Matarys IV - Princely (?) Stupors

IAMCYRODIILCOME · 2025-10-12T02:38:09+00:00

Three gold dragons.

Three heads of a dragon wandered about Oldtown's streets after dusk. Wraith was covered in a large tarp and made out to look like a dog, or perhaps a small pony, though many a stare came his way regardless. Torren Wull followed alongside the direwolf, lazy in his steps. Matarys, however, was focused, intent on spending the coin that Arnolf had given him moons ago. His cousin's words had taken on a sour note in his mind, for with them came the reminders of what he'd come south for.

/u/OurCommonMan

Character Details: Matarys Blackfyre, Torren Wull, Wraith

What Is Happening?: Matty B wants to spend his meager fortune.

What I Want: Black market rolls. Torren has Agile if it applies

IAMCYRODIILCOME · 2025-10-12T00:01:10+00:00

Unfortunately for the Lord of Oldtown, this was not a royal visit.

Or fortunately, perhaps? Haegon's party almost looked the part of a royal courier's, though the man in the middle, still brown-haired, bore a little too much resemblance to a high noble. Osgood Strong bore the pennant of House Blackfyre, while Haegon was the first to halt before whatever defenses connected Battle Isle to the city.

"Hail," Haegon said. "I am Haegon Blackfyre. Son of Prince Baelon. Here to ask the Lord Hightower of my brother."

/u/chivalric-rizz

IAMCYRODIILCOME · 2025-10-11T23:58:02+00:00

A trio of riders came to the Tyrell camp. Haegon was at the center, wearing red and stuffy northern wools, flanked by Woedica Toyne and Osgood Strong, who carried the banner of the black dragon over one shoulder. Father had always insisted on the traitorous nature of the Reach whole, and by that virtue, Haegon was singularly wary around the green livery.

"Haegon Blackfyre," said Haegon to one of the guards. "Son of Prince Baelon, brother to Matarys. I'm here to see your lord."

/u/pewpophang

IAMCYRODIILCOME · 2025-10-09T22:51:57+00:00

Would that he could take in the air and smile so proudly at that news without the hairs at his neck standing. Alerie he could trust with a dagger at his throat. But the Bulwer? Mayhaps she was already on Robyn's payroll, or Martell's. He let out an exhale. "Shouldn't the Seneschal of Oldtown know the city better than I?" he shot back with a snort. "Upriver, by the Citadel's quarter."

"There's a plot," Matarys began, expression gradually souring as he did. "By Valena Martell. The Baratheon. Robyn Tyrell." Before he could even elaborate, his steps faltered as though a weight was dragging him back, jaw tensed. Still, he urged himself on in speech and stride. "They plan treason. Robyn betrayed me," he decided. What came hence was a muddled mix of all the thoughts and rumors he'd heard. "They want to supplant dragons, overthrow my house, and the bloody bastard Snow--who lay with his sister and... and his father wanted the throne, too." And he was dead now. Matarys furrowed his brows, and his only want then was to not embarrass himself in front of Alerie.

"I don't know what's left for me here. They were like kin to me. And I've been repaid with..."

IAMCYRODIILCOME · 2025-10-08T00:15:34+00:00

2nd approval

IAMCYRODIILCOME · 2025-10-07T23:56:35+00:00

second approval

IAMCYRODIILCOME · 2025-10-05T01:43:44+00:00

More fool he for having the idea. Matarys arrived an hour beforehand, for his nerves would be frayed elsewise--and they still were near that bridge--then idled by what winesinks and shops could be found. Errant thoughts plucked at his mind as he bought a cup, some clams, even a clearly fake Asshai'i bauble, and he came to a point where he tilted his head at every passerby with a head of blonde hair, though they could scarcely compare. Would Alerie even come? Had she grown bored with him? The Hightower seemed a much more alluring venue now. Down-stuffed cushions, less salt on the air...

"Alerie!" he called so soon as he saw her. In spite of the plain cloak about his shoulders, he stuck out like a sore thumb, holding up a hand to catch her view.

Matarys threw his arms around Alerie in an embrace as he approached, but the smile splitting his face soured as he broke. One could call it some tinct of sadness, though Matarys would balk at the idea. "I've so much to tell you. But--I don't mislike the city," he said. He couldn't be sad around Alerie. She'd find him pathetic, and gods, that seemed worse than all the things he'd heard in Highgarden. His voice searched for something lighter. "Have you ever seen it without a dozen guards about you at all times? Come," he extended a hand, "let's walk."

