Chapter Text
Jon shut the door of his car with more force than necessary, the cold air biting at his face as he crossed the lot to the station. The neon sign above flickered slightly, the hum of electricity lost beneath the distant sounds of the city—the low wail of a siren, the rumble of an engine passing by on the main road. He rolled his shoulders, pushing down the lingering tension from home.
Dany had barely looked at him before leaving. He didn't blame her. He had chosen this town over her chance at freedom, at safety and now all chances of that outside of this town were seemingly gone. He told himself it was temporary, but White Harbour had a way of dragging people down, of keeping them stuck while the world burned around them.
Inside the station, the air was thick with the usual mix of cigarette smoke and stale coffee. A radio played from somewhere in the back—something slow, the static occasionally cutting in. The day shift was quieting down, the usual hum of activity reduced to a handful of officers at their desks, paperwork spread out beneath dim yellow lighting.
Margaery was waiting for him near his office, arms crossed, her nails tapping against her sleeve. She was still in her work clothes from earlier—an emerald-green blouse beneath a leather jacket, dark jeans tucked into heeled boots. Her auburn hair, always perfectly styled during the day, was slightly undone now, strands falling over her shoulder. She looked tired, but there was a sharpness in her hazel eyes, the kind that meant she had found something.
"Thought you went home?" she said, pushing off the wall.
Jon exhaled, rubbing a hand along his jaw. "Had things to take care of."
"Yeah?" Margaery’s eyes flickered over him, reading between the lines as she always did. She didn’t press, though. "Well, since you’re here, something about our girl doesn’t add up."
Jon gestured for her to follow him into his office, shutting the door behind them. The room wasn’t much—old wooden desk, metal filing cabinets lining the walls, a single lamp casting a pool of light over scattered case files. He shrugged off his coat and sat down, rolling up the sleeves of his button-down.
Margaery took a seat across from him, setting a manila folder on the desk. "No ID," she started, flipping it open. "No prints in the system, not just here but anywhere. No criminal record, no missing persons report, nothing. As far as our databases are concerned, she doesn’t exist."
Jon frowned, skimming through the paperwork. "Could mean she’s not from here."
"That was my first thought," Margaery said, leaning back in her chair. "But then there's this."
She pulled out a black-and-white photograph, placing it in front of him. It was a close-up of the victim’s clothing—dark fabric with intricate silver embroidery. The stitching was unlike anything he’d seen before, too elaborate for something mass-produced. The pattern looked old, almost traditional.
Jon studied the image. "Where’s this from?"
"That’s the thing—nowhere. Loras ran it by some textile experts, and none of them recognized the design. It’s not factory-made, not local. The way it’s woven, the material—it’s old, but not in a way we can trace. Almost like something handmade."
Jon glanced up. "Handmade by who?"
Margaery hesitated before answering, "No one in Westeros. At least, no one in the last few decades."
A strange feeling settled in his chest.
Jon had been in law enforcement long enough to know when something was off, when a case didn’t fit neatly into the world of organized crime, petty violence, or the occasional smuggling operation. This felt different.
"And there’s more," Margaery continued. "I got a hold of some preliminary reports from the evidence team. Nothing conclusive yet, but—" She paused, as if weighing her words. "There were traces of silver on her clothes, more than just the embroidery. Some of it was in the fabric itself. Like it had been burned into it."
Jon's jaw tightened. "Burned how?"
She shook her head. "I don’t know. The autopsy report isn't in yet, so we don’t have a cause of death, but something about this doesn’t feel like a regular homicide."
Jon leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose. A girl with no identity, no past, wearing strange clothes, turning up dead in an alley. No known weapon, no signs of a struggle.
And no one was talking about it.
"Whatever this is," Margaery said, voice quieter now, "it’s bigger than just another murder."
Jon nodded slowly, eyes dark with thought. "Yeah. I know."
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
After Margaery left, Jon had finished up the endless amount of paperwork. It was well into the evening when needed a taste of something bitter to snap him back to alertness, and sharpen his senses again.
