Sweet Heart, Bitter Heart (Now I Can't Tell You Apart) [Lysa&Cat&Petyr, 1/1]
Title: Sweet Heart, Bitter Heart (Now I Can't Tell You Apart).
Fandom: Game of Thrones/ASOIAF.
Pairing(s): Psychological profile of Lysa Arryn, from childhood to death.
Rating: M.
Word Count: 3981.
Warnings: Spoilers through AFFC.
Disclaimer: I do not own GoT/ASOIAF, or any of its characters. :)
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If this is the life I was meant for, I should have flung myself off The Eyrie years ago.
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One
Lysa is unafraid. Lysa stands as tall and proud as her sister, though perhaps not as beautiful.
They are to be married today. They stand together as they always have through these years, Lysa in the great shadow cast by the woman she has come to love, idolize, and hate all with equal intensity.
“You look beautiful, Lysa,” she thinks she hears him say, but it is her sister’s voice instead. “I always said blue was your color.”
For the first time in her life Lysa almost believes the compliment. She is standing in front of a faded mirror and sees in it her reflection, a pale girl with fiery auburn hair unbound and untamed about her shoulders, eyes a piercing blue to match her gown. Though she is a bride there is no blush on her cheeks, or glow in her face.
She is dignified.
She is pretty, but she is not beautiful.
The beauty is in her sister, who, even standing behind her, eclipses all.
It is almost as if she senses this, because moments later she apologetically removes herself from the reflection. But Lysa still sees her in it. She sees Catelyn every time she looks at herself; she sees where, if her brow was lifted, her chin lowered, her eyes widened, her lips made fuller, she could be beautiful too, like her.
She is glad to share this day with her sister but part of her wishes it could be her day, and hers alone.
And yet part of her realizes that this is fitting, because every other important moment in her life Catelyn has stolen from her.
.
He is mine and no one can take him from me. He depends on me. He needs me. Me, me. He is mine and I am his and I will never let anything take him from me.
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Two
She imagines this will be the thing to keep him.
Hiding it has not been too difficult, even for Lysa, who can never keep a secret. She’s guarded this one like she’s guarded her life. Not even Catelyn knows.
She plans on telling Petyr today and her heart lurches in her chest at the thought of it. A thousand scenarios play in her head, but each of them end with Petyr taking her in his arms and declaring he’s truly loved her all along.
Lysa’s hands are pressed firmly to her belly and she feels the tiny life stir within her. She blushes with pride, and for the first time feels the intoxicating power of what it really means to have a secret.
It is only moments after that Lord Hoster finds her admiring her swollen womb in the mirror, and only moments after that that he summons her to dinner and she drinks of the potion that will kill her secret forever.
Later as she lies writhing on the stone cold floor and clutching feebly at her belly she can only form a silent scream, eyes wide in muted agony.
The memory of the poison smarts bitterly in her mouth and she thinks,
How is it that death can taste so sweet?
.
He is mine, the first and last thing that ever was.
.
Three
She thinks she’s dreaming when his tongue slips between her lips and his hands weave around her waist.
Lysa awakes to the face of her husband and he mounts her with his saggy bones, but she’s too sleepy and delirious to notice. It seems they can only couple when one of them isn’t looking.
She makes the obligatory moans and gestures, closing her eyes and seeing Petyr’s face on her eyelids.
Lysa swears that this time when Jon enters her she feels something, something different, something special. When she climaxes it is with the prospect of motherhood rather than with pleasure.
Her husband leaves her and she rolls on her side, staring at the tapestry on the wall and wondering if this is what Catelyn must feel when she knows there has been a seed sown within her.
She imagines her sister lying naked in her bed after she has lain with Eddard Stark. Her sister, who has never known the betrayal of her own body.
In that moment Lysa feels she is Catelyn, because in that moment Lysa is happy.
.
I still feel him inside me. I think he’s trapped. He never died, not really. He never left me. He would never leave me, not my boy. They can’t kill him because he isn’t theirs, he’s mine. They can’t take what isn’t theirs. And he is still inside me, I feel him there.
.
Four
She doesn’t mind that he’s the one to kill her.
She’s terrified and fragile but as she dangles over The Moon Door all she can think about is that she is finally in his arms again.
He leans forward, closer, and she thinks he might kiss her but instead he says the name of her sister. She forgives him because she hears it as her own.
Lysa closes her eyes as the winds rush up her skirt and she imagines she is birthing her destiny, which is to die like this, to die in his arms. She whispers his name and finally opens her eyes to gaze upon his, but he is not looking at her, he is looking through her, like he always has.
