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Ain't That A Fish To The Head?
- Thread starter Ophelia
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Ophelia
unpleasant
Not many stories start with a concussion but mine did. It wasn't even a "cool" concussion either; I fell out of bed. Alarm went off, I reached over to crush my phone into a fine paste with my bare hands, and I hit the floor. Not a great way to start the morning but nothing too bad, right? The kind of thing you're concerned about for a few minutes before you pick yourself up and start worrying about your real problems like politics or what kind of sandwich you should have for lunch. But it must've been the angle, must've been the force, must've been magic because I was gone. Out like a light, they say, but that's too pretty of a way to put it. It was more like being hit by a freight train; it was messy, painful, and immediate. It felt like I was a barely alive smear on the side of the road, something for drivers to gawk at briefly before their eyes slid away, something for Animal Control to scrape up.
I didn't really expect to wake up. To be honest, I was kind of hoping that I wouldn't. I'd be strapped to a hospital bed, tubes and wires sticking in and out of me, and have to pay a bill longer than my arm because my insurance company would weasel its way out of covering me. Sure, it hurt. It hurt like Hell. But medical debt? That'd be agony.
I wasn't suicidal, I swear. Honest. I wasn't making a lot of money; working with kids is rewarding but surprisingly undercompensated. I had two roommates who never paid rent, and the water bill kept going up for a mysterious reason only hinted at by the growing blue mold on the bathroom wall. My life was a mess, sure, but it was mine. I had a roof over my head, two meals a day, and that most holiest of holies - indoor plumbing. God, I miss indoor plumbing.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. Where were we? Oh, yeah. Bump on the noggin, out like a light, wondering if everything is alright. (Ha.)
Well, I did wake up. Wait, that's too definitive of a word. Maybe I "slowly regained consciousness" would be better. I didn't come back all at once; I can tell you that much.
The first thing I noticed was the smell. It wasn't exactly a bad smell, faintly floral and dark heavy wood, but it wasn't my smell. If you've ever woken up in a hotel, momentarily confused by how nice and clean everything is, you'll understand.
I remember coiling up and kicking away something thick, woven, and heavy. Maybe even a bit itchy. There was my sense of touch. Everything just felt wrong, like I was two molecules out of place with the rest of the world. Everything'd... shifted, and I hadn't.
"Wake up!" A shrill, reedy voice cried out.
Oh, there came my sense of hearing. How delightful for it to pop back in right when someone was screaming in my ear. Good show, 'ol chap. Good show. 10/10, no notes.
Let's just say that I could taste things. You really, really don't want me to describe that. The best way I can put it is... well, have you ever had a drunk cat vomit in your mouth? If so, I pity you but if not, imagine that with a sprinkle of urine, a touch of that taste you get brushing your teeth after drinking OJ, and a whisper of BO. Five star dining, it was not.
Sight came waddling up to the finish line, dead last, and my eyes burned when the light hit them. It was candlelight, somewhere off to my left, but it was bright enough to make me wince. I briefly wondered if I had had a brain bleed and had been dumped in an alley after the paramedics couldn't find any cash on me. (Suckers. I kept my wallet under my bed at night, just like grandma taught me.) I blinked away the pain reluctantly, stretching my neck and head to try and find a comfortable position on what must've been the hardest pillow known to man.
"How're you feeling?" The voice from before asked me.
"Pretty okie-dokie," I replied, my mouth and throat bone dry. "Water, please."
They placed a cool, metal cup at my lips, and I got one sip in before letting it dribble out of my mouth. It tasted... dusty, earthy, old; it tasted every way water shouldn't. I shook my head, shut my eyes.
"Better water," I said. "Please."
The voice (or, more likely, the person behind the voice) chuckled. It was deeper than it was before, and I heard the ambient buzzing and humming start to settle. The voice spoke again, in what I could only assume what its true pitch and frequency.
"Get her some cider," it said deeply. "Tap a barrel, if you have to."
