Chapter Text
The Kissing Game
“Cat! Where are you? Cat!” There was no reply. Little Edmure continued looking for his sister. Maybe Cat was with Lysa, hugging her while Lysa cried about some silly thing or another. Lysa was older than Edmure, but much more of a baby than him, Edmure thought.
“Lysa! Lysa!” But Lysa was nowhere to be seen either. Edmure looked and looked, to no avail.
Petyr, he thought. Lysa would follow Petyr around while Petyr followed Cat around. It was like a game of tag, but with more tears and cross words. Wherever Petyr was, Edmure’s sisters were sure to be there as well. He ran out to the meadows. They were not there. He climbed the elm tree he was not supposed to climb anymore after he fell and broke his arm that last time, but he could not see them even from this high up.
After he fell and broke his arm, Cat had made him promise never to climb trees ever again. Any tree, not just the one he fell from. Edmure had promised his sister because Cat looked so sad and in pain, as though she was the one with the broken bones, but sometimes he forgot his promise. In any case, he was a boy and boys climbed trees, that's all there was to it, Petyr had said. Telling boys not to climb trees was like telling them not to breathe. Edmure usually paid no mind to Petyr, but Petyr was a boy too and he was fun to play with. Sometimes. When he was not mooning over Cat like a silly cow.
Finally, Edmure gave up looking for his sisters and made his way to the godswood. He liked spending time in the godswood more than in the sept. There was no septon or septa in the godswood to wag their fingers at him, telling Edmure to be a good boy, preaching to him about the high hopes his lord father had for his one and only son, and how Edmure must never disappoint his father, because disappointing his father was akin to disappointing the gods.
He heard giggles in the godswood. Lysa’s giggle. But Cat’s too. Cat was giggling? That did not happen often. Sometimes Cat would laugh when Edmure made funny voices while she was reading him a bedtime story, but otherwise Cat was too often almost as solemn as Father.
Petyr was with them. He was sweating heavily. His hands were on Cat’s shoulders, holding on so tightly Edmure thought he was going to hurt her. Edmure stepped forward. “Leave her alone! Leave my sister alone,” he was about to say, when Cat suddenly brought her face closer to Petyr’s face. She did not look upset or angry. What were they doing? Edmure was puzzled. He tried to get a better look, but he was worried that his sisters would catch a glimpse of him and scold him for spying on them.
“Your breath smells of mint,” Edmure heard Cat saying to Petyr.
Petyr was smiling, a huge grin on his small face. “Did you like it?” he asked Cat, boldly.
Cat did not reply. She turned to Lysa and said, “Your turn.”
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QUOTE SWAP: Lysa Tully + “You have been disappointing me for years, Father.”
She was calm. She was not trembling, as she usually was in her father’s presence. “I love him,” she declared, head held high.
“Are you a complete and utter fool?! He took advantage of you. He used you.”
Her father’s roar shook her. Digging her nails into her palm to stop the trembling, Lysa replied, “I went to him. Willingly.”
Cat, Petyr had called out. Dearest Cat. Cat. Always Cat. But Lysa didn’t care. She had been the one in his bed, not Catelyn.
“He is nothing! That ungrateful boy, thinking to raise himself by –“
“He loves me too,” she insisted. He did. She knew he did, despite him never saying it out loud. She had made him forget his precious Cat. Lysa, she had whispered in his ear. Drunken or asleep, he could still hear her, she was convinced of it. Lysa. Lysa. Lysa. Only Lysa.
Only one, Petyr. There is only one woman for you. Only me. No one else.
She knew that look on her father’s face, the one that cut her to the bones more sharply than his anger. He sighed. “You disappoint me, Lysa. My daughters should know their own worth. A daughter of House Tully is not for the likes of Petyr Baelish.”
You have been disappointing me for years, Father. He never loved her the way he loved Cat. Will you wait for me, little Cat? he would say, every time he rode off from the castle. Your lady mother would have been so proud to see how well you have grown, dearest Cat.