She feels his son stir within her and reach for its father, but she cannot do anything to help him, she cannot do anything at all.
In an instant she is flying, with her arms spread out protectively over her womb. Her eyes are forced open by current of air swirling around her, and when she tries to scream she can make no noise.
All the feeling is sucked out of her. Her essence, her core, her--is gone. All that remains is a shell, a husk, which saw without seeing, felt without feeling.
It is strange. She is no longer in her body but she is with it.
Lysa watches as her body hits the ground, and she feels nothing.
Instead, she finally hears the truth, and it hits her harder than the ground.
“Only Cat.”
.
Help me. She’s gone.
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Five
Though she hesitates at first it becomes easier by the second for her to trust Petyr when he says she must murder her husband and start a war against Casterly Rock.
Indeed, lying to her sister feels like some kind of justice. This is a private world between she and her beloved, and for once, Catelyn is the one to be shut out. Catelyn is the one to be deceived.
She feels no regret dropping the poison into his wine goblet. For a moment, just a flicker of a second, she watches him with malicious joy as he jerks in panic. Then comes the act; she pretends she is distraught and horrified, as she was instructed.
But as she watches him in his final death throes she is anything but distraught or horrified--she sees his fat face wobble, she sees his brow slick with the same sweat as when they couple, she sees his body expelling waste as if death is taking hold of him and squeezing him dry.
Lysa doesn’t hate Jon, but she doesn’t love him either. She’s happy to see him go. This brings her closer to her beloved, to her Petyr, her one true lord.
She does feel guilty killing Robert’s father, but something inside her soothes her conscience with the false hope that Petyr will be a better father to him someday. Her son will see, and he will forgive her, providing he ever finds out the truth behind his father’s murder. She prays he won’t.
The poison takes effect and Jon cries out as the pain seizes his stomach; he vomits bitterly, shits himself, feels his face turn to ice and his blood to ash.
Lysa watches. Lysa waits.
And when Jon Arryn dies, Lysa Arryn weeps emptily.
He closes his eyes for the last time and she feels free.
.
Dead again dead again another one dead again.
.
Six
“Me next, me next!” she squeals, closing her eyes and presenting her face, puckered and ready, for Petyr to kiss.
He’s spent too long kissing Catelyn and it isn’t fair, it’s her turn--far past her turn, actually. She should get two turns for the amount of kisses her sister’s gotten! Jealously, she huffs and leans back against the tree, all eye rolls and pouted lips as Petyr and Catelyn finish.
She is little and vain and only wants his eyes on her.
At length he begrudgingly pulls his lips from Catelyn’s and looks to Lysa--looks through her, rather, though she doesn’t see it then. He beckons her to come closer and she complies, her stomach a tangle of butterflies.
He’s not as gentle with her as he was with Cat, but she doesn’t have time to make sense of this in her head before her mouth is melting beneath his and her hands are clutching awkwardly at his face.
Petyr doesn’t seem to be affected by her response to his touch--instead he grows bold with her, catching her totally unawares when he parts her teeth with his tongue. Though nervous, she rises to the challenge, innocently pressing her tongue to his and waiting for a directive on what to do next.
The two fumble with each other, mouths engaged in a messy dance, and for the first time in her life Lysa feels special. How furious Cat would be when she learns that Petyr kissed her sister better!
Lysa theorizes that the meaning behind this is simple; Petyr likes her more. She is the younger of the two, and her father remarks that she strongly resembles her mother.
Perhaps Petyr does desire her.
He and Catelyn leave, and Lysa rolls around merrily in the grassy fields of Riverrun beneath the tree where she received her first kisses--her special tree, as she henceforth will call it. She holds her hand over her beating heart in an effort to calm it, for its frenzied beats make her chest ache and her stomach turn.
A thousand fantasies build into an uncontrollable tempest of delight in the young girl’s head, and she considers the possibility of one day marrying Petyr. Her father is fond of the boy to a degree, and though Petyr is only to be Lord of a small inheritance, Lysa knows he would make her happier than any other man. Her father may yet approve of such a match.
Then Petyr would not be just their ward--he would properly join their family, a member in name and blood.
Lysa dreams of her wedding day and weaves a crown of daisies, placing it on her head and dubbing herself the Queen of Love and Beauty if just for a day. She twirls around under the sunlight and does not care that she has gotten grass stains all over her pretty dress, for she has been kissed today by her one true love and she sees her destiny written in the clouds.
She decides that afternoon that she will be faithful to him until she dies.
And that is a promise she keeps.
.
Father says I’m beautiful too. He says we’re both beautiful, we both have mother in us. He’s lying.
