Chapter Text
This is so fucking boring, I thought. I wasn't sure if I'd ever been to a funeral or not, because the day prior I'd woken up with no memories, but I supposed I probably had, and it still probably wasn't as dull as this. The royal sept was smoky from the candles and smelled like old sofa cushions.
Before someone gets on my case I think I should explain that when I say 'no memories' I mean 'no relevant memories of my integral life experiences' thus far, not 'no memories of anything, ever' because probably some chucklefuck in my head is going to start prattling on about 'well, you clearly know what a sept is!'. Anyways. No, I did not need the names of nouns recited to me.
I was a pretty straightforward amnesia case, actually. Only, I had the strangest sense that amnesia cases were supposed to wake up in hospitals, surrounded by bright lights and beeping machines. Only we didn't have any of that here. Maybe I had a vivid imagination. A fantastical dreamscape full of wacky inventions and grandiose ideals.
We did not have wacky inventions or grandiose ideals in this sept. There was no beeping machinery or white-coated professionals, unless you count the Kingsguard. Their leader, Ser Barristan, was an old man standing guard over the corpse of another old man. Supposedly that old man was my husband, but I found that a little difficult to believe, because the dead guy was old enough to be my grandfather, easy, and while I do not remember much, I think I have a good sense of my taste in men. Silver fox, he was not.
Granted, I was no supermodel myself, but I found things to enjoy in my appearance. I'd decided that if I hadn't been vain before, I was going to become very vain now. I was a little taller than average, and heavyset, with a plump face and soft hands. I had dark auburn hair, the shade of red-brown so dark it is raven-like in certain lights, and bright blue eyes.
I looked sort of petulant. Pouty. You know, some people just have that expression perpetually. I looked like I was about to complain to the server after my meal was brought out. And my clothes, good grief, I loved my clothes and jewelry. Because I was supposedly a widow now I'd been warned off the bright colors, but I loved this black satin gown and the onyx ring on my finger.
Anyways, I certainly wasn't ugly. I couldn't see why the hell I would have married some old geezer. Maybe I'd been spectacularly poor and he spectacularly rich, but judging from the way people acted around me, I doubted that. There was none of the underlying resentment or pity people used to serving old-money might have for a golddigger.
Maybe I'd been forced into it. I liked the thought of that solely because it made me feel better for not grieving him. Yes. He was some dastardly old villain and he'd coerced me into the whole affair, and now he was dead.
My kid tugged on my hand. "I want to go to bed," he whispered urgently. "I have to pee."
He looked about five or six. He'd tried to nurse from me earlier that day, and had the mother of all tantrums when I told him that door was permanently closed. I figured he just had to get used to it. I didn't know if it was normal to feed your kids that way for so long but I was not into it. If I'd been this nurturing Mother To All type before, I did not feel that way now. The kid was really short and really skinny and his skin kept breaking out in hives.
"I have to pee too," I whispered back to him.
Everyone was whispering. Whisper whisper behind us, whisper whisper in front of us. The whole nine yards. No one was really crying except the King, who was doing that thing really big guys do when they cry and they kind of try to cough it out only it doesn't work so they just start sneezing really loudly. He sneezed so loudly birds in the rafters squawked. If he sneezed like that again I was going to laugh my ass off.
He was this big brute of a man who'd sort of awkwardly took my hand and patted my kid's hair before and went on all about how Jon- my husband- was a hero and like a father to him and the wisest man he knew, etc etc. His wife, the Queen, had taken my hands and given me this look. The look was a weird look. I could not tell if it was sympathetic or suspicious or both. I decided we probably were not friends. She was standing on the other side of the King with their three children.
The littlest one was asleep and the oldest one was licking his finger and sticking it in the littlest one's ear. He looked around to see if anyone saw this nonsense, and saw me, and adopted this look of innocent bewilderment, the look teenage boys get when they know they've got to bullshit their way out of real world consequences. I narrowed my eyes at him, and hissed, "God sees all."
He turned back around super fast.
The rest of the Kingsguard were lined up against the wall like civil servants about to be taken out back and executed, one by one. Completely dead-eyed. They were all ugly as sin except the blonde one who looked just like the Queen.
He was one of those unfairly gorgeous men who you know is probably extremely psychologically complicated due to his beauty. Beautiful people are always a bit deranged because they feel they must justify their existence to the rest of us by being 'complex' and 'profound'. I despised when pretty men attempted to be profound. Punch a hole in the wall and move along, Ser.
Why couldn't my dead husband be complicated and gorgeous? Instead he was complicated and dead. Trust me, the death had all the trademarks of a classic murder case. It was sudden. My maester was acting suspicious. The Queen's maester wouldn't discuss it with me. That sort of thing. I suspected courtly intrigue. Foul secrets. Rank deception. That kind of thing. It was all rather exciting.
You know, if one has to be an amnesiac, it's best to be plunged into a web of mystery. Much better than waking up to some dull suburban life. I didn't even have to cook or clean. Literally all I'd had to do thus far was console my kid, wear beautiful outfits, and cry a lot. I'll have you know, I can cry on command. No doubt I'd put that to excellent use in this fucked up marriage.
Anyways, my goal was clear to me. Discover the truth around my old husband's unnatural demise. Of course, maybe the answer was something boring like 'stroke' or 'syphilis', but I was determined to do my part for this great nation and get to the bottom of this. Besides, who didn't want to help out a grieving widow?
When the sermon was over, I rose from my seat and dragged my kid- Robert, named for the King- with me up to the bier. The corpse smelled like shit. Stones painted with white moons were placed over the eyes. He was dressed in armor and clutched some placeholder sword. Yeah, fucking right. This man was like seventy years old. He probably had not swung a sword in twenty years. What a bunch of stolen valor bullshit.
