Chapter 3
MATARYS TARGARYEN
Matarys. It was a name lost to the history books, one easily forgotten, for this had been a life of no consequence, and yet it could have been something greater. Far greater.
He was born to Baelor Breakspear, the eldest of Daeron the Second's children. The last hundred years had not been kind to the Targaryen rule. From the calamitous Dance of Dragons, to Baelor's piety, and then Aegon the Unworthy's lechery, the House of the Dragon had suffered greatly in these years, and all these troubles had made the once golden house into a House of mortals.
Once the House of the Dragons had been looked on by the lords and the masses as ordained governors, and now they were but merely incestuous aliens ruling through prestige, and precedence alone.
Yet they ruled, and after a hundred years of troubled times, a sound and solid King once more sat on the throne, just as the Conciliator had come after the demonic reign of Maegor. Daeron the Second was in many ways a far better ruler than the Conciliator himself, for he had done what even the Conqueror had failed to do as he brought Dorne into the fold and made the Seven Kingdoms whole once more.
For the first time in history, the House of the Dragon ruled from the shores of Planky Town to the Great Wall up in the North. And if the Gods showed their mercy, his own son might just prove himself to be a better ruler than his father.
Baelor was the eldest of four sons, and was everything a King should be. He was well read and well trained. A master at jousting, and beyond that, even as a Prince, he had the charisma of a King, and had famously led a contingent of Dornishmen and Stormlanders against the rebels. The Dornishman and the Stormlanders had always hated one another, and yet it was his charisma that brought them together, and used them to smash the Blackfyre host on Maekar's anvil.
Yet history was cruel, and instead of greatness, death awaited him. Death at the hands of his own brother, and Matarys had no intentions of letting his father suffer such a fate.
He did not yet know how he would spare him such a fate, but he would. That was his promise to himself, but before such a time came, he had a life to live, and as the second son of a Prince, he believed he was far too down the pecking order to ever sit on the throne.
His father would come before him, and then there was Valarr above him. His eldest brother was a squire to the King himself, and would make just as fine a King as their father.
But that all would come later.
Today, it was time for jousting. Matarys had come down from the stands as he passed through all of the pavilions and the small market that had sprung around the Jousting yard.
The largest of the pavilions was their own, and the sigil of the three-headed dragon flew proudly in the air, as his father was being helped by his Kingsguard in donning the armor.
Storm was a brown warhorse and was being saddled with armor as he walked up to his father, who spotted him rather easily.
"What are you doing down here?" he asked, and he reached into his pocket and took out a bright orange ribbon that matched his hair color.
"You forgot something," he said, as she showed him the ribbon, and Baelor nodded.
"Mother spent three hours making this for you," he added, and the Kingsguard all smiled as his father grabbed the favor.
"Tell your mother, I shall do my best to honor this favor," he said, and though theirs had been a marriage born out of necessity and politics, there was enough love and respect between them to make one forget about that.
"You better," Matarys warned, as the Kingsguard both chuckled as he walked up to his father's horse, and Storm turned its head towards him as he walked up to him.
"Be careful," his father warned, but Matarys had always had a thing with animals, and they had always felt rather familiar to him, and so as he raised his hand, Storm lowered his head and let him pet.
"Good boy, good boy," Matarys whispered, as he ruffled his skin, as the horse neighed and frolicked around and rubbed his head onto him lovingly, as the Kingsguard all smiled.
"Maekar says that only fools talk to horses," his father added from behind, and Matarys answered without glancing back.
"Do you believe the same?" he asked, and the answer came a second later.
"No, I do not," Baelor Breakspear answered, as he came and stood by him, and rubbed his horse himself.
"Storm has served me well in many a battle. Sometimes, it feels as if we can even talk to one another," he added, and that was true.
"There are few friends more loyal to a warrior than his horse," Matarys whispered, and Baelor nodded.
"Truer words have not been said," he said, and ruffled his hair.
"It will be time for the first tilt soon. You should go to the stands," and he would.
"I will, but not before making a wager," he offered, and the Kingsguard both shook their heads.
"I am afraid, we have learned our lesson already, young Prince," and Matarys groaned.
"Come on," Matarys encouraged, and one could never have enough gold.
"Matarys," Baelor Breakspear chided, as he rubbed his eyes.
"You know I am responsible enough. I am only using money from my own savings," he countered, and he could not deny that.
"And how did you get those savings?" the Breakspear countered.