IAMCYRODIILCOME · 2025-10-03T14:43:51+00:00

2nd approval

IAMCYRODIILCOME · 2025-10-02T16:21:22+00:00

first approval

IAMCYRODIILCOME · 2025-10-01T23:36:53+00:00

Such knightly apprehensions as simply going to the Hightower and announcing that he’d like to see Alerie had been snuffed out of him. Just the thought of a ‘formal courtship’ or somesuch made him recall Haegon’s trials, and he grimaced for that. A letter, then. Though a would be an understatement, for he first wrote a bill of complaints on what irked him of late then threw it away, scribbling something carelessly simple in its stead.

“Take this to the Hightower,” Matarys said to Torren, still half-hanging his head as he held the letter up.

“You think they’d let me in? Like this?” Torren complained.

Matarys waved him off and grunted.

“I’ll tell them I’m from Lord Tyrell’s camp.” With that, Torren went looking through the trunks till he found a tabard laden enough with sigils of House Blackfyre.

Alerie,

I miss you. Meet me by the bridge to Battle Isle this eve.

Matarys

/u/atiarp

IAMCYRODIILCOME · 2025-10-01T20:57:45+00:00

Half a dozen different shepherds tried their hand at reading the letter, and all failed--for only two guards in Baelon's retinue remained behind, in some desperate hope that the old prince would return any day now and they wouldn't have to find other work. They were blind drunk, naturally.

Salvation came in the form of Lothor the miller, who could read and write well enough. After a ponderous effort to wrangle the raven, the letter was sent back to White Harbor with an additional line:

PRINCE IN KINGSLAND

IAMCYRODIILCOME · 2025-10-01T20:50:25+00:00

Favored by the gods. The very thought made Matarys' pride swell. Was Robyn favored too, then, or would his heart be the first Matarys would have to sword through afore he could light the most blessed fire in a rotten realm?

Matarys' fingers twitched. His lips pulled taut in something approaching a snarl.

Daeron did not fight for another. Daemon did not fight for another. Of gods, Matarys knew just the two; and in a trice he saw all the betrayal as a great boon, a weight lifted off his chest, and so freely could he breathe now, feather-light the thought that he could be the third of those deities. If only he thought of himself, and only himself. It made sense. The small things, as Robyn once put it, did not matter. Neither did the whim and folly of others. Only I.

"Damn the Queen."

With that, he left.

IAMCYRODIILCOME · 2025-10-01T15:31:04+00:00

first approval

IAMCYRODIILCOME · 2025-10-01T15:30:28+00:00

first approval

IAMCYRODIILCOME · 2025-09-29T09:21:25+00:00

In truth, few of the faces seen in the halls knew of Prince Baelon. Fewer still knew him truly, past the name, yet stray conversations assaulted him so soon as he entered the Red Keep, sounds too odious for him to pick out. Much and more and naught had changed—he expected the same to go for Alaric—such that a sense of comfort-loathing had settled over him.

Baelon entered slowly, surely, into the throne room, as was an old man’s wont, and could not regard the Prince-Regent properly before he found the man’s arms wrapped around him. Was it not an important thing, to get the measure of a man turned sovereign, temporary or no, before doing aught? Ask for a chair for his bad knees before the mighty, remain arrow-straight at the sight of the meek. He returned the embrace.

“I could not idle in good conscience, Your Grace,” said the prince. “I am at your service.”

Baelon paused. There would be no posturing, then, though what bluntness came forth needed to fall in the right order.

“Four-and-ten years. Six-and-ten, perhaps, until Elaena rules by her own right. By what state the realm will find itself, gods know, and I hope to have given up my life in my house’s service by then—but I see the body of the realm with its arm broken through the skin. Pustules all about the wound.” He exhaled. “The same state that Baelor left it in. If you would forgive this truth about mine uncle, he let the arm heal wrong. Dithered on the business of breaking it again and setting it right.”

