Chapter Text
Jon had known from the start that restoring Starfall would not be an easy task. When his aunt Allyria had written to him of his mother’s death, Jon—reading her letter in a cramped, muddy barracks in France—hadn’t been sure he’d return. But after the war was done, he had no where to turn, no place to go but the only home he’s ever known. And so he is here once more, watching Beric Dondarrion flirting hopelessly with Allyria, patching leaky holes in the roof, smiling stiffly at the visitors to the inn.
Some days, it feels as though nothing’s changed after all. These are all things he’s done thousands of times before—before the war, before his dreams were filled with blood and fire.
Before his mother died.
“She was walking on the cliffs,” Allyria had explained, once he returned. His eyes were dry by this point, his stare unflinching. Jon knew it made his aunt uncomfortable, but she persisted. “She took walks often—she missed you so, Jon, and she’d look out over the water and say that you might be looking at the beaches in France, or England, or wherever you were fighting. It made her feel closer to you. She just…she slipped one day. It was raining, the wind was strong. It was an accident. An awful accident.”
Jon would love to believe it was an accident. But his mother was a smart woman. To go out in the rain and stand on a cliff—the Dayne blood was mercurial, his uncle Arthur once told him. His mother changed her mind all the time. Perhaps she had done so about living.
“You’ve got more of your father in you, boy,” his uncle had told him years ago, squinting down at Jon as they’d lugged firewood back to the inn. “That might be a blessing. The Dayne blood’s got more fire in it than we know what to do with. You’ve a bit of ice to temper it all.”
It may be he inherited his temperament from his unnamed father. He thinks he’s inherited something else from his mother, though; her loneliness. He’s never felt more alone than he does now, alone among a sea of people from town with their condolences, alone among his aunt with her sad eyes, and alone in Starfall, with the ghost of his mother at every turn.
The inn is in a state of disrepair when Jon returns. Beric has done what he can, for a man who has no stake to the land and a job besides. Allyria has almost gotten rid of the mildew his mother had written about—the one spreading through room 2B. The stove works properly now, thanks to some of Jon’s clever tinkering. Sometimes he’s glad for Starfall’s sorry state, glad that at least he has something to do while determinedly not thinking about his nightmares, his mother, or the future. He wants to truly reopen for business before summer, catch the business of all the returned soldiers with their families.
The weather is fighting him on his determination, though. The spring is a wet one, which does nothing to help the moldy shutters or the dampness that hangs in the air. If this keeps up, the inn will fall apart long before they reopen.
“Well,” Allyria says, rolling up her sleeves when Jon comes down to the kitchen. Her cheek is streaked with flour. “An idle mind is something you don’t have to worry about today, at least. The front porch’s rotting floorboard gave in. Unless you want Ned stumbling into it tonight when he brings us the groceries, you’d best cover it in some way. Do we have any boards that will do?”
Jon filches a steaming pastry from the tray that’s just come out of the oven. They’ve got two guests this morning—Theon Greyjoy and a woman who is most certainly not his wife. “We’ve got the extra boards from when I tore up the boathouse,” he says around a mouthful of butter and apple. “I’ll use those.”
It’s going to rain, Jon notes when he walks outside. So far, with their penny-pinching and all the elbow grease Jon and Beric have put into Starfall, they’ve managed to stay afloat. But their war against the rain and decay will only last so long on the funds they’ve scraped together. Jon isn’t much of a churchgoer, but he’s caught himself fervently praying for guests—and soon. They won’t last without the money.
And as if God hears his prayer, she rolls in with the storm.
The rain is falling hard against the windowsills, and Jon’s placed a pail under the one leak he hasn’t patched yet—it’s been too wet to climb the roof to get to it—when he hears a fumbling on the porch.
“Hello?” A voice calls, a voice that is quite clearly not Ned Dayne’s. It’s muffled by the door, but Jon can hear it over the rain—a woman.
The door is open. It’s always open in these parts. No one, save Jeyne Poole, ever locks her doors. Still, Jon rushes to it, nearly tripping over a knot in the carpet.
It’s a girl, soaked to the bone.
