeful in her voice, and Arya suddenly realized—she wanted her approval. 

It was such a bittersweet realization. Her heart ached once again.

Arya smiled, though it was tinged with sadness. “I love you both, Dany. I want you to be happy. You deserve it more than anyone.”

“More than yourself, little sister?” Jon asked, his voice softer now.

Arya glanced at him, her heart stuttering at the way he said little sister. It was such an important thing to both of them, and she always melted a little when she heard it. But this time, something about the way he said it made her hesitate.

“What does that have to do with me?” she questioned.

Daenerys took Arya’s hands in hers, her palms smooth yet calloused—not like Sansa’s. More like dragon’s scales, hardened yet still soft to touch.

“Everything,” Daenerys breathed, and Arya felt a shiver run through her body.

Jon moved closer, settling on the other side of Daenerys, and without hesitation, his large hand covered both of theirs, his warmth engulfing them.

Arya bit her lip, and she could swear their gazes flickered down at the motion.

“I don’t understand,” she admitted at last.

Daenerys squeezed her hands. “We kissed, yes. But we never wanted to exclude you… if you understand.”

Arya’s lips parted slightly, confusion swirling in her mind—until she locked eyes with Jon. His love and desire and longing all suddenly visible to her and she wonders how did she miss it before.

Suddenly, it all made sense.

“Oh,” she breathed.

A squeeze of her hands—was it Daenerys? Or Jon? Maybe both.

Heat rose to her cheeks, her heart pounding as she looked from their joined hands to Daenerys, then to Jon.

They didn’t say anything else, letting her gather her thoughts.

She felt so much all at once.

But one thought stood out above the rest.

“Well,” she said, licking his lip, her voice steady despite the storm inside her. “Do you still want to include me, then?”

Her grin was evident, playful yet laced with something deeper. And when she looked at her— lovers? Partners? —the answers were written plainly in their eyes. They understood.

Jon stood first, stepping toward her before sinking to his knees. And then, before she could fully process it, his hand was on her neck and his lips were on hers, warm and firm, while Daenerys’ lips found the curve of her neck, pressing soft, heated kisses into her skin.

Arya shivered, happiness overtaking her.

And that was only the beginning of a night full of kisses—and other wonderful things.

Chapter Text

Before their date, they made sure to tell everyone not to disturb them unless it was absolutely necessary. They chose people who would answer questions in their absence and ensured that the day would be as calm and uneventful as possible. 

They had all agreed— their first date would last the whole day, from morning until night. Their lives were always at risk, and war was coming soon. They didn’t know when they would get another chance to do this, to just be together without worry.

So, they wanted to make the most of it.

It started with Arya and Daenerys waking early and meeting outside Jon’s door, giggling quietly like little girls, before sneaking—not so secretly—into his bed. They curled up on either side of him, warm bodies pressing close as they laced their fingers together over his stomach.

Jon couldn’t imagine a better way to wake up. With the soft weight of his lovers beside him, Arya’s hair tickling his neck, Daenerys' fingers tracing patterns on his arm, he felt a rare, blissful peace.

They had planned plenty of activities for the day, but one thing was certain—horse riding was a must. It was something all three of them loved, and sharing what they cherished most was important to them. They spent hours riding across the open fields, laughing and talking, sometimes racing each other, sometimes simply enjoying the ride side by side.

Later, they visited Daenerys’ dragons—her children, really—and spent time as a family.

At some point, Ghost and Nymeria appeared, moving silently as they always did. And Jon, Arya and Dany couldn't be happier with the sweet outcome. Ghost and Nymeria cuddled together, their backs to Dragon's scales!

Some of their activities took place behind closed doors. Whatever happened there left them looking truly content—refreshed, happier, if not a little breathless.

As the evening came, they explored the caverns, curious to see what they could find. Jon had told them about places like that and what they could find there, and, after checking this one, they were not disappointed. Deep inside, they found a large, open place with warm water, steam rising from the surface.