Dearest Cat. Cat, Cat, Cat. Always Cat. Never Lysa.
“You would have forgiven Catelyn this.”
“Your sister would never have been this foolish, this reckless. She is always mindful of her duty. What were you thinking?”
Someone for me. Someone just for me, Father. Someone to love me. Only me.
“It is done now,” she said, defiantly. “You have no choice except to agree to the wedding. No one else will have me, Father, not with Petyr’s child growing in my womb.”
“Lysa,” he called out, his voice breaking. “Lysa. What have you done?”
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Hoster Tully & Lysa Tully, shame
She will never know, he tries convincing himself. Lysa will never know the truth. Miscarriages are not uncommon after all. His beloved Minisa suffered miscarriages of her own, and there was nothing induced or unnatural about any of them.
"It's a tonic," he tells her, his eyes not quite meeting her gaze, "for your health." He drops his gaze even lower, as he adds, “And the babe's health.”
She takes it, takes it and drinks it, because despite her one colossal act of defiance, deep down she is still a good girl, the girl who wants to please her father, who does not want to disappoint him even more, who looks at him with trusting eyes still. The girl who is surprised, gratified and grateful that her father still cares about her health, about her, even after she had defied his wish.
The girl who would never suspect that her father -
"Thank you, Father," she says, eyes brimming with tears, but her father does not see this, turning away too quickly.
How could you? The accusing voice is not Lysa's, but Minisa's. Our daughter. She is our daughter.
I have no choice! Jon Arryn would take a soiled girl as the price for my army, but that proud man would never have agreed to raise another man's bastard. What would happen to Lysa then? What kind of life would she have? Marriage to one of my household knights would be the best she could hope for. Shamed! She would be shamed and ridiculed. This is the only way. The only way to save her from everlasting shame.
Is it truly her shame that concerns you, Father, or your own? It is Catelyn's voice accusing him this time, Catelyn who knows nothing of this, Catelyn who will never know what her father did, he vows.
Her shame is my shame. And Tully's shame. Those things are inseparable, just like family, duty and honor are inseparable.
I will never forgive you, Father. It is finally Lysa's voice, accusing him. I will go to my grave not forgiving you.
You will go to your grave as the honored Lady Arryn, with no one else knowing your darkest secret and your greatest shame.
It is not my greatest shame, it is yours. You will go to your grave regretting the day your murdered your daughter in all the ways that really mattered.
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Hoster Tully & Edmure Tully, pride
He is precious, so very precious, he is told every day, by his nursemaid, by his father, by Catelyn, even by Lysa when she could be bothered to stop mooning over Littlefinger. When he falls down the elm tree and breaks his arm, his father orders the tree to be cut down immediately. Only his vehement protestation and solemn promise that he will never, ever climb the tree again manage to change Father’s mind.
When he is ill, the whole castle is thrown into mourning. Footsteps echo in the silent halls. Voices are never raised above a whisper. His father broods and paces the floor, peppering the maester with questions after questions. When the fever finally breaks, his father showers him with kisses and embraces him as if he has accomplished some incredible feat, like defeating a dragon or rescuing a maiden. “My precious boy,’ Father says. “I am so proud of my boy.”
His namedays are celebrated in a far grander fashion than his sisters’, grander than even Lord Hoster’s own namedays. It never occurs to him to wonder why he is so very precious; he takes it all in stride, indulgently, as his due, as Edmure’s due, until the day Littlefinger scoffs at that notion.
They have been quarreling, that is the beginning of it. He mocks Littlefinger for always mooning over Catelyn, saying, “She doesn’t really like you. She’s only nice to you because she’s Cat, and Cat is always nice to everyone. You’re not so special.”
Littlefinger swiftly retaliates with, “And you’re not so precious. You’re only precious to your father because you’re his heir. It’s not because you’re you. It’s not because you’re oh-so-precious Edmure. It’s only because you’re lucky enough to be born the only son of Lord Tully. If someone else is the heir, he would be just as precious to your father and your sisters and everyone else in the castle, and you would be nothing.”