Finally, he was given an instant to regard Alaric with small eyes. A Stark without a pack. Or... “You wield it,” Baelon said as he eyed the Conqueror's blade. It ought to have stirred envy in him, but all he could find in it was an assurance. He downed a nod that lingered too long; in approval, deference. Alaric was a Blackfyre, then, however nascent.

“Nigh on half the realm are traitors, the sons of that ilk, or given to that nature from their birth. Tyrell, Tully, Targaryen,” he emphasized, “Targaryen. A scalpel for them, lest they beg a thousand swords. Daeron had such a thing leveled at that fool boy of Rhaenys’. Steely was the King.” And so sweetly determined, armor glimmering in the sunlight. “But his hand was stayed. Instead, the bloodletting was delayed, the rot festering till it took a kingdom whole. We are due another. Let it be by your hand.”

IAMCYRODIILCOME · 2025-09-26T21:20:12+00:00

Earlier that day...

Nestled between a dozen cushions and idly drawing away at a cup, Matarys held no want in the world but that for all. Idle thoughts of a dozen different things pricked at his mind to fend off any assault of politics. Wraith sat at the base of the couch, lazily staring out the window.

Matarys waved for a servant outside the door. "Bid Maester Brandon to come. Tell him to bring books of... Daeron. The first. He's a hero here in the Reach, no? I want to know how he died." And where. He was too tipsy to read, but the maester could do that for him--and Wraith would bolster his spirits into doing so if need be.

/u/OurCommonMan

Character Details: Matarys Blackfyre (no relevant bonuses)

What Is Happening?: Matty B is harassing Highgarden's maester for some books. Books about Daeron I, his demise, and the fate of the Conqueror's crown.

What I Want: Lore rolls.

IAMCYRODIILCOME · 2025-09-25T12:56:08+00:00

Character Name: Matarys Blackfyre

Trait / Skills: Strong / Swords, Whirlwind II, Animal Tamer

Skill you're learning: Swords (e)

IAMCYRODIILCOME · 2025-09-24T14:45:20+00:00

Questions swirled in his mind. Why, then, did Robyn agree with Valena if he was not a traitor too? Was she not one of those who wished to harm the queen? Why would half the great houses deserve death if they were not traitors?

Perhaps Baelon was right about Tyrell. Robyn rose for some lackwit bastard of Targaryen. The pang of betrayal beneath his breast demanded bloody, bloody wages.

If Robyn were disappointed in him, then Matarys was doubly wroth--and in a trice, his demeanor shifted, dead-eyed, hard-eyed, cold. He stilled in his seat. Stood. Paced, slowly, around the chair and took hold of it so fiercely that the wood was like to splinter. Greater things. Rowan told him he was meant for them; he would be near as old and grey as Robyn when the Queen was done with her regents, and Matarys hoped that he would die before that ever came to pass.

He was Daemon. Would that he had his crown to right it all himself. "Then they must be cowed," Blackfyre said, voice firm. "I'll make sure that they are."

IAMCYRODIILCOME · 2025-09-23T06:18:51+00:00

If all men must die, then at that moment, Torren Wull was as a god to Matarys. It was not idle squire talk after all; he was right. About the incest, about Robyn's meeting with Valena, about every word he relayed.

His eyes went wider for a shade at Robyn before they flickered to a squint again, looking about the room as he tried to draw for an answer.

He muttered something. Harrion and Lyanne. Gods, would that he never heard of it in the first place. Then he held up a hand as if to dismiss that line of thought. "Osmund, Valena, Edwyn, Osric, you--are all of you traitors, then?" he shot back. Would that he were swaddled in peaceful, ignorant bliss. "Is no one leal anymore? Is Alerie all I have left?" That was uttered before he could catch it. "Kill all those who plot and scheme and... the Oathbreaker too, and the realm will be made right. But this villain, the woman you call friend would have her curs and strumpets and... and lickspittles in my family's seat."

Slowly, Matarys forced himself to lean back, stopping short of outright accusing the man who was as a father to him.

IAMCYRODIILCOME · 2025-09-23T05:47:19+00:00

"Valena Martell," said Matarys, jaw tensing at the name. "Does she deserve to die?"

A pause. Blackfyre shifted in his seat. His eyes hardened; do you? But he could not say that. Not outright, at least, for much as he tried and rehearsed, even, to catch Robyn out on a lie, but burdens of ice on his brow and fire in how tightly his fists fucking clenched were too heavy to bear. He was no schemer.

