281 AC
Marthew I
Marthew tilted the goblet, and the wine quenched his parched throat. It was the vintage of the Arbor—sweet and fruity. When touched by the night's chill, it went down even better. He let a low sigh give way to his satisfaction and turned his head skyward, where the stars danced, and the moon shone.
Behind him, a party raged with shouts, cheers, and boisterous melodies. He held no fondness for crowds, yet he enjoyed the tales regaled of such merry moods.
Another sigh left his lips, louder and exasperated. Such a contradictory man he was. If only someone other than himself would give voice to his vexing disposition, mayhaps then an interesting conversation could be held.
A moment passed, and Marthew brought the goblet to his lips once more. This time, however, only droplets ran down his throat.
"Disappointing," he lamented, the inflection of his voice deeper than his countenance would have indicated. "Mayhaps next time I ought to bring a flagon with me…"
He tossed the empty goblet beside him, the item giving off a low shrill upon hitting the ground. The noise, so common and mundane, took his thoughts to the sea of memories—to the time when another high-pitched sound heralded his birth.
How long had it been since that day? Twenty, or was it twenty-one years. Born to a life that wasn't meant to be. To a world that wasn't meant to be. And to a society so stagnant and oppressive.
Marthew let a humorless chuckle escape his mouth and once more fell into silent contemplation. He'd survived fate's weave and cemented his name in Westeros's annals. In a way, he was evidence of the true nature of fate—ever flickering and never fixed.
Events expected held no sway over him, save for those unchanged by vicious development.
Now he could dream, and Marthew was an aggressive dreamer. And his heart was as black as a cloudy night, with pride so high and blinding.
Soft steps like a foot on cotton came to his ears from behind him. He made no move to regard them, content with his watch over the starry heavens. After a moment, a person settled beside him. Right on the vital grass. A soft pull arched his lips and his eyes flickered to his unasking guest.
"Cat," he started, "How nice of you to join me this far out." Much as he wanted it not, there was mock in his tone. Marthew blamed it on the closeness he shared with the girl…and the uncanny resemblance she had to their mother.
It was hard to keep to formalities with such closeness about.
A frown flashed on the young Tully's face. But it was gone as quick as it came. "Why did you leave the hall?" Her question came, but he kept silent to it.
"Many young ladies wanted to have a dance with you, dear brother."
In her eyes, he saw that wasn't what she wanted to say to him. It was a placate, or at least it was meant to be. Yet he made no effort to cut to the heart of her visit, opting to enjoy the senseless conversation.
Marthew passed his hand through his fiery hair and hummed, "You know how awful I am when it comes to dancing. I'd rather not step on any maiden's toes this fine evening."
Catelyn's brows furrowed, "That's a lie, you never seem to step on my or Lysa's toes when we dance with you."
"Such consideration i only limit to a precious few. It would be unwise to mistake me for the benevolent sort." He laughed, before shaking his head and schooling his features into a normal expression, "That was my way of saying I had no interest in such mingles. You should know this by now."
Catelyn turned her head to the side, towards the distant trees across the wide stream where the night wind was more violent. The trees swayed with the gust, the sight a haunting thing in the moonlight.
Matthew looked at the sight as well and allowed the silence to fester. When he was young and still taken by the wonderment of Planetos, he contemplated the existence of higher mysteries—the existence of ghosts and gods and magicks. Now he knew most of those things were eldritch in nature, and the magic was so corrupt and costly.
He reached into his pockets and grabbed a tiny flask, made of polished steel, shining under the moonlight. With a pop, the lid came off, letting loose the scent of mint. He took a swig of the concoction, and his breath came out fresh and balmy.
Easily, he passed the flask to his sister, who, in turn, took a drink of it. Though her face did scrunch up. "You ought to come up with something less foul-tasting, brother."
True were her words. The concoction was grassy and potent. Yet its aim was not to imitate sweets but to rid the mouth of bad smells.
"It isn't meant to taste good," he scoffed, placing back the flask after Catelyn gave it back. "And you get used to it in time."
Tired of the low position, Marthew stood tall and fit. He used to be shorter, with a plump frame and a darker shade. But that was a while ago. His garments beat against his body to the wind's whistle. It was picking up, and soon it would be difficult just to open one's eyes.
He took one look upward, and the pale light gave an ominous shade to his eyes reminiscent of the summer skies. If he was thinner, his cheekbones would have protruded, and he would have been a true haunting sight.