The station’s break room is dimly lit, the overhead fluorescent bulbs flickering slightly as if struggling to stay alive. A clock on the wall ticks steadily, marking the slow drag of another long shift. The air is thick with the stale scent of burnt coffee and cigarette smoke, clinging to the walls like a permanent stain. The linoleum floor is scuffed, dulled by years of boots scraping against it. The cabinets are chipped, the fridge hums too loudly, and the coffee pot, old and stained, gurgles as it heats the last of what’s left.
Jon steps inside, his movements stiff with exhaustion. The weight of the case lingers on his shoulders, but he forces himself to focus on something simple—coffee. He’s still in uniform, his dark sheriff’s jacket unzipped, revealing a faded button-down underneath. His holster sits snugly against his hip, badge clipped to his belt, gleaming under the artificial light. His hair, shorter than when he first arrived in White Harbor, brushed messily back, still damp from the cold outside. He runs a hand through it absentmindedly as he reaches for a chipped ceramic mug from the counter.
Across the room, three officers are gathered around the scarred wooden table, their postures relaxed in that easy way that comes with long familiarity. They barely acknowledge Jon as he moves through the space, their conversation continuing as if he isn’t there.
Ser Waynwood, one of the station’s longest-serving officers, is a broad-shouldered man in his late forties, with a thick mustache that twitches when he speaks. His uniform is pressed, neat despite the exhaustion lining his face. He stirs his coffee lazily with a plastic spoon, the rhythmic clinking against the ceramic filling the silence between words. His gaze, sharp and observant, flickers toward Jon but doesn’t linger.
Next to him sits Garlan Flowers, younger than the rest, with an energy that seems slightly out of place in the slow, indifferent atmosphere of the room. He has a lean build, sharp cheekbones, and dark curls that are always a little too unkempt for regulation. A newspaper is spread out in front of him, and he flips through it, scanning headlines with mild disinterest. His fingers tap absently against the table, a nervous habit he hasn’t shaken.
The third officer, Serra, leans back in her chair, a cigarette dangling between two fingers. She’s in her late thirties, her uniform rumpled, the sleeves rolled up past her elbows. Her auburn hair is tied into a loose ponytail, strands falling out messily around her face. There’s a permanent sharpness to her expression, a kind of weary amusement that makes it hard to tell when she’s serious. She exhales a slow stream of smoke toward the ceiling, the gray tendrils curling lazily before disappearing into the stagnant air.
Jon pours himself a cup of coffee, the liquid thick and dark, smelling more like burnt wood than caffeine. He doesn’t join them at the table, instead leaning against the counter, fingers curled loosely around the mug. He’s not interested in conversation, but their words drift toward him anyway.
“Valyrian girl, huh?” Waynwood remarks, voice casual as he stirs his coffee. "Those people bring trouble with ‘em wherever they go."
Serra huffed. "Doesn’t change what they are. This whole city’s got enough problems without adding Valyrian nonsense to the mix. Should’ve sent the rest of ‘em packing after the war."
Waynwood snorts softly. “Maybe they should learn to stay where they belong.”
Jon doesn’t move, but something in his grip tightens. The words hit like an off-key note in an otherwise predictable song, discordant, grating. His expression remains unreadable, his posture relaxed, but his jaw ticks slightly.
Waynwood chuckles, shaking his head. “You know how they are. Always finding trouble. Or making it.”
Jon still doesn’t turn, his gaze fixed on the dark swirl of his coffee. His pulse remains steady, controlled, despite the rage threatening to boil over.
Garlan shifts uncomfortably, his fingers pausing against the edge of the paper. He isn’t laughing, but he doesn’t speak up either. Instead, he clears his throat, flips the page, and pretends to focus on a different headline.
Jon finally moves, slow and deliberate, turning just enough to meet Waynwood’s gaze. His dark eyes are unreadable, but there’s something quiet and unyielding in the way he looks at him.
“That what you think?” His voice is level, devoid of heat, but the weight behind the words is unmistakable.
Waynwood shrugs, unfazed. “I think bad things happen to bad people.”
A muscle tenses in Jon’s jaw. He watches Waynwood for a long moment, then shifts his attention to Garlan. The younger officer hesitates, meeting Jon’s stare before quickly looking away. Serra, meanwhile, only smirks around her cigarette, her eyes half-lidded with amusement.