Indignant, he shouts, “Father says he is proud of me. Me! He is proud of his only boy.”
“Only boy. He has no choice but to be proud of you,” Littlefinger sneers. “Your good fortune is the result of mere birth, not because of anything you have ever accomplished yourself.”
He gets his revenge on Littlefinger for this later, when he offers to squire for Brandon Stark during that stupid duel. He cares not a whit for Brandon Stark, who laughs too loudly and shows too much teeth when he smiles, who talks and acts as if Catelyn already belongs to him, but there is still the satisfaction of showing Littlefinger up. And yet, Littlefinger’s words linger still in his mind. Littlefinger’s defeat at Brandon Stark’s hand and his subsequent banishment from Riverrun do not erase the doubt growing in Edmure’s mind.
Are you truly proud of me, Father? He is too afraid to ask, uncertain of the answer.
Tell Father I have gone to make him proud. I mean to give him a better reason to be proud of me than mere birth, he says to his sister Catelyn, but not to his father, not until it is too late.
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Edmure Tully & Brynden Tully, practice
My much-missed uncle,
My lord father (and your dearest brother) has asked to be remembered in your warmest recollection. Absence does make the heart grow fonder, as my young and innocent self tried to reassure you before your departure to the Vale. Absence, and the constant stream of praises and sweet words about your good self, uncle, coming from the mouth of Lord Hoster’s only son and heir. I am full of joy to have done you this service, in the hope that during my time of need, you will be kind enough to return the favor.
My wayward nephew,
Brother Hoster never asked to be remembered even during my time in the privy! If this is your notion of deceiving, nephew, then you still have much to learn about the art of lying. Strange, for I could have sworn you have had enough practice in the matter, proficient as you were as a boy in deceiving Cat with imaginary injuries and illnesses so as to gather her full attention only for yourself.
Pray tell, who is the woman my redoubtable brother has forced you to wed? One of Walder Frey’s comely daughters, perhaps? You are sorely mistaken if you believe my assistance would in any way be helpful to get you out of this pickle of a predicament. Your father would sooner listen to a serpent whispering in his ear than to his own brother when it comes to the subject of matrimony.
Ser Brynden,
Shame, good ser! Shame on you for your lack of faith in the poor, motherless boy who used to follow you around like a loyal dog following its master, the unfortunate half-orphan you taught archery, sword-fighting and the art of manhood, the young boy who unashamedly shed tears at your departure from Riverrun.
It is not one of Lord Frey’s daughters. Even my lord father could not have been that cruel, not to his only son and heir. He has not yet decided on the identity of the lucky lady, but wed I must, and soon, he has declared.
Ser Edmure,
Well, you have been practicing diligently in one matter. Blackmail! Emotional blackmail of the most naked and shameless kind. I will remind you, ser, that I am not one of your sisters. I will not cry out in anguish or shed a torrent of tears at your pretend anguish or the memory of your boyhood self.
If the lady in question has no obvious defects or inadequacies you could object to, I’m afraid I do not see a way out, my boy. A lord’s younger brother might defy the lord in matters of marriages and alliances so long as he is willing to live his life in exile, away from home, hearth and family, but a lord’s heir (and the only son to boot), does not have the same luxury. Blame it on the accidents of birth, or the cruelty of fate that took your lady mother before she could give my brother another living son, but in this matter, you have less of a choice than I did.
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Edmure Tully at the gallows
They brought him out every morning to the gallows, before the sun had fully risen. Ryman Frey himself would make a big show of putting the noose around Edmure’s neck, all the while shouting and hollering, his voice rising and rising.
“Yield! Yield the castle or your nephew dies!”
The Blackfish paid him no mind, and Ryman Frey’s hands never actually tightened the noose. Edmure wanted nothing more than to close his eyes, but he kept them wide open. His people must not see him afraid.
But he was afraid. Forgive me, Father, for not being braver.
He had plenty of time to think, before they took him away from the gallows each evening. More time than he ever had in his life. More time than he ever wished for.