Of course, they couldn’t resist.

They stripped down and slipped into the water, laughing as they splashed each other and let the heat ease their tired bodies and stressed minds. They stayed there for hours, floating, talking, playing, enjoying peace and each other’s presence.

By the time night fell, the cavern was wrapped in darkness and they reluctantly made their way back. Daenerys walked between them, her hands securely held in theirs, while Jon and Arya kept their other hands close to their swords—just in case.

This time, when they reached the castle, they didn’t separate to go to their own chambers. Instead, they made their way to Daenerys’ rooms—the most spacious, with the biggest bed—and collapsed onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs.

They barely had the energy to remove their clothes before sleep took them.

Their bodies pressed together, impossibly close, breath mingling in the cool night air. Their legs tangled so thoroughly they could no longer tell whose were whose, and they couldn't feel safer than in that moment.

All in all, it was a good first date.

Chapter Text

The fire in the hearth crackled softly, as the wind howled outside. Inside, though, the warmth was pleasant, wrapping around Jon and Arya like an old fur cloak. They lay tangled beneath heavy blankets, Arya’s head resting against Jon’s chest, his arm curled around her shoulders. They had had a lot of meetings earlier in the day, and now, finally, had long deserved rest. Their little cocoon of warmth held everything they needed—except Daenerys. 

Then, the door creaked open, without announcing the visitor and as if summoned by their longing alone, Daenerys appeared on their doorstep. 

They were happy to see her, of course they were, they loved her dearly, and yet, the sight of her, exhausted, sighing heavily, her body stiffened, made them pause. They knew something was wrong, as they silently decided to change their position, propping themselves up against the wall, half-sitting now, as they watched their partner shrug off her cloak with slow, deliberate movements, as if she was too tired to do it any faster.

Jon and Arya exchanged worried glances, their understanding visible on their faces, as they waited for their lover to finish taking off her outside clothes. They watched as the silver strands of her hair caught the firelight, as she finally pulled free the clasps of her outerwear, dropping it onto the nearest chair before making her way to the bed.

Without a word, she let herself collapse onto the mattress, her body half-sprawled over their legs. Her forehead pressed against Jon’s thigh, that was still hidden under a blanket, and he could sense her heavy breathing even under the fabric.

Arya let Daenerys just lay for a second in silence, let her breath a little, until she asked, her tone was gentle yet probing, “So, who was it this time?”

Daenerys huffed, eyes closed. “The Greyjoys.”

A beat of silence, as her partners let her gather her thoughts. Then, she exhaled sharply, rolling onto her side, her hand supporting her head, so she could look at them both. “For a house that claims to support women’s leadership, they don’t seem particularly eager to support mine.”

She kept her tone even, but Jon and Arya noticed the way her fingers idly twisted the edge of the blanket, how her shoulders were tensed as she spoke. Her expression remained composed, regal even, but there was a flicker of annoyance. A crack in her voice so small that no one else would hear it, safe for her partners and Missandei. Her violet eyes flickering to them, back and forth, as confident as ever, but they could see the exhaustion and the hurt. They knew of Dany's quiet ache of being met with suspicion at every turn, no matter how much she gave, how much she proved herself already. She had spent months carving her place in the world, and still, there were those who saw her as nothing more than an outsider, an invader. A woman.

Daenerys sighed again, as Jon’s hand, rough and warm, smoothed over her silver hair, his fingers threading through the strands with affection. Simple things like that always make her feel welcome and comfortable.

Jon half-grinned, though his voice was edged with something darker and his eyes were dead-serious. “I can always threaten them, if you want.”

Arya elbowed him lightly, shooting him a look that spoke; We don’t do that, unless it’s necessary.

(Unless Dany asks or gets hurt by someone.)