His sister looked up at him, and her eyes held a pain meant for him. Marthew would have sighed something frustrated had he not gotten used to it. Catelyn had empathy…and often felt bad for things she really shouldn't.
His was little and reserved.
"You look sad, Cat," he said, "Did something happen back in the halls? Was it Petyr? Was it Brandon?" The latter words were said in a low whisper. In fairness, he cared little for the heir of Winterfell and his betrothal to Catelyn. If events kept true, she would be wedded to the Quiet Wolf whose heart was taken by Ashara of House Dayne.
Alas, life was unfair, and Marthew wanted his favorite sister to at least be with someone who wouldn't betray her heart.
And Brandon just didn't fit the criteria quite well.
As for the young Baelish…Marthew was unsure. Despite his interference, the boy had still developed an obsession with Catelyn, and in turn, Lysa was in love with Petyr.
It was an odd affair. But one that didn't require immediate intervention.
Catelyn shook her head, her hair like a dancing flame. It bore a striking resemblance to his, but hers was longer, like their mother's. She was a wonderful woman, Minisa Whent, and a great mother. He only knew her for nine years, and during those years, he never felt more loved.
His sister was her spitting image, and her mannerisms were something close. It was her suffocating devotion to the seven faiths that was the problem.
"I saw her, Mart. Heading towards her tent with her brother in toe." She finally said, and he sensed the disgust in her tone. "She was giggling. And her eyes…you could see the want within them."
It took a moment for Marthew to figure out whom she was talking about. And when he finally did, his face turned contemplative.
"Did you follow them?"
Catelyn shook her head. Still, it was clear she hadn't needed to spy on them to be convinced of their taboo act. He was merely proud that his sister's curiosity was reserved…and that she had the brains to connect the puzzle.
If she'd followed, Jaime would have heard her, his ears keened by battle and experience. The Kingsguard wouldn't have hesitated to take her head. Less so urged by his deranged sister.
Marthew hummed, nonplussed. Catelyn gave him a strange look, "Aren't you bothered? What if father doesn't believe you and still pushes for the marriage."
His father was an ambitious man. And what he'd already done for the Riverlands was already impressive. But House Tully was weak, and it's prestige was minor. Hoster sought to outsource it with sons and daughters. But that was a temporary solution.
Marthew was of a different mindset.
He shrugged, the act so natural.
"I try not to worry over such things, more often than not they end up sorting themselves out." That wasn't true. Still, he continued, "I'm more happy that Lysa won't be marrying Jaime."
The Great Houses were the belittling sort, and they'd continue to look down on his house unless something drastic and world changing came about. That something was the Long Night, and Marthew would see the Tully survive it with the mantle of legend on their shoulders.
But before then, there was much to do, chaos and all.
First of all, he needed to secure the bloodline post-haste. And not with someone who'd squirt stillborns left and right.
'Doesn't William have a comely sister?' During the long winter when the cold was at its peak and the chill threatened to take all, the Mooton's reserves ran low, and they had come to Riverrun to bargain. There, he met the daughter of House Mooton, who shared an age with Catelyn.
He remembered her to be the friendly sort, soft spoken and timid.
But that was a while ago, and if William was anything to go by, the Mootons latest stock weren't the finest.
Cersei Lannister had the body for it. The hips and beauty and whatever intelligence that carried on from Tywin's seed. It was the temperament that was the problem, and he had little patience for idiocy and petulance.
Marthew reached to the grass with his scarred hands, where his sword sat sheathed in a scabbard made from a shadowcat's pelt. The blade was castle-forged, and it had tasted far too much bandit blood.
With familiar grace, one ingrained in him since he was a boy of seven, he holstered the sword left of his hip.
It was the relaxation that came with the security of a blade on his hip he never got tired of.
"Let's head back to the haunting castle, Cat. It's getting late."
Receptive to his words, his sister stood. But not without sparing an odd look to his tossed goblet. "Aren't you going to pick it up?"
The Tully heir shook his head, "No, let the smallfolks find it. Mayhaps they could trade it for a coin or two."
"You're such an odd person, brother."
Marthew cracked a smile, but it was lost to the shadows.
By now, the foolishness brought upon by Rhaegar should have settled down some…or at least kept to the path of war.
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Share thoughts and ideas. If you find something amiss don't hesitate to tell me. The idea is to take this story to the Long Night with how I envision it should have been.