.
Seven
Her wedding night is going as it should, but Lysa can’t help but wonder if Cat’s is going better.
She is timid and anxious as her maids help her into her nuptial bed. It is strewn with roses, and she welcomes their soft embrace on her exposed flesh as she slides beneath the covers, patiently waiting for her ladies to array her hair prettily about her shoulders.
Her heart is beating so quickly that she cannot hope to still it, and when her maids finally leave her she feels as if it is in her throat and she cannot swallow it. Now all that is left to do is wait for her husband to come. Husband. Husband. She tries the word out in her mind, then follows it with her new name: Lysa Arryn. Lady of the Eyrie. Lady Arryn.
She wonders if it suits her, for it has to.
She hears the whisper of the door sliding open and clenches her chattering teeth. She is a Tully and she must be brave.
He is swathed in furs but drops them to the floor upon reaching the side of the bed, and she keeps her eyes fixed to him, wide with fear and anticipation. He is old and less than firm, but she can hardly fault him that when she herself is impure and lucky to be wed at all.
Lysa shivers when he leans forward and touches her face in a surprisingly tender gesture--one which she did not expect. She leans into it, suddenly feeling incredibly lonely. Until now she hadn’t been aware of how much she craved a man’s touch. Her thoughts turn to the last time she’d been touched like this, and she struggles to keep tears from springing to her eyes.
It is as if her new husband witnesses this anxiety flicker across her face, for just then he says, very gently, “I will not hurt you, Lysa.”
She nods and looks at him with wide childlike eyes, willing the images of her past to disappear. She is a Tully and she will be brave.
Jon mounts her, sending kisses down her neck and between her breasts. She sighs into the delicate pressure along her skin, arching her back out of reflex when he takes her nipples into his mouth, one by one. Though she does not love him, in this moment she feels like she could, and desires strongly to please him as he has pleased her. She will be a good wife; she will. It is the least she can do to repay his charitable acceptance of her hand.
Lysa weaves her hands up to his back and anchors them there, steadying herself against the remnants of muscle. She closes her eyes. A little moan parts her lips. It is strange, but she cannot shake the feeling that she is somehow safe--she is somehow protected by this man’s bulky presence smothering her tiny body.
He is not Petyr but he is warm.
When he enters her she lets out a muffled moan of intermingling pain and pleasure, still sensitive in her secret parts though it had been almost a year since she had lain with Petyr.
Then it is over. Jon rolls to her side, breathing heavily. She tilts her head to look at him with luminous eyes, wondering what she should do now. She wants to be a good wife. So she reaches her hand toward him timidly and brushes a lock of his gray hair back from his eyes. He seems surprised at this, and grabs her hand before she can pull it away.
She awakes before him in the morning and is glad to discover that his hand is still fast clasped with hers.
She doesn’t love him now, but in this moment she feels like one day she could.
.
The maesters can’t fix him he’s weak he didn’t get it from me no I am a Tully I am not weak he must have gotten it from his father that sick pathetic worm who is not a Tully never will be a Tully and was lucky to marry a Tully and die in a Tully’s arms.
.
Eight
She’s sitting in her bedroom when her little son toddles into her arms, evidently terrified by a recent nightmare. She kisses his forehead and brushes his hair with her slender fingers, telling him not to worry, that it was only a dream. Yet he cries heartily into her shoulder and tears at her nightclothes as if his life depends on it, so she sets him onto her bed and peers deeply into his red tearstained eyes, a solution forming in her mind.
“Shall I tell you a story?” Lysa offers, cupping his face with her palm. He nods sourly, lip remaining extended in full pout, but there is a trace of comfort in his face.
She spins a miserable tale about unrequited love between a handsome prince and ugly princess.
He didn’t like it and neither did she but it is the only tale she knows. Either way it fulfilled its purpose, for he forgot about his nightmares.
In the morning they awoke intertwined, Lysa’s body cradling her son’s as if to shield him from the demons in his mind. Lysa holds him under her covers and presses his tiny form to her own, as if the closer he gets the better she’s able to protect him. She looks at his sleeping face and thinks to herself,
There is nothing here in this world except you.
.
He did love me, didn’t he?
.
Nine
It’s an hour after the tourney and Lysa has only just located the wounded and humiliated Littlefinger, for whom she’s been searching since he staggered off defeated by Brandon Stark.
She finds him propped up against a tree and from what she can tell he’s crying. This startles her and she approaches quietly, terrified of making her presence known and shattering this intimate moment they were suddenly sharing. She has never seen him cry and it excites her queerly to be seeing it now.