A better man would have wished for death, Edmure thought. After everything.
What should I do, Cat? Tell me. Please. I will listen to you now, as I never did before.
He could not say her name, even in his head, without wanting to scream. His sister was being butchered with her eldest son while he … while he …
Say it! It was his father’s angry and disappointed voice Edmure heard in his head. While you were busy fucking the Frey girl. But it could not have been his father; Hoster Tully would not have used those words. And Hoster Tully never showed his disappointment with his only son with words, loud or otherwise. A look, a sigh, that was his way.
Cat said he called out my name at the end, but I was not with him. The shame and regret were still with Edmure. He had meant to make his father proud, yet he now had the dishonor of being the Tully who lost Riverrun.
“Roslin must have been quite something, if she could make you deaf to the sound of your sister screaming and losing her mind,” one of the assorted Frey men had taunted Edmure the day before, while he stood at the gallows waiting for Ryman Frey’s mummer’s farce to end.
“Maybe Roslin was screaming too, at the sight of your pitiful and floppy manhood,” another Frey had said, laughing rowdily.
“It could not have been that floppy. He put a babe inside her,” yet another Frey man replied.
A child. He was going to be a father. Would Walder Frey allow a Tully to keep growing in his daughter’s belly? There were ways, Edmure knew. Or was it too late for that?
He prayed fervently that it was.
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Edmure Tully/Roslin Frey, three-sentence fic, business rivals AU
“If you value tradition and respectability, then Tully Inc. is the firm to do business with, not Frey & Sons with their suspicious dealings and barely legal money-making schemes,” Edmure is fond of repeating this creed to every potential client.
“And why in holy hell is it called Frey & Sons in the first place I will never understand,” Edmure grumbles often to anyone who would care to listen (and even to those who don’t, who find his whining and grumbling very tedious and a great bore, frankly), “when the person truly in charge is the daughter, the only one with brains in that family.”
“Perhaps what you truly resent is the fact that your own father did not name his firm Tully & Son, Mr Tully,” Roslin Frey retorts on one occasion, and instead of going red in the face with barely suppressed fury, Edmure Tully actually smiles and looks at Ms Frey in a different light altogether, telling her in an intimate tone, “Call me Edmure, please, I insist.”
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Edmure Tully/Roslin Frey, three-sentence fic, high school AU
How lucky she is, wallflower Roslin, inconsequential Roslin with her horrible father and her embarrassing family, to be dating a boy as popular as Edmure; that’s what everyone in school is thinking. It doesn’t matter a whit to Roslin, for she knows that Edmure’s bravado is mostly empty bluster, hiding a mountain of self-doubt and the suspicion that he is forever the butt of some cruel cosmic joke. Edmure suspects that people are laughing at him behind his back, and he cares too much about it, while Roslin knows for a fact that people laugh at her and her family, and she cares very little about the whole thing.
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Hoster Tully & Catelyn Tully, tell me
You are your mother’s daughter. Lysa has my stubbornness and my insistence on having my way in most things. Edmure has my pride and my temper. But you, Cat, you have your mother’s calmness, her serene way of taking in the chaos of the world and building a nest of tranquility in it, despite that chaos, despite all the uncertainties.
Perhaps that is why you have always been my favorite. You would disapprove, of course, had you known, just like your mother would have disapproved, had she lived. A father (or a mother, for that matter) is not supposed to have favorites. But I do. Oh how I do!
Brandon Stark was a great match from a great House. I wanted that for you. I wanted great things for you, Cat. It was not all for the greater glory of House Tully and Hoster Tully, despite what your uncle may wish to believe.
Brandon made you laugh. My serious, solemn daughter, weighed down by duty and responsibility beyond her years, laughing, smiling, and blushing just like any other shy maiden.
I never asked you what you wanted. You never wanted that horrid, ungrateful Baelish boy, did you? You were better than that, I always knew you were. My daughters should know their own worth. I tried to teach Lysa that, but it was too late by then.