“Are you the owner of this inn?” She asks, voice shaky. Her hair is red, plastered against her face by the water.
“Yes,” he replies. “Come in. You must be freezing!”
There’s a cutting breeze coming off the ocean, and she nods, her blue eyes wide and darting around. She takes in the pail collecting stray droplets from the ceiling, the worn rugs, the streak of dirt on the yellowing wallpaper. She’s holding her coat together at the chest, shivering in the cold, when Jon finally gets the door closed—it had caught against the carpet.
“What can I do you for?” He asks, voice pleasant as he can make it. Pleasant doesn’t come easy to him these days, not since he left for war.
She’s pretty, with her wide blue eyes and the hair, wet and in disarray as it is. She seems to be making up her mind about something, her eyes darting ‘round, as though she isn’t sure she wants to be here, alone with him. Jon takes a moment to study her more closely. She’s dressed older than he thinks she truly is—her blouse is dark and matronly, her coat boxy and two sizes too big. It’s as though this is her idea of how a respectable woman ought to be dressed. In reality, it simply highlights how young she is. Not much over eighteen, he’d say.
“I—I need a room,” she stammers finally. Her eyes finally meet his. She’s pale, as though she’s seen a ghost. “Just for tonight. I was in the rain and I—” she cuts off, tightens her lips.
Jon waits, but she doesn’t continue. “Miss—”
"Stone. Alayne Stone."
Jon clears his throat. “Miss Stone, I’m afraid I need to see your identification. Are you old enough to book a room yourself?”
Her cheeks turn red. “Yes,” she insists, hands clenching the strap of her purse. “I just need a room, that’s all. Do you have vacancies? The sign up front said there were vacancies.”
He doesn’t answer her question. He’s seen girls like this before—shifty, scared. Slowly, he reaches towards his desk phone. The storm may have cut out the connection, but he figures he can at least try.
“I can call for help if you’d like, miss.”
Miss Stone shakes her head before he’s even finished speaking. “No, no, I really don’t need—please don’t call anyone. I swear I’m not bringing any trouble.” She looks hesitant, but reaches into her pocketbook. “I can pay. Look, how much is it for a night?”
The wad of cash she pulls out is thicker than Jon’s seen in a while. He can feel his eyes go big.
“Please,” she pleads when he doesn’t answer. “Its raining very hard outside and there aren’t any lights. I doubt I’d make it back to town in the dark, and I’ve come so far—” She cuts off, and Jon can’t tell if the water droplets still drying on her cheeks are from the rain outside or stubborn tears.
Jon hesitates. She’s clearly on the run from…something. He might regret this.
“We’ve got room,” he says slowly. “Just tonight?”
Alayne's eyes flutter closed for a moment, and he can see relief. Strange, this girl. He hopes he’s not getting mixed up in something, letting her stay.
“Maybe a few nights,” she corrects, her voice soft.
Jon sighs, and crosses the room. He finds the key to 1C, their nicest room.
“I won’t be staying long,” she assures him slowly, her fingers closing over the key he holds out, careful not to touch him. Her eyes don’t leave his, blue on grey locked over the shabby desk he’d put in this front room, hoping to give the place a more legitimate feel.
He watches her sign her name in the registry, loopy script that reminds him a bit of his mother’s. This girl comes from money, though the shabby coat and pocketbook scream otherwise. Her back is too straight, her skin is too clear. Her words are too crisp to be from these parts.
“What—what’s your name?” She asks, once she’s finished. Jon has the feeling she knows, that she’s known since before she stepped in the room.
“Jon Snow,” he says, clearing his throat. “I own Starfall.”
She bites her lip and looks him over, her wet eyelashes sticking together. Her hair’s quite a bit longer than the fashion, but when it falls in her face, Jon thinks it fits.
“It’s a beautiful inn,” she tells him. “I—I’ll be going now. Would you—would you be able to get my trunk from the porch? I don’t want it getting too wet.” She starts to peel out of her wet coat. The blouse beneath sticks to her frame.
“Sure,” Jon says, mouth suddenly dry. “I’ll get my aunt to brew you tea while we prepare the room.”
With that, Jon makes for the door.
He feels her eyes on him the whole while.