"Please. No one in this city gives a damn about a dead Valyrian girl. And if they do, they shouldn’t." Serra huffed.
Jon exhales slowly through his nose, setting his coffee down on the counter with a soft clink. “If it didn’t matter,” he says, voice quiet but firm, “she wouldn’t be on my desk.”
The room goes still.
Waynwood’s smirk fades just slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching in annoyance. Serra exhales another slow stream of smoke, tapping ash into a dented tray but saying nothing. Garlan looks as though he wants to say something—something reassuring, something to shift the weight of the conversation—but in the end, he only clears his throat and folds up his newspaper.
Waynwood tilts his head slightly, his mustache twitching as he regards Jon with something between amusement and challenge. “Why do you care so much? Didn’t realize you were a Valyrian sympathizer.”
Jon doesn’t react immediately. He only exhales through his nose, the breath slow and measured, the kind of control that speaks of habit. Then, deliberately, he sets his cup down on the counter—not with force, not aggressively, but with a kind of finality that makes the small sound of ceramic meeting laminate seem louder than it should be.
When he speaks, his voice is calm. “How long have you been working here, Waynwood?”
The older man raises a brow, but he doesn’t hesitate. “Over forty years.”
Jon nods, as if he expected as much. Then, he moves.
The room is already small, but Jon makes it feel smaller. His steps are slow, deliberate, the soles of his boots pressing against the worn linoleum with an unspoken weight. He stops just in front of Waynwood, standing over him as the older man remains seated. The mood shifts in an instant, the space between them suddenly taut with something unspoken, something heavy.
Jon’s voice is steady when he asks, “And how many sheriffs have you spoken to like that in your forty years of working?”
Waynwood stiffens.
The entire room does.
Serra, who had been so at ease before, suddenly straightens in her chair, her cigarette smoldering between her fingers but forgotten. Garlan looks away, his gaze fixed on the newspaper in front of him, though it’s clear he isn’t reading a word. Even the hum of the old refrigerator in the corner seems louder in the stillness that follows.
Waynwood swallows, the casual ease in his expression faltering just slightly. He knows the answer, and he knows everyone else in the room does, too. He’s been here long enough to remember every sheriff that came before Jon. And he knows damn well he never would have spoken to them like this.
Still, his pride keeps him from breaking eye contact as he answers, voice quieter now. “None, sir.”
Jon doesn’t move for a moment, just watching him. Then, he nods once. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”
His tone isn’t harsh, but it leaves no room for argument. It isn’t a threat—it’s a reminder. A reminder that, regardless of how they feel about him, he’s the one wearing the badge with authority. He isn’t just some officer to sneer at. He isn’t someone they can dismiss or push aside.
Jon takes a step back, letting the tension settle, though it doesn’t truly leave. He glances around the room, making sure the weight of his words lingers. His next words are slower, deliberate, meant for all of them.
“Anyone who has the unfortunate fate of landing on my desk deserves our respect. I don’t care where they’re from, what they look like, or what’s been whispered about them. They end up here, in my jurisdiction, and that means we do right by them.” His gaze flickers back to Waynwood. “Clear?”
Waynwood hesitates for half a second, then inclines his head. “Yes, Sheriff.”
Jon exhales again, softer this time, before stepping back fully. The break room is still tense, the silence thick and unspoken, but the message has been received.
He doesn’t pick his coffee back up. He doesn’t need it anymore. Instead, without another word, he turns and strides out of the room, leaving the officers in the uncomfortable quiet of their own thoughts.
The office was quieter than usual. The night had settled deep, and most of the station had emptied out, save for a few lingering souls finishing paperwork or nursing stale coffee to fight off exhaustion. Jon ran a hand through his dark curls, the weight of the day pressing on him like a vice. He should go home, but the thought of walking into a house filled with tension made him hesitate.
As he moved through the station, he caught sight of Alec hunched over his desk. The young deputy was jittery as ever, his knee bouncing under the table while he flipped through old case files, his fingers drumming an uneven rhythm against the desk.
Jon sighed. "Alec, what the hell are you still doing here?"