Tell me that he has made you happy, Cat. Brandon’s solemn younger brother, as weighed down by duty and responsibility as you are. Tell me that Ned Stark has made you happy, child.
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Catelyn Tully/Ned Stark
“Stubborn as river rocks, that's what Father used to grumble about Edmure when he was a boy. Edmure took it as a jape. He'd pick up one rock after another, asking our father, 'Which rock, Father? This one? Or this one?' Father always laughed, in the end, no matter how wroth he was with Edmure to begin with.”
Ned smiled. “And you, Catelyn? Were you as stubborn as river rocks, when you were a girl?”
“I did not have the luxury to be stubborn.” She had duties and responsibilities. She had expectations to be met, failures to be avoided. She had the combined weight of a lord without his lady, a castle without its mistress and two younger siblings without their mother resting on her shoulders.
I could not have done without you, Cat, her father had often said. That was his way of saying, I love you, Cat.
“Could you do without me?” she asked Ned.
“No,” he replied, his eyes never leaving hers. “Not even for a day.”
She kissed him. The old doubt came rearing its head again, whispering, ever so softly – What about her? What about that boy's mother? - so she kissed him one more time, a harder, more lingering kiss this time.
“I'm with child again,” she told him, resting her head on his chest.
Overjoyed, he kissed her forehead before saying, “A sister for Sansa, perhaps. They will be as close as twins.”
“Or as different as the sun and the moon,” Catelyn said, recalling her own girlhood and her own sister. “But no matter how similar or different they turn out to be, each could not do without the other.”
“Not even for a day,” Ned added.
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Catelyn Tully/Stannis Baratheon, three-sentence fic, Regency AU
The ball was for Lysa, to find a husband for Lysa Tully and not her older sister Catelyn who had buried one husband and one fiancé already in her young life, and who had to endure the whispers of – “She’s cursed, that’s what she is, those poor Stark boys never had a chance!” – never mind that Brandon Stark had died as a result of a reckless duel, and Eddard Stark had died honorably serving his country in the army, and neither of those things could be said to be Catelyn’s fault at all.
So when Stannis Baratheon asked Catelyn Stark for the honor of dancing with her (not that he had put it quite like that, for it was well-known in London society that the second Baratheon brother was very deficient in manners and courtesies, unlike his two highly-eligible brothers Robert and Renly), faces were turned and tongues started wagging, wondering if this meant that another poor soul would soon depart to meet his Maker.
“Well, I suppose Lord Tully’s eldest daughter is still a catch, even with her careless habit of losing husbands and fiancés, and it is not as if Stannis Baratheon could expect a brilliant match any time soon, the poor dear, so grim and unsociable isn’t he, so unlike his brothers and his dear departed Papa,” a society matron was heard speculating with the ladies around her.
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Catelyn Tully/Stannis Baratheon, three-sentence fic, legal AU
He told her that a civil suit might be a waste of time and money, that not every case resembled the O.J. Simpson's case where you could be found not guilty in criminal court but then judged to be guilty in civil proceeding, and that Tywin Lannister would not hesitate to use his money and influence for the second time to ensure that his son would never be held responsible for Ned Stark’s murder, not even in civil court.
“You’ve changed, Stannis,” Catelyn said, her tone wavering between disappointment and anger, “the old you would never have been concerned about Tywin Lannister and what he could do, only with justice.”
I am not as certain as you are how justice would be served in this case, nor am I as convinced of Tyrion Lannister’s guilt as you are, he thought of telling her, but he was her lawyer and she his client, and the days when they could speak openly and honestly with each other was long gone, since the day she chose Ned Stark over him.
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Catelyn Tully/Stannis Baratheon, five-sentence fic, vampire AU
He was the one who taught her that decapitation was the best method; that a stake through the heart only worked to immobilize the undead, not destroy them.
“My daughter … keep her safe, even from her own father if need be … promise me, Cat,” he had asked of her then.
Do your duty, his eyes were begging her now.
She remembered the man he once was, wept for the boy she once loved, and did her duty.
Like Stannis, Catelyn has always done her duty.