shelbs
oswin

It is currently WINTER in WESTEROS during the year 303 AC. The new moon cycle marks a full twenty years since the Mad King was murdered, and his son King Rhaegar ascended the Iron Throne in his place. Though the year is fresh, war in the Narrow Sea has left the Free Cities of Volantis and Tyrosh in ashes, and the Long Night continues to beckon from the Northern fringes of the Seven Kingdoms. With the Queen Lyanna presumed dead, the citizens of the realms look only to each other for survival.
[x] SURPRISE! Please enjoy our new skin, and let the staff know if you find any bugs! (Shelbs accidentally overwrote the old skin and posted this too soon so it's entirely possible the dumbass she forgot some things!)
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Alias: quetzal
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Age: 20
Sworn To: targaryen
Born to: targaryen
Location: the tower of joy
Title: prince
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MATARYS TARGARYEN

DORNE

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May 28 2018, 04:42 PM
Yeah I gotta do that. The deadline for my last ever bit of uni work, which is worth so much of this year it alone will determine what grade I get in my entire degree (I'm on a borderline), is due on Friday so I'm a wee bit panicked atm. Going to distance myself from the Internet until I hand it in so see you on the 2nd!
Apr 3 2018, 06:18 PM
Everything was miserable of late. Even victory in Essos had failed to bring much joy. Matarys had long been rid of infection and fever, but his broken kneecap would take a while yet to heal. Splints were no longer necessary, but much movement would slow healing and putting weight on his right leg sent stabbing pains shooting up his leg and sometimes made his leg below the knee completely numb for a minute. Walking normally for just a couple of steps made his vision go black and his knee give way, so he had grudgingly accepted use of a crutch. He preferred a stick for short trips around the keep, but anything longer than a five minute walk wore on his knee and took frustratingly long without the full support of a crutch. The better he took care of it, the quicker it would heal, but that did nothing to stem his frustration at being trapped and less able to exercise.

Adding to his medical problems, there was trouble elsewhere. Aunt Dany's devastation was more painful to see than the loss of her husband. Daeron Valeryon had fallen, too, a presence about court all his life. Quentyn Martell's death worried him as he had reportedly died in dragon fire, no doubt making his position as a Targaryen in Dorne more difficult. Politics had naturally been very stirred up and he was not sure where it left him. He wanted to go back to Dorne as soon as possible, which would be after this trial if nothing else jumped out of nowhere. There was more talk of things stirring in the North... ravens had been sent from the Wall. He had a nagging feeling tugging him towards the Wall, a gut feeling of deep dread that the worst was yet to come, and it would come from the far north. He would have to do more research on what was happening while so many people from all over were gathered here, then research what the problem might be when he got home to his slowly growing library.

Home. He and Ysera had both been away from the Tower for a while now. He really ought to make a greater effort to stay in one place. It would certainly quell a lot of arguments between himself and his wife. It was hard when there was little for him at the Tower and trouble was constantly stirring outside Dorne, particularly when flying on dragonback made distances so much shorter. He should work harder at acting more Dornish, making closer Dornish friends. Feeling more of an attachment to make him spend more than a few months at a time at home. For now, he still had a few days to take in the political scene.

Talking politics was the last thing he wanted to do right now. Staring out at the grey sky from within his chambers with equally grey eyes, he wanted to draw the shutters and curl up on his bed in the pitch dark. He wanted to shut out the world and cry and process what he had lost, what his situation was, what he should do. He wanted his leg to be healed already, to have never been broken, for those men to have never died, for his father to have never remarried and for Essos to have kept to themselves. But that could not happen, and hiding away was cowardly. Steeling himself, he went to change into more formal attire than the casual loose shirt and trousers ripped off above his right knee as the bandages and casts holding it in place made that difficult, wrappings instead keeping his calf warm. After a moment's hesitation he instead put on a warm cloak, maroon with dragons at the clasp, and headed for Aegon's quarters instead of to some area where other nobles tended to congregate.