Alec startled, knocking over a cup of pens in his rush to sit straighter. "Oh—uh, just going through some files, sir. Thought I’d stay a little longer, you know, just in case something comes up."
Jon gave him a long look, noting the way the kid was fidgeting, the nervous energy rolling off him in waves. He was young, eager to prove himself, maybe too eager. Jon knew the type—hell, he’d been the type once. It never ended well.
"Slow night," Jon said, leaning against the edge of the desk. "Nothing’s coming up."
Alec nodded a little too quickly. "Right. But, uh, just in case—"
Jon cut him off with a shake of his head. "It’s been a hard day," he said, his voice low but firm. "What we saw today—" He exhaled, rubbing at his temple. "That’d leave anyone rattled. No shame in calling it a night."
Alec looked up at him, hesitation flickering across his face. He didn’t want to go. Whether it was to prove he could handle it or because the quiet of his own home was worse than the stillness of the station, Jon didn’t know. Either way, the kid needed to rest.
Jon pushed off the desk and clapped Alec on the shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze.Alec straightened as if to protest, but Jon shook his head. "You’ve done your part. Go home, get some rest. And unofficially—" he gave a pointed look—"you’re welcome to come in late tomorrow."
Alec blinked, caught off guard. "Sir, I—I can still stay, if you need me."
Jon offered a tired smirk, shaking his head as he stood. "Go home, Rivers. That’s an order."
"Yes, sir," Alec said, quieter this time.
Jon gave him a nod of approval before turning toward the exit. He needed to get home, needed to face whatever storm was waiting for him there. But for now, just for a moment, sat there for a moment, rolling his stiff shoulders. He let his eyes drift over the quiet office—the old wooden desks, the faint scent of paper and stale coffee lingering in the air, the dim glow of the overhead lights buzzing faintly. It was late. Too late. He needed to go home.
With a sigh, he pushed himself up from the desk, going back to his office to grab his jacket. The familiar weight of it settled around his shoulders as he grabbed his keys from the desk. As he stepped outside, the cold night air hit him immediately, sharp against his skin. The streets of White Harbor were mostly empty, streetlights casting long, flickering shadows on the pavement. His car sat alone in the parking lot, the metal chilled under his touch as he pulled open the door and slid inside.
The drive home was quiet, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional crackle of the radio. He didn't bother turning it up. The dark streets passed by in a blur of dim neon and distant headlights, but his mind wasn’t on the road—it was back at the station, on the case, on the girl, on the way Waynwood had looked at him earlier, on Alec’s nervous gratitude. And then, inevitably, it shifted to home.
By the time he pulled up to the house, his hands were gripping the wheel a little too tightly. He exhaled, forcing himself to loosen his hold before shutting off the engine. The house was dark except for a faint, warm glow spilling from the kitchen window. He knew that light—it was left on for him, the same way it always was.
Jon stepped inside, locking the door behind him, the quiet of the house settling over him like a heavy blanket. His boots barely made a sound against the hardwood as he walked through the familiar space. It was modest but comfortable, the kind of home that had been built more out of necessity than sentimentality.
The kitchen was empty. A single light above the sink cast soft, golden hues against the tiled counter. His eyes flickered toward the dining table—Benjen’s small plate from earlier still sat in the sink, the remnants of dinner long since dried.
But what he really noticed was the door to their bedroom. Closed.
Not locked. But closed.
He lingered there in the kitchen, standing still, listening. He knew Dany was awake. She always was when he came home late, no matter how much she pretended otherwise.
Jon sighed and pulled open the cabinet, reaching for the whiskey. The glass was cool against his palm as he poured himself a drink, the amber liquid catching the light as it sloshed against the rim. He stared at it for a long moment before taking a slow sip, his gaze drifting back to the door.
Neither of them spoke.
The silence stretched, thick and weighted.
The distance between them was growing, stretching wider with each passing day. He could feel it, like a thread pulling taut, fraying at the edges.
And the worst part? He didn’t know how to fix it.
He downed the rest of his drink, set the glass in the sink with a dull clink, and turned toward the bedroom. He hesitated, his hand hovering just for a second over the doorknob before finally pushing it open.