Catelyn smiles again, but there is always war lurking in the corner of her lips, uncertainty, hesitation; it brushes her but does not consume her, does not strangle her the way it does Lysa, she feels its grip around her throat, its fingers pushing into her mouth and it tastes like honey and pennyroyal. “He will remember that he is both Tully and Stark, then.”
I shall forget that I was ever a Tully, I shall forget Father and Edmure and even you, Cat.
“Here,” and suddenly the bundle is in Lysa’s arms, and she freezes, terrified, and her hands do not come up quickly enough to grip him but Cat’s hands are there, steady and sure, a mother knows best.
He is heavier than she would have thought, solid, a real child and not the dream baby that Lysa rocks in her arms each night, made of air and wind. He is warm, and real, and Catelyn’s, always Catelyn’s (Petyr was always Catelyn’s, too, she never wanted him but he was hers regardless, no matter what Lysa did or said or gave, but a son, she thinks, a son would have made him love her, would have set things right), but he does not fall away beneath her grip, he does not disappear, he is so very real.
Maybe someday, she thinks, she prays to the Mother, and she touches a red curl.
Cat’s hand is on her cheek, brushing away a tear Lysa did not know had fallen, but then, Cat has always known her better than she knew herself.
“You’ve been so quiet and sad, Lysa,” she says quietly. “Soon the war will be over, and Father will come home, and Jon and Eddard, too, and everything will be all right.”
Lysa swallows the words that threaten to rip her throat, no, no, I didn’t know, he made me drink it, do you know what Father did to me, Catelyn, what he did to my boy that he would never do to yours? She will grow used to the dull ache, she thinks, she will grow used to biting her tongue and hiding her words, she may forget she was ever a Tully, someday, but even she cannot forget family duty honor, and perhaps someday when she has a living child of her own (you’ll have sons, he promised, trueborn, and she hopes that, at least, is not another one of Father’s lies) she will be filled with something other than grief.
She swallows the words, looks up at her sister’s bright blue eyes (she’ll never tell her, it must be a secret, her father says, and Lysa cannot bear Catelyn’s pity, and cannot bear to temper her sister’s newfound joy with her own misery) and manages to smile back.
There is something comforting about the weight of the baby in her arms, and she mourns the loss of that comfort as she passes him gently back to Catelyn, back to his mother where he belongs, and she accepts him back with greedy hands, as though he has been gone from her for years, as though she would hold him forever.
“Yes,” Lysa agrees, the words feel empty but maybe someday, maybe someday things will be different. “Everything will be all right, Catelyn.”
She is getting better at lying, she thinks; she fools Catelyn and perhaps someday she will fool herself, too.
FILL: Lysa and Cat - lie by the river (pt 2/2)
I shall forget that I was ever a Tully, I shall forget Father and Edmure and even you, Cat.
“Here,” and suddenly the bundle is in Lysa’s arms, and she freezes, terrified, and her hands do not come up quickly enough to grip him but Cat’s hands are there, steady and sure, a mother knows best.
He is heavier than she would have thought, solid, a real child and not the dream baby that Lysa rocks in her arms each night, made of air and wind. He is warm, and real, and Catelyn’s, always Catelyn’s (Petyr was always Catelyn’s, too, she never wanted him but he was hers regardless, no matter what Lysa did or said or gave, but a son, she thinks, a son would have made him love her, would have set things right), but he does not fall away beneath her grip, he does not disappear, he is so very real.
Maybe someday, she thinks, she prays to the Mother, and she touches a red curl.
Cat’s hand is on her cheek, brushing away a tear Lysa did not know had fallen, but then, Cat has always known her better than she knew herself.
“You’ve been so quiet and sad, Lysa,” she says quietly. “Soon the war will be over, and Father will come home, and Jon and Eddard, too, and everything will be all right.”
Lysa swallows the words that threaten to rip her throat, no, no, I didn’t know, he made me drink it, do you know what Father did to me, Catelyn, what he did to my boy that he would never do to yours? She will grow used to the dull ache, she thinks, she will grow used to biting her tongue and hiding her words, she may forget she was ever a Tully, someday, but even she cannot forget family duty honor, and perhaps someday when she has a living child of her own (you’ll have sons, he promised, trueborn, and she hopes that, at least, is not another one of Father’s lies) she will be filled with something other than grief.
She swallows the words, looks up at her sister’s bright blue eyes (she’ll never tell her, it must be a secret, her father says, and Lysa cannot bear Catelyn’s pity, and cannot bear to temper her sister’s newfound joy with her own misery) and manages to smile back.
There is something comforting about the weight of the baby in her arms, and she mourns the loss of that comfort as she passes him gently back to Catelyn, back to his mother where he belongs, and she accepts him back with greedy hands, as though he has been gone from her for years, as though she would hold him forever.
“Yes,” Lysa agrees, the words feel empty but maybe someday, maybe someday things will be different. “Everything will be all right, Catelyn.”
She is getting better at lying, she thinks; she fools Catelyn and perhaps someday she will fool herself, too.