Prelude to Madness [Asoiaf SI]

281 AC

Marthew II​

Morning came with the crowing of countless roosters— survivors of many feasts of both noblemen and smallfolk alike. Marthew had been up before the light of dawn, back when the darkness of night was still rich and the river's fog reached beyond its banks.

Thus when the sounds came, his mind was clear.

The dawn light painted over the tent's walls and showed shadows of silhouettes from the outside. Similar to him, many were up before the rising sun: hands, servers, knights and guards.

Marthew seated over the corner of his tent, arched over a desk and scribbling a few notes on his brown book in an unseenlanguage. Such was his approach when putting to parchment secret things. He wrote them in the common tongue of the old world, and the skin-styled pages were filled with finances, blackmails, connections, and discoveries yet to be implemented.

He flipped a page, and found one where ink hadn't touched.

This was one of two books— the style that was. The other was black, written in his mother tongue. And it was full of mad ravings, truths only one touched by a certain type of mystery could know.

The Tully blood was clean despite the First Men descent. He reasoned they were one of the few lineages excluded during the Pact with the Children…

Done with his jotting, Marthew shut close his book and huffed at the flickering candle, allowing the dawn light solitary reign over the tent.

…in the recesses of his mind, he remembered that Catelyn's kids would awaken the Children's gifts, along with the baseborn.

He would have to do something about that.

A rustle came to his ears, and his eyes swivelled to the sound. There was movement on his bed—motions of one risen from slumber. A head, rich with black cascading hair, peeked out from the covers of wool and mink before turning his way.

It was an oval thing, this girl's face, with soft, delicate features and grey eyes. They had black streaks, and her skin was light brown, unmarred by harsher things.

A finer beauty after a cleanse, but right now, her face still suffered from the touch of sleep. Marthew rose from where he'd sat, half nude with only a pair of leather breeches on his legs.

The Dornish girl's face flashed with recognition the closer he got, and when he was a hand away, a soft tug pulled at her lips, "Good morning, mi'lord?"

There was something beautiful about her voice, just the right amount of pitch for song. The girl didn't sing.

Marthew's smile was less honest. It was never truly there. He drew upon kinder times, days long passed, and deceived with them.

"Good morning to you, Mara? How did you sleep, were your dreams pleasant?"

He took her lips with his, and for a moment there was joy. He didn't let it fester, lest it morphed into an aggressive thing.

"I slept well," she replied, her unabused hands caressing his beard-burdened cheeks ever so softly. "I always sleep well whenever I'm in your embrace."

Were he a normal man, he would have felt something at such heartfelt words. Marthew felt nothing, as was his abnormality. No, he only felt annoyance, not at the girl but the time wasted cultivating her love.

And her love was a true thing. You saw it in her eyes, when she was lost in his words or when he was deep in her sex. The latter invoked madden things, obsession and possession given folds of ten.

Marthew had the scars to prove it.

…he pulled back from her touch, observing as her smile turned solemn. "I'm happy to hear that, Mara. I really am." Once more, he drew from foregone memories to null perceived falsities. His eyes trailed her form—smooth skin, curvy body where the blankets failed to cover, and a bosom promising excellent nurture. "I too have wonderful dreams whenever you are around."

Marthew didn't dream, and when he did, he was haunted by the dark pitch of oblivion.

This time, Mara's smile was a sad one.

He mirrored it somewhat, peering at the fantasy playing in his bedwarmer's mind—it was Duncan's foolery. Love tales were a dime a dozen in Westeros. He introduced some of his own, inspired by the old world and given vision by his funded mummers troupes.

The idea was borne out of the desire to increase the populace of Riverrun and its primary bannermen. His father had promised concessions and boons for larger families and newlyweds under his pressure.

Westeros nobles were ignorant of the importance of the masses. Marthew sought to leverage it.

The Tullys needed to ingratiate themselves into the hearts of their subjects, so much that the smallfolk saw oppression and struggle in their absence.

"Wash and dress yourself. I don't want Edmure to find you in the nude when he comes by for his daily annoyance."

She did as he bade.

Marthew threw on a loose shirt that struggled to hide his chest and wore dark-polished leather boots with soles reinforced with wood.

Godswood.

A small lavish he'd indulged in after last fall's harvest. His house's coffers had been full, with little projects to invest in.

'Mayhaps I should save a sack or two for Mara when we part.' The thought wasn't new, yet the girl's pride refrained him from doing so. The situation had turned peculiar, as was the case with matters stained by love.

Marthew took a breath and looked at the girl's water-touched frame. It sparkled something precious, and he remembered when he first came upon her.

Mara of Graymaw, a spawn of a Dornish merchant who'd strayed from the desert lands in a lust for coin. In the Riverlands, he saw a promise of granted dreams, thus he settled in a town a week northeast of Riverrun. Right in the heart of it. There, he peddled silks, spices, and wine brought in from the far-lands of Essos.