A smile worked its way to his lips despite his reliance on his cane and awkward gait. The royal family all needed a break. No one was ever better to soothe him than Aegon, save their mother. Valarr did well, but promised something more spontaneous or likely to get them into trouble. Aegon kept him safe. He knocked on the door to his chambers and pushed it open a crack. "Is this a good time, brother?" he called. "Today, no politics. No painful decisions. No injuries. Just the two of us, and whatever we need to do. Race dragons. Talk. Drink. Whatever. I just need a break from all... this." He said simply. He rarely acted this spontaneously, but he didn't think he could take much more of this constant chipping away at his energy. There was too much to do, too much he wanted to do instead, too much holding him back.
Jan 17 2018, 07:20 PM
After a week drifting in and out of consciousness, it looked as though the infection was on its way out. Matarys still had a raging fever and slept most of the time, but the fits and hallucinations were far less frequent. Now his time was spent sleeping restlessly, sweating, trying to ignore the pain, and hoping someone would come to see him to relieve the tedium of endless minutes alone with his agony. The subsiding flames of the fever had gifted him the joy of being able to think more about how much his leg hurt with every slight movement. The wound at his knee had been sewn up, his whole leg made still with splints, but there was damage to the bone and tissue. It would be a long time healing, he thought, as any little nudge anywhere on his leg moved his knee enough to grind the healing fragments of broken bone against each other or pull at the damaged tissue or the stitches. It didn't help that his feverish sleep had him tossing and turning. Sometimes the brush of the blankets as he shifted under them was enough to wake him howling.

He thought it had been a day since he had woken and Ysera had spoken to him. It warmed his heart to think she had stayed by his side. She must have seen him screaming nonsense as he hallucinated, writhing in fits, throwing up, uncharacteristically shouting abuse at the maesters because he hallucinated they were monsters, seen the whites of his eyes when the pain got too much and he retreated to the blissfully healthy body of Yraenyx. He'd been as good as unconscious for a week; she must've seen him piss and shit himself too, he realised. It was a wonder she was still there after all that. He felt a sense of pride that she was tough enough not just to fight in the war, but to stand by her husband after seeing all that. He wasn't sure he'd ever understand what their relationship was, but he was fairly sure they both cared about each other much more than either would admit. They were both extremely practical - no point moping about how disgusting someone was when they were extremely ill and wounded since they couldn't help that.

Thoughts seemed to swirl uncontrollably in his head being confined to this bed. Desperately he hoped someone else would visit. Since waking, he had dared not touch Yraenyx's mind again. He thought he would be able to do it again, though the more the fever lessened, the harder it seemed to reach out with his mind. He was wary of both Artos' encouragement to lose his fears and practise, and his warning to be careful not to get lost in any other mind. He was tempted by his boredom, but so far had not succumbed. It was probably good to have a few days without joining with the dragon's mind, anyway. So his thoughts tumbled around each other, one internal discussion gaining priority for a few minutes before another shoved its way forwards at random. Sometimes he slept without even realising. Half the time he seemed to be dozing anyway, somewhere between awake and asleep.

One of those moments of unaware sleep must have taken him because he found himself waking with a start to someone approaching his bed. From hearing alone he could guess who it was. With some effort he propped himself up to a slumped almost seated position, wincing as his leg dragged against the mattress and blanket. "Father!" he exclaimed in his ragged, croaky voice. A weak smile lit up his pale and shiny face. A wave of light-headedness and nausea had struck him when he sat up, so he had to pause. "They did tell me you were perfectly well, but I was worried they might lie to keep me calm... it's so good to see you. It's so dull being stuck in bed, I'm itching to see how everything is." Finally, a brief end to this boredom. The sooner he sweated out this fever, the better. Surely only a few more days now and he could be hobbling about again. "I've only been awake properly for a day, I think, though you must have known. No one will tell me much. Only that we won. Everyone keeps going on about your young Queen like she single-handedly saved Westeros," he rolled his eyes. His father knew his thoughts about his remarriage. He thought he was allowed a little disrespectful behaviour with the excuse of not being in his right mind. There was no point making a secret about it when he couldn't even bring himself to pretend to like her as he usually did when starting feuds was more hassle than its worth. It was also plain his only problem with her was that she wasn't Lyanna. Swiftly moving on to what he really wanted he hear, he continued. "I've seen Ysera, and she'd seen Valarr. But is everyone else really all right?" he asked.
Dec 19 2017, 07:38 AM
For days, he burned.

Mercifully, Matarys Targaryen had not regained consciousness until after the arrow had been removed from his kneecap and the broken bones set with wooden splints. When he did shortly after, it had at first seemed the procedure was a smooth one. His right knee and much of his shin were in agony, but that was only to be expected. His thoughts had been muddled, his breathing laboured, all attributed to exhaustion or shock. Then the violent uncontrollable shaking had begun. Fearing infection, the bandages covering his right leg had been changed to reveal a network of angry red lines making their way across his flesh. Infection – or poison. Most likely the former, confirmed as the symptoms progressed. The wound was healing but the poor conditions of battle had introduced something bad to his blood. All that could be done was to leave the fever to burn out or claim him.

As the burning spread, his thoughts grew more confused with the infection spreading to his brain along with every other part of his body. Matarys did not know when he was awake and when he slept. Every inch of his body felt as though he were being burned alive, yet it remained intact. He wanted to scream in agony, but could not open his mouth. Sometimes he managed a grunt, but that was it. Sweat drenched his skin. The fire was a white pain, somehow colour seeming the best way to describe it, the heat being beyond temperature. His leg was a dirty blue-black pain, metallic like iron, feeling the bones crunching and screaming every time one of his fits make him accidentally thrash about with it. There would be little healing for his knee while the fits of shaking persisted. For a long time there was no room in his head for anything except pain.