I wiggled my nose and tentatively opened one eye, then the other. Apple cider? Was it Thanksgiving? Halloween?Columbus Day? Uh, scratch that. Indigenous Peoples' Day? It'd been early April last time I'd checked, just before taxes were due. (I, like every American adult, had the date April 15th tattooed on the inside of my eyelids.) Maybe spooky season had come early this year... really early.
Someone laid a moist, cool rag against my forehead, and I blinked past the droplets of water forming on my eyelashes to see... to see... Well, someone I didn't recognize. That much was a given. I doubt Aunt Patricia would fly in from Peru to be at my bedside and God knows where my brother was (probably in the drunk tank at Circus Circus). I wasn't really expecting the medieval get-up, though.
Ok, full disclosure, I'm kind of a history buff... if history buffs only knew one or two things about history and could instead only say, "Well, I think that's off" without really being able to say why. Anyways, I'd seen, like, all the seasons of The Tudors, I'd read Phillipa Gregory, I'd been to Medieval Times twice, and I'd spent three days in college researching medieval footwear so I could accurately describe the stupid-looking pointy shoes they wore (poulaines, if you're curious), so I had a vague idea that what this person was wearing was a little weird.
To get it out of the way, he was a guy, maybe about my dad's age. Ok, I could believe that middle-aged pudgy white men existed in just about any point in history. But he had on this... this cloak, red and blue, with an absolutely absurd fish brooch pinning it to his left shoulder. I mean, a fish, really? All the dudes I'd seen walking around at the Ren Faire at least had, like, dragons or eagles or (one time) a kickin' rad wizard with a bong as their symbol. A fish (maybe a trout, maybe a salmon) was a little lame. I suppose middle-aged men do love to fish (and, oh, how the fish fear them). It could've been a Bass Pro Shop thing - branding, you know?
He was also wearing pants. Not so unusual, you say? Ha, think again! Everyone knows that ye olde medievale people-y wore those puffy pantaloons... or dresses. Tunics? Is that what a man's dress is called? Anyways, he was wearing wool pants, dyed dark, and a pair of nice leather boots besides. (As I previously mentioned, poulaines were in style in ye olde dayes... at least in the vague period between 500 CE - 1600 CE called "the Middle Ages." I was ninety percent sure of that.)
His face was kind, his eyes blue and his red hair run through with streaks of grey. He looked absolutely nothing like my dad... but he also looked like a dad, if you know what I mean. He looked like he'd picked up toys, gone to choir recitals, tried to braid his daughter's hair or get his son to turn off that racket. His clothes might've been a little funny but he was one-hundred percent a father. Question was, whose father was he?
"Hello," I said, familiar words in a foreign voice.
I gasped, bit my tongue, and massaged my throat for a moment as if I could tease out my real voice. I spoke again, slower this time, but the result was the same.
"Hello," I said, clicking each syllable against the roof of my mouth. "Uh, who are you, exactly? Where am I?"
The man frowned, and I felt a shudder roll down my spine. Oh, he looked just like a dad alright, had the "I'm disappointed" face down pat.
"You must still be feverish," he said. "I'll have the maester bring in a few more leeches."
I screamed, a squeal more like it.
"Uh, uh, uh," I said, trying to gather my thoughts. "N-Nope! No need for that! No leeches, please. No 'masters' neither."
(I briefly wondered if that implied some kind of strange S&M relationship going on but decided not to pry.)
The man cocked his eyebrow but didn't say anything else. A warm trickle ran down the back of my neck, and I was glad it'd stayed north of the border, if you get me.
My eyes flitted around the room. I was in a huge four-poster bed, curtains and all, and against a wall. (Since the others were made of stone, I assumed that one was too.) There was a high, glazed window on my left, narrow and near the ceiling, and an oak door to my right. The man was standing over me, what must've been his chair pushed away from my bed, and was directly between me and (escape) the door. The only other furniture was a low wooden table with a candle to my left, just out of reach unless I shuffled closer.
The man tracked my eyes around the room but when I settled back on him, he smiled.
"Just rest a little longer, child," he said. "I'll send the maester up in a while. No leeches, though, I promise."
He laughed, and I couldn't help but chuckle nervously. As the man got up to leave, I grabbed the edge of his fish cape-thing.