Jon only grinned wider, wilder one would say, the shadow in his eyes lingering. He understood his partners and their boundaries, he respected them, and believed in his women, in their strength, but they all knew he's not good at being passive when his beloved partners are hurt. If people made life needlessly hard for his girls, they should be met with steel. Simple as that.

But alas, he bowed to their wishes.

Daenerys smiled at them, taking in the silent exchange with quiet amusement. Even after all these weeks, she still struggled to grasp the full depth of their wordless conversations. They had grown up together, their bond could be seen in every glance, every gesture. And yet, she had never felt like an outsider between them. They made sure of that.

At least, she shook her head at Jon's words. “I can make them understand. It just takes time.” Her voice softened, but her fingers still gripped the blanket, betraying how tightly she held onto her own resolve. “I’m just… tired.”

Jon hummed in acknowledgment, still stroking her hair, slow and steady. Arya shifted and placed her hands on Daenerys’s thighs, her fingers pressing in a particular way—firm yet careful, working at the knots of tension hidden beneath muscle. It was something she had learned in Braavos, a technique that was known to be good and effective. Arya didn't want to make Dany any more stressed with the conversation, so she focused on the comfort driven by touch. 

Daenerys sighed, deep and long, her body melting into her lovers. 

Jon continued to play with her hair, his touch gentle and grounding. Arya’s fingers kneaded at her thighs with just the right amount of pressure. Between them, Daenerys could breathe, could let herself feel loved, not as a queen or a leader or conqueror, but as a woman. Just a woman who was tired, who was struggling, who was doing her best.

It was good to feel appreciated and loved, truly loved, from time to time.

She knew it won't be easy, people will scorn and whisper accusations of ‘usurper’ and ‘mad queen’. Some people would just never see her as anything more than a foreign conqueror, never see the girl who had walked through fire, the girl who had bled and lost and still fought for a world that would never fully embrace her.

But for now, here, in this bed, with her lovers, she was not Daenerys Stormborn, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons.

Here, she was just Dany.

And Jon and Arya loved Dany.

So she let herself sink into their warmth, let the tiredness take her, let herself be held. 

The world may not accept her yet, but she has full love and devotion of Arya and Jon, and for tonight, it's enough.

Chapter Text

It was a dinner time as Arya sat at her place, her chin resting on her hand as she watched the room with a small, contented smile. A room filled with their trusted friends and family. 

Sansa and Jeyne sat a few seats away, their heads bent together as they spoke in low, familiar tones. Arya couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the way Sansa’s lips curved into a smile and Jeyne’s eyes sparkled with laughter reminded her of their younger years, before the world had torn them apart. Before men made them suffer insufferable things. Then there’s Bran and Rickon who were further down the table, their voices rising in playful bickering as they poked at each other like the little brothers they still were, despite everything. Arya rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the fondness in her expression.

Her gaze drifted to Jon and Daenerys, who sat beside her. They were speaking quietly, their heads close together, but when they noticed Arya looking, they both turned to her with matching smiles—Jon’s soft and steady, Daenerys’s warm and radiant. Arya felt a flicker of warmth in her chest, a quiet happiness that she hadn’t known in years. For just a moment, she allowed herself to feel it: the contentment of being surrounded by family, by people who loved her and whom she loved in return. It wasn’t perfect—nothing ever was—and the hole in her chest, where the memories of her father, her mother, Robb, and so many others that she lost, lived, still ached. But for now, she was okay. For now, she was happy.

The moment was shattered by the sound of heavy boots on stone. A knight entered the hall, his face serious as he approached the high table. He bowed slightly, his voice carrying over the room. “My King, my Queen, there’s a little girl at the gates. She’s asking for someone named Arry.”

Jon’s brows furrowed in confusion. Arry? The name didn’t ring any bells, and for a moment, he assumed it was one of the villagers—a child seeking shelter or help. “Then—”

But before he could finish, the sharp scrape of a chair against stone cut him off. His head snapped toward the sound, and his eyes widened. Arya was on her feet, her chair toppled behind her. Her face was pale, her eyes wide and filled with a storm of emotions—hope, fear, longing. Her gaze locked with Jon’s, she didn’t say a word, but the look in her eyes was enough. He didn’t understand what was happening, but he knew his sister and trusted her He knew that whatever this was, it was important to her.