Exactly what was he the hero of? Apparently he'd led some glorious rebellion against the evil empire or whatever. Or were we the evil empire? It was unclear. Either way, I did not see the point in this self-aggrandizing nonsense. He should be buried clutching a pen or a datebook or something. Secretaries deserve honor and glory too.
I knelt down in front of the bier to pray. My son was doing the 'I have to go potty' dance. "Kneel," I growled at him, and he knelt.
Great, now the old knight was trying to console me.
"Lord Jon was a great Hand, my lady," he said. "I pray that the coming weeks and months lessen the blow of his loss."
"Thank you," I said, keeping my eyes on the dead man.
"Thanks," lisped the kid. He wasn't exactly crying his eyes out either. God, even the thought of me under that old- It did not bear thinking about. But men in their sixties had no business running around having little kids. This was the result. Now Robert was going to have a complex about it. In ten years he'd be lashing out at me and screaming about how it was all my fault because women were the root of all pain in the world. The usual.
When I was done with my very real prayer that I solve this very real crime and be heralded as the first and foremost lady detective in the capital, I dragged Robert back to his seat. The service finished up. A line of guests paraded past me, hugging me and Robert and expressing their condolences.
Some teenage boy who was Jon's squire avoided my gaze and mumbled something, then hurried out. Right on. Suspect number one. Right fucking there. Some short man with graying hair and a little goatee said something like, "We'll speak later." and ruffled Robert's hair. Suspect number two. Got 'em. We'll speak later? Oh, really? Was I about to be called down to the principal's office for poor conduct in the classroom? Did he think that was cute?
Finally, finally, the sept cleared out, save for the Kingsguard and the King.
"The children need their rest, Robert," she said. "You hurried us back from the Westerlands for this, and they are exhausted."
"My apologies for interrupting your travel in order to bury my foster father," he snarled at her. "Who is mere days dead, woman."
She smiled at me as if she had not heard him at all, inclined her head to me, and strode off, her children following like ducklings. Her Kingsguard brother peeled off from his buddies to follow, looking only vaguely less dead-eyed as he left the sept.
"I am sorry," the King said to me. He sounded very uncomfortable apologizing at all. "It has been- it is difficult. Jon was a good man. A strong man, up until the end. He deserved more than this. Tourneys. Parades in his honor." He sighed heavily, and stroked his beard, then said, "Well, you're still young, Lysa. There is that, at least." Then he said, "Now about the boy."
He looked down at little Robert. Little Robert glared up at Big Robert.
"It is high time the boy went to foster," he said. "He is… well, Jon would want what is best for his only son and heir. He needs a break from the city, from court. Less of a womanly influence. Now, Lord Tywin has agreed to take him on as a page at Casterly Rock. He suggested it himself, in fact, and we both know, Lysa, the man rarely makes such offers."
"Oh," I said, and wrapped my arms around Robert. "But Jon wished for Robert to foster with your brother."
"What?" the King scoffed. "When was this decided?"
"His squire says as much. As do the servants."
The King's heavy face darkened. "Stannis should have been here. Whatever business recalled him to Dragonstone, it cannot have been as important as Jon's funeral. This is- no. Why did not Jon not propose such an arrangement to me? Are you sure, Lysa?"
"Very," I said. "I suppose Lord Stannis will have to be contacted…"
The King waved a hand angrily. "I will send a raven. Now that Tywin has made the offer, he will be sore if I refuse him."
"Either way, Robert can't go now," I said.
The King stared at me. "Robert?" Then he laughed. "You only ever called the child Sweetrobin, Lysa!"
"His father is dead," I said. "I prefer his formal name."
Robert the King snorted at that, and said, "And why can he not go?"
"We're in mourning," I said. "I intend to follow the full seven months as prescribed by the septons. It would be crude to send my child to Casterly Rock to serve when he is still mourning his father."
"Seven months is extreme," the King groused, but seemed oddly touched I'd made this dramatic announcement. Maybe he took it as a lavish compliment to Jon. "Well, such matters are beyond you anyways, Lysa. We will sort out this fostering nonsense. Stannis has no right to bark at me about stealing a pageboy from him when he slunk off before the damned burial."
Grumbling, he left the sept as well. The Kingsguard trudged after him, their white armor shining in the candlelight. They looked hideous. There was something unnatural and profane about armor designed to show every speck of dirt and blood.
That left me and Robert and the Silent Sisters, removing Jon's armor and re-wrapping the body in bandages, like a mummy.
"Still have to pee?" I asked Robert.
His lips were trembling. "I hate Lord Tywin. I don't want to go to the Rock. Joffrey said he'd feed me to the lions under it."
"Right," I said, "Well, don't worry about that. You'd be no more than a tidbit. They prefer bigger hunks of meat. And I would never let anyone eat you, anyways."
He wiped at his eyes and nose. "I'm hungry."
"Use the privy first, then I'll get us some dinner," I said, steering him towards the exit.
"I don't want Lord Baelish to eat with us tonight," he said under his breath.
"He won't," I said. "We have much nicer plans."
"Like what?" he whined.
"We're going," I said, and paused for dramatic effect. "To have a picnic in the godswood."
"What?" he sounded shocked.
"Yes. And if anyone asks, it's because the dust indoors is making you break out in hives."
He hiccupped, then said, "Father said Lord Stannis would make a man of me."
"Yeah," I said, taking his hand. "Well. I'll be the judge of that. Fathers don't know everything about little boys. That's why they have mothers, too."
He squeezed my hand, digging his nails into my palms. I squeezed him back, and then, seeing him start to hop around again, said, "Oh, no no, quick, run, the privy is right there! Run!"
He ran. I sighed in relief when he made it, and wished I had a journal on hand. And perhaps a magnifying glass. How else would I signal that I was on the case?