The man made decent coin, at least enough to feign wealth. After the Tully's agricultural boom, he saw an increase in business, as did many traders.

Still, greater opportunities awaited.

Marthew brought him and many others under his employment when he began his trading company—it had been a small thing, and in a way, it still was.

He'd met Mara there during one of these meetings. A girl of eight and ten, with a maturity seldom seen in folks of lowborn. He credited her maturity to her lone birth and the expectation of inheritance, as was the case with the queer Dornish.

That was four years ago.

When Mara came to Riverrun to act as a liaison for her father, Marthew took interest in her—the Dornish had lenient expectations for their womenfolk—and corrupted her something foul.

This was during the time he'd started to go on bandit raids and had been in the midst of his second growth spurt. Aggression and constipated balls weren't kind things on the mind, and Marthew liked a clear head.

Fortunately, Riverrun didn't lack for outlaws; past levies given over to immoral acts after the end of the war existed in abundance in the fractured kingdoms. His uncle Brynden had introduced him to this duty, and Marthew had seen it as a way to raise an army under the pretense of security.

Rumors spread of the young lord obsessed with the safety and prosperity of smallfolk. He propagated them himself, using proxies under him.

He pursued this for three reasons: trade opportunities, migration, and arm recruitment.

Many began praising him, showering him with worship reserved for heroes. Marthew wasn't a hero, but if playing that role helped fulfill his dreams, he would do so with a wide smile.

Mara fell victim to such deceit, envisioning a fairytale where there was none. Marthew took full advantage, finding her untouched—a blessing unexpected in these lands ravaged by syphilis.

He left her weak in the knees, and stole her heart for good measure.

"Will you be breaking fast with your family?" she asked him, now washed and clothed, smelling of citrus that competed for dominance with the scents of burnt incense. He turned to her, securing the jotter in a plain carrier.

Freshened up, she was a true sight. The puff under her eyes was gone, and the love marks were covered with a newly made dress straight from the seamstresses.

"Yes, I heard the royal family will be joining us," he told her. From the lower parts of his desk, he took out a small ornate box and passed it to her. "Missing out on such an important arrangement would be more than ill-mannered."

Having not participated in many feasts, he mostly heard of developments from his men or his sisters.

… Mara gasped at the gift presented, delicate hands creeping forth to cover her mouth slackened from surprise. Within the box were two pairs of sparkling neckwear.

The first necklace was moderate, woven with intertwined gold threads in a uniform design. It was not merely the metal but the craftsmanship that impressed—a golden heart hung at its front, carved with her name.

The other neckwear was lavish, adorned with precious gems and crystals from the far eastern lands of Yi Ti. This was designed for noble banquets, weddings, and balls.

Mara's eyes gained an aggressive shimmer, overwhelmed. "M-my lord, you didn't have to." Her voice trembled.

He beckoned her to turn, fastening the moderate jewelry around her neck. "I'll be gone for moons, on a tour around the Riverlands," he spoke in a steady, emotionless tone. "I am to inherit the title of Paramount one day. It would be embarrassing to do so without knowledge of my bannermen's lands."

There was a shift in Mara's posture, an expected reaction. Marthew's words cut like a Valyrian blade, and even blinded by love, the underlying meaning was clear as the summer's skies.

"When will you be leaving?" Her question came out clear, and he, knowing her well, sensed the heartbreak choking her throat.

He was unbothered by it. "Tomorrow," he said, planting a kiss on the back of her head. "The guards will not refuse you entry if you choose to come tonight."

Mara didn't answer him, hastily walking out of his tent with tears streaming down her face.

The invitation was unnecessary; she would show.

Mayhaps, if she was lucky, she would find a better replacement—a greater fit for the chunk he'd taken out of her heart.

A figure entered his tent, adorned in garments of high standing. It was his uncle, and his brow was raised, with something resembling amusement on his lips. "Trouble in paradise, nephew?"

He didn't fluster, and when he replied, his voice was cool. "Something of the sort." He made way for the flagon filled with watered-down wine and filled two glass cups. One was passed to Brynden, who was giving his tent an odd look.

"You are not normally one for fancy garments, uncle. Will you be breaking fast with us?" Marthew asked after an unmotivated sip. He would have preferred a drink of roasted seeds, but that required time and uncouthness.

His uncle turned to him, his eyes of a length with his. "Don't think this to be my decision; Hoster is being stubborn. I would have much rather exchanged pointers in the yards."

He swallowed the rest of the wine, and gestured for his uncle to follow him to the main tent.

This was officially the final day of the tourney, and the Tullys hadn't received much honor during the active days.

His father disliked it. Marthew didn't care.

Aerys was mad, and his odor was rancid. Duskendale had left him daft, and he was of the violent sort.

Marthew would not suffer his presence, and had he not been aware of his early departure, he would have seen him assassinated just to void any possibilities of his madness coming about in close proximity to his loved ones—future plans be damned.

No, they would only be hosting the deluded prince. A less dangerous choice.