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got ficlet: not yet laid to rest
not yet laid to rest
Catelyn, Lysa | gen | ~600 words
Catelyn blinked at him as the words sunk in, felt nothing save the same hollow ache that had chased her since she rose from the freezing currents of the river.
Written for the Multifandom Women Comment Ficathon, and the prompt Catelyn & Lysa - If you have a sister and she dies, do you stop saying you have one? Or are you always a sister, even when the other half of the equation is gone?
not yet laid to rest
She learned of Lysa's death from one of the Brotherhood, a young knight with a familiar face but a name she could not remember. She blinked at him as the words sunk in, felt nothing save the same hollow ache that had chased her since she rose from the freezing currents of the river. She had lost too much already, her husband and her father and all her sweet children; she was full of dust and empty corners now, riddled with cobwebs and a black desire to watch traitorous blood spill on the dirt. Her new life was sleepless and cold, a jape too poor to draw the thinnest laugh.
She didn't think of the Lysa she met at the Eyrie, half pompous and wholly mad and too stiff and brittle to see her own folly, but the girl she had been at Riverrun, her unbound hair snapping like streamers in the wind. Lysa had been shy in company, holding her laughter and hiding her smiles behind her hand, but with Catelyn alone she had burned brightly, amused by the flowers in the godswood and the taste of mint on Petyr's lips, by the sticks and pebbles Edmure would dig from the banks of the Tumblestone, his hands caked with thick, reddish mud and his breeches wet to the knees.
They had still been young the day they were wed, comely girls with clear eyes and copper hair and fresh, unlined faces, but Catelyn had already felt worn thin around the edges, smoothed like rock in the path of rushing water, tired from years of minding her father and brother in her mother's place, from indulging Petyr, who'd been proud to foster with a house as great as the Tullys, but often homesick for the Fingers, where he'd been an only child, doted on by both his family and his servants. She knew now Lysa had been weighted down as well, burdened by her secrets and the grim face of a future with a man nearly thrice her age; Jon Arryn had been an honorable man, but also stern and solemn in a way that even Ned Stark could not match, and he'd been told of Lysa's indiscretion, had perhaps punished her for it in a thousand silent ways as their marriage dwindled to indifference and his seed refused to flourish and take root.
Tansy, their father had whispered on his deathbed, his mouth dry and his cracking voice slurred, and she'd seen regret etched in the sallow lines of his face, but she doubted he would've done differently, even if he'd been aware of the cost. Catelyn thought perhaps that was when her sister truly died, when she swallowed the poison she was given, when she lost Petyr's babe in a wash of tears and blood, because the woman Catelyn found at the Eyrie and been a stranger, a creature not unlike what Catelyn was now, a body not yet buried, driven only by grief and hatred and spite.
The knight repeated his message, his voice louder and slower, as if he thought Catelyn had not heard or understood, and she turned from him slowly, walking away without a backwards glance. She could speak after a fashion, if she held her hand to the ragged, bloodless gash across her throat, but it would only be a waste of words and breath.
Catelyn, Lysa | gen | ~600 words
Catelyn blinked at him as the words sunk in, felt nothing save the same hollow ache that had chased her since she rose from the freezing currents of the river.
Written for the Multifandom Women Comment Ficathon, and the prompt Catelyn & Lysa - If you have a sister and she dies, do you stop saying you have one? Or are you always a sister, even when the other half of the equation is gone?
not yet laid to rest
She learned of Lysa's death from one of the Brotherhood, a young knight with a familiar face but a name she could not remember. She blinked at him as the words sunk in, felt nothing save the same hollow ache that had chased her since she rose from the freezing currents of the river. She had lost too much already, her husband and her father and all her sweet children; she was full of dust and empty corners now, riddled with cobwebs and a black desire to watch traitorous blood spill on the dirt. Her new life was sleepless and cold, a jape too poor to draw the thinnest laugh.
She didn't think of the Lysa she met at the Eyrie, half pompous and wholly mad and too stiff and brittle to see her own folly, but the girl she had been at Riverrun, her unbound hair snapping like streamers in the wind. Lysa had been shy in company, holding her laughter and hiding her smiles behind her hand, but with Catelyn alone she had burned brightly, amused by the flowers in the godswood and the taste of mint on Petyr's lips, by the sticks and pebbles Edmure would dig from the banks of the Tumblestone, his hands caked with thick, reddish mud and his breeches wet to the knees.
They had still been young the day they were wed, comely girls with clear eyes and copper hair and fresh, unlined faces, but Catelyn had already felt worn thin around the edges, smoothed like rock in the path of rushing water, tired from years of minding her father and brother in her mother's place, from indulging Petyr, who'd been proud to foster with a house as great as the Tullys, but often homesick for the Fingers, where he'd been an only child, doted on by both his family and his servants. She knew now Lysa had been weighted down as well, burdened by her secrets and the grim face of a future with a man nearly thrice her age; Jon Arryn had been an honorable man, but also stern and solemn in a way that even Ned Stark could not match, and he'd been told of Lysa's indiscretion, had perhaps punished her for it in a thousand silent ways as their marriage dwindled to indifference and his seed refused to flourish and take root.
Tansy, their father had whispered on his deathbed, his mouth dry and his cracking voice slurred, and she'd seen regret etched in the sallow lines of his face, but she doubted he would've done differently, even if he'd been aware of the cost. Catelyn thought perhaps that was when her sister truly died, when she swallowed the poison she was given, when she lost Petyr's babe in a wash of tears and blood, because the woman Catelyn found at the Eyrie and been a stranger, a creature not unlike what Catelyn was now, a body not yet buried, driven only by grief and hatred and spite.
The knight repeated his message, his voice louder and slower, as if he thought Catelyn had not heard or understood, and she turned from him slowly, walking away without a backwards glance. She could speak after a fashion, if she held her hand to the ragged, bloodless gash across her throat, but it would only be a waste of words and breath.