"Um," I began before picking up again. "Do you... Do you have a mirror? Anything like that?"
The man nodded and moved over to the low table on my left. He pulled something shiny out of a drawer, and I was surprised that it wasn't glass but a highly polished plate of bronze.
"Ah, young maids and their mirrors," he said as he left the room. "Could there be a better match?"
I didn't hear the door close; I was too busy looking at my reflection. Well, I say my reflection. It was more like... the reflection of this face I was wearing. I pushed and prodded along my nose, my cheekbones, under my chin, trying to shape it all back into place like my face was made of Play-Dough. A stranger looked back at me, her eyes wide and full of fear. I dropped the mirror and screamed.
Well, maybe that was why it wasn't made of glass.
I didn't really expect to wake up. To be honest, I was kind of hoping that I wouldn't. I'd be strapped to a hospital bed, tubes and wires sticking in and out of me, and have to pay a bill longer than my arm because my insurance company would weasel its way out of covering me. Sure, it hurt. It hurt like Hell. But medical debt? That'd be agony.
I wasn't suicidal, I swear. Honest. I wasn't making a lot of money; working with kids is rewarding but surprisingly undercompensated. I had two roommates who never paid rent, and the water bill kept going up for a mysterious reason only hinted at by the growing blue mold on the bathroom wall. My life was a mess, sure, but it was mine. I had a roof over my head, two meals a day, and that most holiest of holies - indoor plumbing. God, I miss indoor plumbing.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. Where were we? Oh, yeah. Bump on the noggin, out like a light, wondering if everything is alright. (Ha.)
Well, I did wake up. Wait, that's too definitive of a word. Maybe I "slowly regained consciousness" would be better. I didn't come back all at once; I can tell you that much.
The first thing I noticed was the smell. It wasn't exactly a bad smell, faintly floral and dark heavy wood, but it wasn't my smell. If you've ever woken up in a hotel, momentarily confused by how nice and clean everything is, you'll understand.
I remember coiling up and kicking away something thick, woven, and heavy. Maybe even a bit itchy. There was my sense of touch. Everything just felt wrong, like I was two molecules out of place with the rest of the world. Everything'd... shifted, and I hadn't.
"Wake up!" A shrill, reedy voice cried out.
Oh, there came my sense of hearing. How delightful for it to pop back in right when someone was screaming in my ear. Good show, 'ol chap. Good show. 10/10, no notes.
Let's just say that I could taste things. You really, really don't want me to describe that. The best way I can put it is... well, have you ever had a drunk cat vomit in your mouth? If so, I pity you but if not, imagine that with a sprinkle of urine, a touch of that taste you get brushing your teeth after drinking OJ, and a whisper of BO. Five star dining, it was not.
Sight came waddling up to the finish line, dead last, and my eyes burned when the light hit them. It was candlelight, somewhere off to my left, but it was bright enough to make me wince. I briefly wondered if I had had a brain bleed and had been dumped in an alley after the paramedics couldn't find any cash on me. (Suckers. I kept my wallet under my bed at night, just like grandma taught me.) I blinked away the pain reluctantly, stretching my neck and head to try and find a comfortable position on what must've been the hardest pillow known to man.
"How're you feeling?" The voice from before asked me.
"Pretty okie-dokie," I replied, my mouth and throat bone dry. "Water, please."
They placed a cool, metal cup at my lips, and I got one sip in before letting it dribble out of my mouth. It tasted... dusty, earthy, old; it tasted every way water shouldn't. I shook my head, shut my eyes.
"Better water," I said. "Please."
The voice (or, more likely, the person behind the voice) chuckled. It was deeper than it was before, and I heard the ambient buzzing and humming start to settle. The voice spoke again, in what I could only assume what its true pitch and frequency.
"Get her some cider," it said deeply. "Tap a barrel, if you have to."
I wiggled my nose and tentatively opened one eye, then the other. Apple cider? Was it Thanksgiving? Halloween?