Arya didn’t wait for him to speak. She turned and ran, her boots echoing on the stone floor as she bolted for the gates. Her mind raced, her heart beating like war drums. Weasel. Please, let it be her. Let her be alive. Her thoughts were as desperate as they were hopeful.

—————

Daenerys and Jon let Arya have her moment, giving her the space she needed. They met her only some time later, curious to see for themselves who this mysterious girl was. When they found Arya, she was standing protectively beside the child, her hand resting gently on the girl’s shoulder, as the kid clung to her leg. Arya introduced her to them, her voice full of warmth, as she explained how they had met and how she had taken care of her. She spoke briefly, and Weasel was nodding furiously agreeing with her (mom) friend. Her wide eyes darted between Jon and Daenerys, watching them, judging if she could trust them, probably.

Arya’s tone shifted then, taking on a note of pride as she told them how smart Weasel was. “When she heard knights approaching, she ran,” Arya said, her voice proud and still full of warmth. “It was the right call.” Weasel’s cheeks flushed, and she looked down, a little guilty, as if she feared she had done something wrong. But Arya was quick to reassure her, bending down to press a kiss to the top of her head. “You did well,” Arya murmured, her voice soft but unwavering. Weasel relaxed at that, her small hands tightening their grip on Arya’s tunic.

All in all, both Daenerys and Jon saw that the little girl was important to Arya. A person who was able to survive, her friend, her little girl. It was clear that, for some time, it would always be Arya and Weasel, an inseparable pair. But neither Jon nor Daenerys minded. After all the stories Arya had shared of the people she had lost, they were simply happy that she could reunite with someone she had believed gone forever. It was a rare gift, and they cherished it for her.

The next day, in the middle of the afternoon, Daenerys and Jon sat together on a couch in one of the many rooms of Winterfell. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting a warm glow over the space. Across from them, Arya sat in a chair, Weasel curled up on her lap. The girl clung to Arya like a lifeline, her small hands gripping the fabric of her tunic. Arya’s fingers moved in slow, soothing circles on the girl’s back, her expression softer than Jon or Daenerys had ever seen it.

Daenerys watched with a small smile, her heart swelling at the sight. The sight of Arya with the child was unexpected but strangely fitting. There was a naturalness to it, a quiet strength in the way Arya held the girl, as if she had done it a thousand times before. 

(And she did, Dany remembered Jon telling her the stories of little Arya playing with servants’ kids at Winterfell)

Daenerys’s heart ached with a bittersweet warmth as she observed them. 

She glanced at Jon, who sat beside her, his gaze fixed on Arya and Weasel. His expression was soft, almost wistful, and Daenerys could see the flicker of hope in his eyes. She glanced at Arya, then back at him, and she understood—it was the look of someone imagining a future, a family. If she were a man, she thought, and saw the woman she loved being so tender, so loving with a child, her mind would also be filled with images of a future—of a child of their own in her arms. It was no wonder Jon looked at Arya that way. 

Daenerys’s hand drifted unconsciously to her stomach, resting over the place where a child would never grow. The ache of that loss was always there, a quiet sorrow she carried with her. She loved her dragons fiercely, but the thought of holding a child of her own, of feeling that tiny heartbeat against her chest, was a dream she had long since buried. Yet, as she watched Arya with Weasel, the image of Arya holding a child—their child—flashed in her mind. It was a fleeting thought, but it filled her chest with a warmth she hadn’t felt in years.

Arya’s sharp eyes caught the movement of Daenerys’s hand, and for a moment, their gazes locked. Arya’s expression softened, and there was a flicker of understanding in her eyes. She whispered something to Weasel, her voice too low for Daenerys to hear, and after a brief exchange, the little girl slid off Arya’s lap. Arya stood, her hand immediately finding Weasel’s, and they made their way over to Jon and Daenerys.