"By making grand wagers," Matarys countered with a bright smile, and Baelor shook his head.
"Still, I don't believe you would have gotten good odds here," Ser Donnel added, and he was from Duskendale and a new addition to the Kingsguard.
"Only a fool would bet against the Prince," and he was right.
"Indeed," Matarys withered as he remembered the odds he had been offered.
"That is why I chose to bet on the number of tilts," and that was a risky thing to bet.
"Matarys," and his father's voice was filled with disapproval for this was much more riskier.
"I won't ask you to cheat, I have honor," Matarys countered, and in the end, Breakspear could not help but chuckle along with his Kingsgaurd.
"May the Gods spare me your machinations," and Matarys wondered if he really knew what he was praying for.
"Well, I am afraid you are stuck with me," he countered.
"You are facing a hedge knight, aren't you?" Ser Donnel asked, and his father nodded.
"Aye," his father added, he began to tighten the straps one last time.
"His name is Ser Arlan of Pennytree. A hedge knight who lost his nephew to the rebellion," and Matarys did not know, but he knew that name.
"Arlan of Pennytree," Matarys repeated, and that name would be etched into history itself years later, but only through the machinations of another name.
"So how many tilts do you think he will last?" questioned Ser Donnel.
"I am not the kind to spill my secrets," Matarys countered.
"What if there is gold to be made?" Ser Donnel questioned, and Matarys reached for his pouch.
"Sure," and in the end, the Prince acquiesced.
"Three tilts, I say," Ser Donnel said as he took out two gold dragons, and that was the average amount of money a peasant family would make in a year.
"Too low," Matarys countered, as he took out two dragons and tossed them towards the Kingsguard.
"Too High, I say," Ser Rolan chose to join in, much to his father's dismay.
"Two tilts is the most I can see him lasting." Came his offer.
"He may have been a good knight once, but he is an old man now, while the Prince is young and energetic," and Prince Baelor sighed.
"It is your gold to waste, but don't tell me that I didn't warn you," but they had already fallen into his trap.
"Four," Matarys countered confidently, much to their surprise.
"He will last four tilts and will fall on the fifth one," he said, as the horns were rung and the knights began to move out of their pavilions and their hedges.
"Four, that is impossible," Ser Roland countered, and he shrugged.
"You have my gold," Matarys countered, as he turned around and began to trot.
"But I shall have yours when the fifth tilt starts," and now he was running towards the stands, and he was a large man came out of nowhere, and hit him from the side.
"AGHH!" Matarys fell to the ground, and the guards were on him quickly.
"My Prince!" and it was only a stumble, and then the ground was dry, and his clothes were only dusted as he picked himself back up.
"I am fine," he assured them, but they were guards.
"What do you think you are doing!" they shouted at the man, who seemed awestruck and afraid.
"You have struck a Prince in your insolence! On your knees, peasan..."
"It is fine, good sers," Matarys countered as he rubbed away the dirt to look at the person who had hit him, and much to his surprise, he found no man.
He was large indeed, but his face gave away his age, and he seemed no older than Valarr.
"You are no man," Matarys countered.
"Forgive me, my Prince," and he prostrated himself on all fours.
"It was my mistake. I had no intentions of harming..."
"Rise, good man. The fault is mine as well," he offered, and he rose quickly and nervously, making him frown.
"What is your name?" he asked, and the young lad gulped as he met his gaze.
"Dunk, my Prince," and it was as if embarrassed to utter that, while Matarys could not believe his ears.
"What?" he asked, thinking that he had heard wrong.
"My name is Dunk, my Prince. I am a squire to Ser Arlan. He bid me to bring his flagon," and he showed me his bag.
"It was why I was rushing to the yard," and Matarys looked at his face, and those blue eyes of his, and could not help but chuckle at his fortune.
"Dunk, you say. It seems like half a name," and if he thought of it as an insult, he did not counter.
"Well met, then, Dunk, and may the Gods show you and your Master luck," he offered, and his eyes widened.
"I am thankful for your generosity, my Prince," and with that, he offered him his hand.
"I am afraid I must rush to my mother, and you to your master. But we shall meet again, Dunk. I believe it so," and the man gaped at his hand before he took it nervously as Matarys shook it.
And then he walked past him, with an accomplished smile on his face as the guards followed behind him.
"You are too kind, my Prince," they said, and Matarys shrugged.
"As one should be," and the realm had enough cruel Princes.
It would serve their family one to have a kind one.
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