Chapter Text
Into the Old Falcon: A Satirical Self-Insert Story
Chapter One: Insertion
I awoke in pitch darkness--not something I wasn't used to given that in order to get to the crappy retail job, I had to get up at three in the morning to get to work by five, so waking up in complete darkness was nothing new. The pounding on the door however was.
"M'lord!" shouted a woman's voice from the other side of a door.
I'm not a lord. It's a dream, I am in a dream. Must mean I'm close to waking up. Dang and it felt like I'd just fallen asleep too. Come back unending darkness of the unconscious--I miss you.
The pounding continued. Fine, I'll get up. Might as well find some inspiration for a story or a one shot while I'm dreaming, a lot of good plots come to me when I'm dreaming.
"What?" I called. I rose and stumbled to the door which was pounding like one of the various migraines I got every once in a blue moon.
I unlatched the door almost unconsciously--as though I knew where the latches were without having to be told in this darkness. It struck me as odd later, but I had been too tired to think of that in the moment.
Behind the door stood a woman holding an oil lamp for light.
"The midwife sent me, m'lord. The Lady Lysa has delivered a boy." She spoke brokenly and rustically, but the girl, whom for some reason my mind recognized as Brigit, was understandable. I had a son. Definitely a dream--I can see clearly without glasses, that was only true in my dreams.
I'd always wanted to be a father. Hadn't found the right girl yet or married, but then I was working a crappy job that had me up at 3 AM, not much of a catch now was I? Perhaps this dream would ditch the pseudo Game of Thrones look and simply morph into a dream about parenting? Boring, but then we can't always dream about running away from a mass zombie apocalypse beating down the doors and trying to get me, while I make plans to shoot 'em up and hot foot it for the nearest steam locomotive to safety every time, now can I?
"Thank you, Brigit. I shall come anon."
Brigit looked at me funny for a moment before saying.
"Forgive me for saying this, m'lord but you... you look different, m'lord."
"Different, how?"
"It's not my place to be saying."
Gods what a cop out answer. I'm glad I'm not writing this down because that filler of a dialogue line belongs in the trash like most of Season Six--just get to the fucking point!
Sternly I reproached, "You've made it your place, now say it."
Brigit looked even more embarrassed, but she thankfully got to the point.
"Forgive me, m'lord, but have you dyed your hair this eve? Because the color has come back in."
"What do you mean come back in?" I asked--though it sounded almost as though I were bellowing at the poor girl.
"I only meant that, it's no longer white, my lord. Your blonde, it's returned."
And with that said, Brigit made her excuses and hurried away from the door, taking the lamp with her, and now leaving me in blinding darkness.
Was I supposed to be an old man in my dream originally and then I switched things unconsciously when I heard that I had a son? A mirror. I needed a mirror, and a light. I stumbled around in the darkness, stubbing my toe as I did so--which hurt, but physical pain was something that I was used to ignoring--something I don't know where I inherited it from given how sensitive my parents had been to the slightest pains, but had always been true for me. At last I found a table with a wax candle. I picked it up and walked over to the dying embers of the fireplace which was decorated with little orange lines of light in the darkened embers. Thankfully one of the embers still had enough of a flare to it to light the candle, which helped illuminate the portion of the room near myself. As my eyes adjusted to the light I saw the mirror and I approached it, only to be shocked by what I saw.
There, stood a middle-aged man in his late forties or early fifties I estimated, with a head full of blond hair mixed with grey and an accompanying beard as well. He was a solidly-built middle-aged man with a slight belly, but nothing to call excessively fat. The rest of him seemed tight from a lifetime of better physical diligence than I could regularly commit to in my waking life. He was dressed in a night gown that had embroidered on it a flying blue falcon with a white moon for a background. I recognized that sigil immediately. I was Lord Arryn. My realization was quickly backed up by a flood of memories that hit me far too fast to process and that caused a migraine to hit as I felt my brain assimilate this necessary exposition. It was almost as if I was stuck in a crossover between a self-insert stories at AH.com, Game of Thrones, and what I imagined the guy in The Butterfly Effect felt every time he changed history.
I was broken from the pain--which went as suddenly as it came, odd for a migraine--when a bit of hot wax singed my hand, causing me to drop the candle.
I was Lord Jon Arryn. The year was 292. I was married to Lady Lysa Tully, now Arryn, and I was the Hand of the King, and King in all but name with the way Robert viewed ruling. I was born in 219 AC and should be turning 73 this year, but instead I was now somehow middle-aged looking how I supposedly did when I was 48 or so if Jon's-my memories were telling me truly. And if that wax burn was any proof--this was most certainly not a dream.
Oh shit... I've been sent into a Self-Insert story. No. Stop writing me, where ever I am. I don't want to be stuck in Westeros!
Or do I?