Weasel was shy, her big eyes darting between Jon and Daenerys as she clung to Arya’s hand. Arya, ever the blunt one, broke the silence with a mischievous grin. “She thinks your hair is beautiful and wonders if it’s as soft as it looks.”

Weasel’s face turned bright red, and she swatted at Arya’s leg. “I didn’t say that!” she protested, though her voice was muffled by her embarrassment.

Arya laughed softly, the sound warm and genuine. “You did too.”

Daenerys’s heart swelled at the sight, and she smiled warmly at the girl. “Would you like to touch it? I don’t mind.”

Weasel’s eyes widened, and she nodded eagerly, her earlier shyness momentarily forgotten. She stepped closer, her small hand still gripping Arya’s as her other hand reached out tentatively to touch Daenerys’s silver hair. Her fingers brushed against the strands, and her face lit up with wonder. “It’s so soft!” she exclaimed, her voice filled with awe.

Arya grinned, her eyes flicking to Daenerys with a look of pure affection. Daenerys felt a lump rise in her throat as Arya’s free hand reached out, resting gently over Daenerys’s where it still lay on her stomach. Their eyes met, and in that moment, Daenerys felt a surge of love and understanding so profound it nearly brought her to tears. Arya’s touch was grounding, her gaze filled with a quiet strength that made Daenerys feel seen in a way she hadn’t in years.

Then Weasel stepped back, her small hand tugging on Arya’s, wanting her to bend down so she could whisper something in her ear. Arya obliged without hesitation, leaning down to listen. When she heard what the little girl had to say, a pretty grin spread across her face, one that lit up her eyes in a way that was rare these days. Her gaze flicked to Jon, and there was a mischievous glint in her expression that made his brows furrow in curiosity. Still, there was a softness to his face, the kind that always appeared when he looked at Arya or Daenerys.

Arya straightened up, her grin still in place, but she didn’t say a word. Jon’s eyes narrowed slightly, his curiosity getting the better of him. “What?” he asked simply, his voice low and tinged with amusement.

Arya snorted, her grin turning into a smirk. “I promised, and I won’t say, so I won’t,” she replied, her tone playful but firm. She looked at him in that way of hers—the one that said she would tell him later, when the moment was right. Jon just shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Weasel tugged on Arya’s hand again, her eyes darting to Jon and Daenerys. “Can they come too?”

Arya looked at Jon and Daenerys, her expression softening. “Want to come to the Heart Tree with us?”

Jon nodded, his eyes warm. “Of course.”

Daenerys smiled, her heart full. “We’d love to.”

And so they went, walking together through the snow-covered courtyard, Weasel clinging tightly to Arya’s hand and Jon and Daenerys on both their sides. Little unusual family moment, one would say, looking at them. 

—————

It was evening, and the three of them were in Daenerys’s chambers, the room bathed in the soft glow of candlelight. Jon and Arya sat on the edge of Daenerys’s bed, Arya resting her head against Jon’s chest as they both watched Daenerys prepare for bed. She stood by the mirror, brushing her silver hair with slow, deliberate strokes. Jon absentmindedly played with Arya’s fingers, his touch gentle and familiar, while Arya’s eyes followed Daenerys’s movements with quiet admiration. Weasel had already gone to her own chamber, leaving the three of them alone to share this quiet moment.

When Daenerys finished brushing her hair, she paused for a moment, her gaze lingering on Jon and Arya. Her expression was thoughtful, her violet eyes clouded with something they couldn’t quite place—until her hand drifted to her stomach, resting over her womb. The gesture was telling, filling her partners’ minds with quiet sadness. 