Someone laid a moist, cool rag against my forehead, and I blinked past the droplets of water forming on my eyelashes to see... to see... Well, someone I didn't recognize. That much was a given. I doubt Aunt Patricia would fly in from Peru to be at my bedside and God knows where my brother was (probably in the drunk tank at Circus Circus). I wasn't really expecting the medieval get-up, though.
Ok, full disclosure, I'm kind of a history buff... if history buffs only knew one or two things about history and could instead only say, "Well, I think that's off" without really being able to say why. Anyways, I'd seen, like, all the seasons of The Tudors, I'd read Phillipa Gregory, I'd been to Medieval Times twice, and I'd spent three days in college researching medieval footwear so I could accurately describe the stupid-looking pointy shoes they wore (poulaines, if you're curious), so I had a vague idea that what this person was wearing was a little weird.
To get it out of the way, he was a guy, maybe about my dad's age. Ok, I could believe that middle-aged pudgy white men existed in just about any point in history. But he had on this... this cloak, red and blue, with an absolutely absurd fish brooch pinning it to his left shoulder. I mean, a fish, really? All the dudes I'd seen walking around at the Ren Faire at least had, like, dragons or eagles or (one time) a kickin' rad wizard with a bong as their symbol. A fish (maybe a trout, maybe a salmon) was a little lame. I suppose middle-aged men do love to fish (and, oh, how the fish fear them). It could've been a Bass Pro Shop thing - branding, you know?
He was also wearing pants. Not so unusual, you say? Ha, think again! Everyone knows that ye olde medievale people-y wore those puffy pantaloons... or dresses. Tunics? Is that what a man's dress is called? Anyways, he was wearing wool pants, dyed dark, and a pair of nice leather boots besides. (As I previously mentioned, poulaines were in style in ye olde dayes... at least in the vague period between 500 CE - 1600 CE called "the Middle Ages." I was ninety percent sure of that.)
His face was kind, his eyes blue and his red hair run through with streaks of grey. He looked absolutely nothing like my dad... but he also looked like a dad, if you know what I mean. He looked like he'd picked up toys, gone to choir recitals, tried to braid his daughter's hair or get his son to turn off that racket. His clothes might've been a little funny but he was one-hundred percent a father. Question was, whose father was he?
"Hello," I said, familiar words in a foreign voice.
I gasped, bit my tongue, and massaged my throat for a moment as if I could tease out my real voice. I spoke again, slower this time, but the result was the same.
"Hello," I said, clicking each syllable against the roof of my mouth. "Uh, who are you, exactly? Where am I?"
The man frowned, and I felt a shudder roll down my spine. Oh, he looked just like a dad alright, had the "I'm disappointed" face down pat.
"You must still be feverish," he said. "I'll have the maester bring in a few more leeches."
I screamed, a squeal more like it.
"Uh, uh, uh," I said, trying to gather my thoughts. "N-Nope! No need for that! No leeches, please. No 'masters' neither."
(I briefly wondered if that implied some kind of strange S&M relationship going on but decided not to pry.)
The man cocked his eyebrow but didn't say anything else. A warm trickle ran down the back of my neck, and I was glad it'd stayed north of the border, if you get me.
My eyes flitted around the room. I was in a huge four-poster bed, curtains and all, and against a wall. (Since the others were made of stone, I assumed that one was too.) There was a high, glazed window on my left, narrow and near the ceiling, and an oak door to my right. The man was standing over me, what must've been his chair pushed away from my bed, and was directly between me and (escape) the door. The only other furniture was a low wooden table with a candle to my left, just out of reach unless I shuffled closer.
The man tracked my eyes around the room but when I settled back on him, he smiled.
"Just rest a little longer, child," he said. "I'll send the maester up in a while. No leeches, though, I promise."
He laughed, and I couldn't help but chuckle nervously. As the man got up to leave, I grabbed the edge of his fish cape-thing.
"Um," I began before picking up again. "Do you... Do you have a mirror? Anything like that?"
The man nodded and moved over to the low table on my left. He pulled something shiny out of a drawer, and I was surprised that it wasn't glass but a highly polished plate of bronze.
"Ah, young maids and their mirrors," he said as he left the room. "Could there be a better match?"