I mean, stop and think about it. 2016 was a crappy year to be alive--if it wasn't my 73 year old father's health acting up and needing to be tended to, the crappy job market, the house issues, my cousins' drama, dealing with a crappy work environment and being the only one to give a damn at my job, the bout with Cat Scratch Disease I started the year off with, my pets dying, the whole election debacle, and on top of that knowing that the Fourth Turning was due for another 7 - 10 more years of shittiness (and only likely to increase in shittiness given the nature of Fourth Turnings and the echoes to the Civil War and Glorious Revolution saeculums going on) along with an economic cycle due to end within the next four years with another recession (at minimum) due at any moment in the upcoming four years, then yeah, this was just about the perfect way to end 2016--completely losing my old life. And you know what--considering where that old life was going, why not? Why not trade that in for living in a shitty world? At least I know what I'm getting here... to some degree. That's likely not going to remain true for long.
It won't be so bad. At least I won't have to satisfy any readers' expectations of how to react to a Self-Insert story... or maybe I do? Ehh, don't think about that. I don't want to even consider thinking about them hovering over me every time I visit a chamber pot. But if that's so, shouldn't I be crying right about now about how I'm never going to see my family again? Every self-insert story practically starts with an ode to one's family and friends left behind in reality, or the self-insert being so mopey as to only be worth skimming the emotional melodrama that will have very little impact on the rest of the story. Why don't I feel this way? I mean, I'll miss my family and my friends, sure... but throwing a big old temper tantrum and going "oh woe is me" seems kinda pointless after you've lost your mother eight years ago... well, eight years ago in my old life. I mean, yeah, you're going to feel sad and depressed--but that was just the status quo. It'll hit you from time to time and completely paralyze you when it does, but then life continues, like it always does.
All while I had been thinking this, my body had seemed to have been acting on muscle memory to get dressed--or maybe old Jon Arryn was still in charge of half the brain my consciousness now occupied, like the silent half that can't communicate its wants because the parts that govern speaking are in the other half of the brain. You know, like in that YouTube video that CGP Grey did that talked about epileptic patients with the nerves between the two halves of the brains experiencing split-brain syndrome or whatever it was called? Perhaps that was just what happened in most Self-Inserts? The personality of the person who was inserted got control of the speaking-half of the brain, while the original person remained sectioned off in the half the brain that doesn't talk, but is a silent partner we all walk around with. That at least would be the logical answer.
I ended my thoughts with the realization that I was now dressed presentably well to travel the Red Keep and see my wife and newborn son. There was an emotion swelling up now--here comes the grief--it's... joy? Joy that at long last Jon--I shall be a father, and that was worth being happy for. Sadness could wait in the light of having waited for so long to have a son.
As I walked down the halls I soon began to realize that I didn't know where I was going, and yet I did at the same time. I arrived to be greeted to the sight of Lysa nursing our son at her breast, looking exhausted. She did a double take upon seeing me.
"J-Jon?" she asked questioningly.
"We'll speak later, Lysa, after you've recovered. Right now... I" don't say uh. "I want to see our son."
Lysa nodded clearly confused, but too tired to argue. She handed me a fussy babe who looked so small and weak. I was struck speechless as I held the babe in my arms. My son... I was holding my son."
"He awaits a name, lord husband," said Lysa rather formally. This did not seem to contradict the memories I had--if anything her outburst of Jon was more remarkable than referring to me as "lord husband".
Holding the baby and seeing how weak he was I knew what name he was supposed to have--Robert. Jon's way of honoring the King, inspiring the boy, and further probes into Jon's memories confirmed that it was also Jon's way of inspiring Robert to look after the boy and be a father to him with Jon having resigned to likely dying before he was a man grown. But with my new health that wasn't a worry I should have.
"Jasper. His name is Jasper, after my father."
If I'm in a self-insert story, butterflies are already flapping as it is--Jon's sudden loss of age was proof enough of that, why not make another one as well?
Saying Jasper's name seemed to change the air in the room, it suddenly went from heavy and oppressive, to feeling rather lighter and airier. I was most definitely imagining things as air surely couldn't change that quickly without central air. I looked at Lysa who seemed to have guessed that Jon would have done that. Hmm... mayhaps I should throw a monkey wrench in there as a sign of things to come?
I announced, "Jasper Brynden Arryn."
"Brynden?" questioned Lysa.
"After your uncle and in honor of you and your family. Brynden's been good to you and a loyal man besides."
And if I don't survive the game of thrones, he'll make damn sure Jasper Brynden Arryn will. Far more than Robert half-hearted did.
Lysa looked rather speechless for a moment, unsure of how to respond.
"But two names?" questioned Lysa when she had at last found her voice.
So middle names weren't a tradition in Westeros? For some reason I thought they had been a thing with the Targaryens. No matter, I said, "We'll make a new tradition of it. And until it becomes popular he'll be a special boy, the only one with a first and middle name."
Lysa, who seemed on the verge of falling asleep, echoed, "A special boy... that he is."
Having held my son long enough, I placed Jasper back into Lysa's arms, causing her to smile.
As I turned to leave the room she spoke. "Jon."
I turned around.
"I know not what has happened to you... mayhaps the Seven have heard my prayers... mayhaps I am only dreaming, but I wanted to say..." she was searching for her words--as if she were now forced to improvise.
"Yes?" I asked when the silence had gone on long enough between us.
"Thank you, for the honor to mine Uncle... and my family. You didn't have to do that."
"No, but I wanted to."
And so I left a bewildered but tired Lysa, no doubt thinking that this was all a dream.
Perhaps it wasn't too late to prove that theory right for myself?