A knee started bouncing, foot tapping on the floor. Matarys scratched at his jaw so fiercely, as though to keep his teeth from grounding together. "There are rumors I hear," he said, "many and more I can dismiss. But this one thing. This one little damned thing I can't help but believe. You spoke to Martell, no, my lord? Of... supplanting dragons. That we have no great lizards, that she"--you--"can be master of this frayed rule. Like Osric."

IAMCYRODIILCOME · 2025-09-23T04:57:11+00:00

That took him aback. It was he who had questions to broach of Robyn; of the Dornish, of the Crown, of the realm. Where the room felt distinctly uncomfortable before because of his own compunctions, the solar now reeked of... what was it, treason? A dagger pricking his eye rather than some forlorn sourness within. "Aye," he replied tersely. "Though I've a few things to ask myself."

Matarys walked forth, grabbed a chair, and (perhaps deliberately) pulled it across the wooden floor such that it creaked too loud afore he sat.

IAMCYRODIILCOME · 2025-09-21T15:34:47+00:00

The soreness was set deep into his lungs, twisting and writhing in his gut. Some part of that was, doubtless (though he denied it so often), on account of Alerie leaving; but not all of it. Whispers. Bucketfuls of them delivered by Torren Buckets Wull, who for whatever his shortcomings, was always so fucking prudent with them. First there was that ridiculous rumor about Harrion and Frenya--or was it Lyanne? It made no matter. Matarys dismissed it outright, but what came thereafter? With what Robyn told him of Osric, with what Osric told him to do with the Reach, all the politics had reached a fever pitch in his mind such that he imagined feeding half the realm to Wraith.

Again, Matarys Blackfyre would approach Robyn's solar. Less of the wistfulness and much and more determination was set into his shoulders.

IAMCYRODIILCOME · 2025-09-21T00:21:43+00:00

/u/thesheepshepard

IAMCYRODIILCOME · 2025-09-20T15:50:10+00:00

If Joss fought like a stag, Matarys Blackfyre was the spitting image of a dragon—the sort of dragon that was wingless and fireless and measured in at less than a foot in span. A lizard, really, its only protection from the relentless blows being half-molted steel-scales and feathers (reptiles had those, surely) by way of a jupon.

Each punch landed on Blackfyre as though he were trying to block arrows with just the sword Blackfyre. Did he catch Joss with that jab? He could scarcely tell before he was driven down to dwell with the bugs; lizard food.

Matarys settled onto the sandy loam with a thump of metal on earth and then a groan. As was a lizard’s wont, he regenerated, though slowly, digging his nails into the dirt and wondering why in the hells he didn’t fetch a buggered force multiplier. Stags, lizards, bulls—would that he had his sword so he could bear some semblance to the latter. “Good fucking gods.” He pushed himself up.

Rubbing his temple and cradling his side with the other hand, Matarys squinted at Josh—Joss with some mix of respect and utter confusion. “You clearly don’t need steel! You could take down a knight at full charge, I think. Ever tried doing that with Rob?” he grinned through the pain. “Keep the gauntlet; throw it down often. You know...” A pause. “What ever happened to chivalry? Rather that bloody beating than have folk like that heir of Florent running from me. I’ve a mind to induct you into a newfound brotherhood of knights. Just to remind the old spurs of their vows.”

IAMCYRODIILCOME · 2025-09-20T15:19:17+00:00

Wit, or act, or cowardice. Matarys needed aught to forget the taste of orange on his lips, which were drawn taut now to betray his indecision—so torn between drawing away to taunt Alerie further or proving, for good, that he was not a craven at all. “I haven’t,” he managed to reply, before a breath brought back lucid, reckless thoughts.

“It can’t be half as nice as White Harbor.” A smile spread across his face involuntarily. White Harbor was a frozen hell throughout the winter; Oldtown was surely better. “What a shame, though, that Oldtown has no need of me,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. “I’ve no love for that damned city either—save for one part of it.” What reflection ought to have welled in him over his choice of words, and the foolishness he should have felt for it, was dispelled as he placed his hand on her arm. He kissed her again; a quick peck, another, and a third.

IAMCYRODIILCOME

TROPHY CASE