I didn't hear the door close; I was too busy looking at my reflection. Well, I say my reflection. It was more like... the reflection of this face I was wearing. I pushed and prodded along my nose, my cheekbones, under my chin, trying to shape it all back into place like my face was made of Play-Dough. A stranger looked back at me, her eyes wide and full of fear. I dropped the mirror and screamed.
Well, maybe that was why it wasn't made of glass.
Interesting.
We still don't know if the isekai protagonist has read ASOIAF and thus will have some foreknowledge.
Nor do we know when in the timeline this is, though it must be before the wedding to Jon Arryn, and the lack of recognition of an age change suggests that Lysa is at least well into puberty. (As our protagonist was at least a young adult).
So somewhere between the Tourney at Harrenhall and the wedding seems likely. If it's around the tourney of Harrenhall, then Lysa would be fifteen or so, which seems a little unusual that the age difference wasn't noticed yet. Age 16 being before the Rebellion starts is a little better. If the marriage took place towards the end of the war (which I believe it did, just before the battle at the Trident) that means Lysa might be as old as 17, though just barely if that.
... Actually, I suppose it might be possible that this Lysa is after the marriage, but before the war ends and she goes to join Jon Arryn at Kings Landing.
Either of those spots in the timeline has implications.
The earlier date at the tourney of Harrenhall could change things significantly. Probably no Littlfinger dalliance, and thus no child, and thus not the same amount of pressure to marry Jon Arryn. Still going to be some pressure though. Other things could change as well. If there is a desire for significant timeline changes then this is the place to be.
Before the wedding, means she's probably already gotten pregnant and had a (induced) miscarriage. That's several layers of violation to deal with. Not to mention being forced to wed Jon Arryn, which the isekai is not going to be happy about, though perhaps not as unhappy as canon Lysa.
If she is already married then that means she has to deal with much heavier baggage about taking responsibility for Lysa's choices. She will probably not know anything about the unwed pregnancy, but will still also be upset about suddenly being married without any say in the matter - though she also would not be able to blame anyone, since she got stuck in this body and it's not like Hoster had a motive to do that (nor the means).
We still don't know if the isekai protagonist has read ASOIAF and thus will have some foreknowledge.
Nor do we know when in the timeline this is, though it must be before the wedding to Jon Arryn, and the lack of recognition of an age change suggests that Lysa is at least well into puberty. (As our protagonist was at least a young adult).
So somewhere between the Tourney at Harrenhall and the wedding seems likely. If it's around the tourney of Harrenhall, then Lysa would be fifteen or so, which seems a little unusual that the age difference wasn't noticed yet. Age 16 being before the Rebellion starts is a little better. If the marriage took place towards the end of the war (which I believe it did, just before the battle at the Trident) that means Lysa might be as old as 17, though just barely if that.
... Actually, I suppose it might be possible that this Lysa is after the marriage, but before the war ends and she goes to join Jon Arryn at Kings Landing.
Either of those spots in the timeline has implications.
The earlier date at the tourney of Harrenhall could change things significantly. Probably no Littlfinger dalliance, and thus no child, and thus not the same amount of pressure to marry Jon Arryn. Still going to be some pressure though. Other things could change as well. If there is a desire for significant timeline changes then this is the place to be.
Before the wedding, means she's probably already gotten pregnant and had a (induced) miscarriage. That's several layers of violation to deal with. Not to mention being forced to wed Jon Arryn, which the isekai is not going to be happy about, though perhaps not as unhappy as canon Lysa.
If she is already married then that means she has to deal with much heavier baggage about taking responsibility for Lysa's choices. She will probably not know anything about the unwed pregnancy, but will still also be upset about suddenly being married without any say in the matter - though she also would not be able to blame anyone, since she got stuck in this body and it's not like Hoster had a motive to do that (nor the means).
Given the guy with the fish brooch, I don't think she's married yet. Actually, it wouldn't surprise me if Fish Brooch Guy is Hoster Tully with all the dad vibes he's giving the SI. This being right after the forced abortion would also fit since that would account for them being in recovery from some illness or other. I can't imagine that a chemically induced miscarriage would be easy on the mother.