“Oh, Dany,” Arya said softly, her voice breaking the silence. She shifted slightly, lifting her head to look at Daenerys, her gray eyes filled with empathy. She reached out a hand, silently inviting Daenerys to join them. Daenerys hesitated for only a moment before crossing the room and taking Arya’s hand. Arya guided her to sit between herself and Jon, and they both wrapped their arms around her, holding her close. Daenerys leaned into their embrace, her shoulders relaxing as she felt their love surround her.

“I know it’s foolish,” Daenerys began, her voice trembling slightly. “I know that thinking about it, wanting it, won’t change anything, but—” She stopped herself, unable to finish the sentence. Yet Jon and Arya understood. They always did.

“But since Weasel is here, it’s opened old wounds for you,” Jon said gently, his voice steady but kind. Daenerys nodded, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. Arya tightened her hold on Dany, her own heart aching for her. For once, Arya didn’t know what to say to make it better, so she simply held her tighter, hoping her presence would be enough.

“Just don’t feel guilty, Arya,” Daenerys said firmly after a moment, her head shifting to look openly at the other woman. “I know how your mind can play tricks on you.” Arya huffed in annoyance, but they all knew it was true. Arya had always struggled with self-doubt, with feeling like she wasn’t enough, with taking others’ burdens on herself. She knew she was loved but not feeling guilty was still hard to accept sometimes. 

“I know,” Arya said at last, her voice soft but sincere. “I just don’t want you to be upset.” Daenerys smiled faintly, her hand finding Arya’s and intertwining their fingers. She reached for Jon’s hand as well, holding them both tightly.

“I’m not,” Daenerys said, her voice steadier now. “Not truly. I’m happy for you, and… it really helps me to be able to watch you with Weasel. Truly.” Her smile was more genuine now, and Arya believed her. Jon remained silent, knowing this wasn’t his conversation to lead. He couldn’t fully understand their feelings, not in the way they did, not as a man, but he hoped his presence was grounding, that it helped in some small way.

“And, well,” Daenerys continued, her fingers nervously playing with Arya’s and Jon’s. A faint blush spread across her cheeks, and both Jon and Arya turned to look at her more intensely, their curiosity piqued. She bit her lip, hesitating for a moment before finally speaking. “I hope one day, you will bear Jon’s child, Arya. And it will be my child as well, if you want it, if you don’t mind. It… would make me very happy, if you decide upon it in the future.” Her tone was uncertain but hopeful, her vulnerability laid bare.

Arya and Jon exchanged a glance over Daenerys’s head. They hadn’t really thought about it yet. They had been apart for so long, and now, with the war looming, the idea of children felt distant, almost painful to consider. But Weasel’s arrival had stirred something in Arya too. She had always loved children, had loved playing with them as a child herself. She loved her family, her pack, and the thought of having one of her own, of little pups running around… Well, it wasn’t something she could dismiss.

Arya blushed while still looking at Jon, and he smiled warmly at her. There was no pressure in his expression, only understanding. “Not yet,” Jon said for Arya, his voice gentle, only now choosing to look into Daenerys’ eyes again. “But after the war, when things calm down a bit…” He squeezed Daenerys’s hand, and she smiled, her eyes hopeful as she looked at Arya now.

Arya, still blushing, grinned faintly. “Well,” she said, her voice steady despite the warmth in her cheeks. “I want kids, I think. No, I’m sure.” She nodded, her resolve firm. “And if I’m going to have them, they’re going to be as much ours as they are yours, Dany. There’s no doubt about it.”

Daenerys’s breath caught, a little broken yet happy sound, and without a word, she placed her hand on Arya’s stomach, over her womb. Her eyes filled with tears, but this time, they were tears of joy. “You don’t even know how much this means to me,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “How happy you’re making me. I’m just—” She couldn’t finish, her tears spilling over as she leaned into their embrace. Arya and Jon held her tightly, their arms wrapped around her from both sides, their warmth enveloping her both on her chest and back.

And in that moment, she knew she will have a happy, promising life with them. And their children.