At length he hears her and swivels about, eyes red and nose dripping--but Lysa doesn’t care. He’s shedding tears over the loss of her sister and still Lysa doesn’t care, she loves him all the same, perhaps even the more for it. Without hesitating she sweeps him into her arms and he’s deluded enough by his despondency to be grateful for it.
Lysa acts on instinct and tears her dress to pieces by the time she’s finished wrapping his wounds and ceasing the bleeding. She sits on the grass before him as a tattered princess, her Tully hair curled around her shoulders, her blue eyes piercing in this sunlight. For an instant Petyr believes he sees Catelyn in her, and in an effort to cling to this mirage he pulls Lysa into his arms and kisses her fiercely, passionately, as if his entire life is invested in nothing but this moment.
She goes limp in his arms, delirious with mirth as he kisses her over and over, better than she’s ever, ever been kissed. When she regains control over her muscles she pulls him down atop her, locking her hands in his hair. He’s in too deep now--if he opens his eyes he will lose her, he will lose Catelyn forever. He has no choice but to sustain the fantasy.
He cannot stop himself from unlacing her bodice and helping her undo the ties on his breeches. He cannot stop his tongue from intermingling with hers in a twisted frantic dance. He cannot stop himself from touching and tasting every part of her body before plunging himself into the deepest and most secret part of her, and in that instant--with a shudder and a cry--altering their fates forever.
“Catelyn,” he sobs when he opens his eyes, the image of Lysa’s face hovering with sated ecstasy beneath him. He awakens to reality and rolls off her disgustedly, desperate to be alone, to escape what he has just done.
Lysa is left by herself and doesn’t return home till long past dark. She tells herself she should have known better. She accuses herself of foolishness and stupidity. But then the pain is so great a burden that she panics and knows she must rid herself of it somehow, so she tells herself Petyr does love her, he must love her, he has to love her. He took her honor, and he would not have done such a thing if he did not love her.
She sits for hours watching the sunset and numbing herself into the ignorant belief that he is capable of loving her. She tells herself he’s grieving for the loss of Catelyn, yes, but he took her here beneath this tree because he loves them both equally and is torn between which of them he wants more. Lysa concludes he must want her more because he has lain with her, and not with Cat. But after they finished, he must have been hit with a wave of guilt--hence calling out Cat’s name.
Yes. Lysa has got it all sorted out now.
So Lysa picks herself off the ground and puts on what remains of her dress and holds her head high like the Tully she is as she walks back home with a quieted heart.
.
Sometimes I don’t know what’s real and what’s not sometimes I feel and I remember and I don’t know if what truly happened or what is right does that happen to others as well or am I alone in this agony alone alone alone alone alone alone alone please don’t let me be alone alone alone alone please don’t let me be forgotten please fix me fix me fix me.
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Ten
Lysa’s six years old and she’s escaped her wet nurse again.
She’s a troublemaker, always has been, but her pursuits are perfectly innocent most of the time. She loves to chase Petyr and Cat around the grounds at Riverrun. She loves to roll around in the grass without heed to the state of her attire and count the clouds in the sky and dream about her future.
Catelyn says she thinks Lysa will marry a handsome man one day and give him many sons and daughters, all of them fiery and beautiful just like their mother. Lysa wishes for this to be true.
She closes her eyes and feels the wind roll over her face and pinch her cheeks; she’s aware of the sun beating down hotly on her little white body, and she’s running her fingers over the blades of emerald grass beneath her fingertips and giggling because they tickle.
When she opens her eyes she sees something like a wedding veil in the thin clouds streaked across the early morning sky. A grin parts her lips as she imagines herself one day wearing such a veil, prepared to marry a great big handsome man, maybe like the one Catelyn dreamt up for her.
Vainly she wonders what she’ll look like as a bride--if she’ll be very beautiful, like she hopes. She wishes for her hair to be much longer, her eyes much bigger, her bust full and her hips wide. She struggles to picture a clear image of this future Lysa yet all she can see is a murky and muddled version of her present self, only taller.
Then from a short distance she hears the voice of her nurse and suddenly the future seems very, very far away. Strangely enough she’s grateful for that. In Lysa’s head dreams can quickly dissolve into nightmares, and though just a moment ago marriage was glorious it is now oddly frightening.
She’s glad she’s a child when she runs into her nurse’s arms and dutifully returns home after being petted and soothed and chided all at once for escaping again.
Her nurse’s warm hand grasps her own and she is comforted, so that after she goes to bed that night she dreams of her future, and when she awakes she is eager to live it.
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If this is the life I was meant for, I should have flung myself off The Eyrie years ago.
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