Days, hours, it was unknown to Matarys, but eventually his mind began to experience something beyond the pain. The fire was his constant companion, but he began to see faces. The first was his mother, unable to see him, calling out. He wanted to go to her but knew he could not. His father stared at him sick with worry, but he could not tell him that everything would be all right. His siblings stared at him without expression, Ysera glowered at him with fury. Matarys’ eyes opened on a canvas roof of the medical tent. Maesters stirred to his side, but he barely noticed them. He struggled to sit up shakily as they pushed him back down. Why were they stopping him? Did they not realise how important it was that he… he… he gave a howl of despair as he realised he had forgotten what was so important. He just knew he had to get away. Twisting away from the maesters, he saw beyond them his father’s new bride. She hissed at him. Another howl escaped him, this one full of loathing as his eyes widened and stared wildly at a woman present only in his head. Arms clawed desperately at the hateful image, paying no notice now to the maesters forcing his weak body down. As he watched, his mother approached Lorainna Targaryen, only to be grabbed in firm arms, her heart ripped out by the foreigner’s bare hands. Laughing as Matarys’ mother slumped lifelessly to the ground, the hallucination was the last thing the Prince saw before he succumbed to another fit, passing out of consciousness once more.

The cycle of dreams, hallucinations, and fits continued for days as Matarys burned ever stronger. The people around him were the enemy. Fire built until once again his thoughts could not shout over the pain. Then suddenly, nothing.

He drifted serenely upwards, feeling blissfully cool and light after so much pain. The burning had become all too much and his mind had forced its way out to escape. Targaryens did not burn. He was ice, but he was also fire. He would not burn either. He could feel everything though he could not see. Around him were busy maesters tending the wounded. Someone he recognised. Ysera? Would she really sit by his side? He felt a warmth thinking she might care. His mind was being drawn somewhere, and it all felt right when he found himself calmly touching at the familiar mind of Yraenyx. This was the first time he had actively reached out, felt things between himself and his dragon, and had been aware of trying to contact the beast. Yraenyx had not stopped roaring since Matarys had been wounded, and had not stopped trying to reach him despite the other dragonriders keeping the dragons well away from any humans, particularly the wounded. Upon feeling Matarys’ presence, the silver dragon immediately calmed. The man could sense warm comfortable stables ruined by claws and flames, chains strained almost to breaking point. There was no need to struggle, he reassured the beast. He was here in some way.

A rude awakening brought him out of Yraenyx’s mind; his body had begun to shake, eyes opening wide to reveal whites as the eyes rolled back in his head. Maesters had naturally tried to stop this. He shouted in frustration at the lost connection and cried out at the sudden shock of the burning’s return, but after that moment it was easier to slip back into Yraenyx’s mind to escape the pain whenever he wished. It was not to comfort the dragon any more, it was to escape his burning body. The maesters worried less about his white-eyed fits. Finally, the heat began to pass. His body still sweated and burned, but the pain was not unbearable. As his mind still drifted away now sometimes out of boredom, he was more aware of the people around him he brushed past. He had seen Ysera. Others, too, visited him, or lay healing beside him. He should contact the real world. Mustering up his strength, he tried but failed to prop himself up, so instead reached out to a figure he could see nearby when his eyelids permitted themselves to open. He did not know whether they were family, friend, or a complete strange. ”You… who…? Who are you?” he croaked, voice cracked and hoarse from lack of use and shouting.
Oct 20 2017, 11:51 AM
A great many people had followed the party from King's Landing home from Winterfell, most of which had remained for Aegon and Visenya's wedding. Matarys was doing his best to be happy for his siblings, but a gloom had settled over the Red Keep. Mourning for the Queen was over yet he was nowhere near ready to move on. This would stay with him forever. Life went on regardless, his family besides his father making a swifter recovery to normality than he although he knew perfectly well they all felt the same inside. He was doing his best to get on with things, knowing his mother would have told him in gentler terms to stop moping about feeling sorry for himself. He did feel a little like he was being a wet blanket drifting around aimlessly looking sad. There was a keep for him to manage, people to look after, a woman whose happiness he must ensure. Gradually he had begun helping prepare for the huge event that was the wedding of the heir to the kingdom, in between which he studied skinchangers and the mysteries north of the Wall. No solid theories had formed in his head yet. Nor had he made much progress in controlling his skinchanging even with all the help Artos had given him. Patience was key, he thought, since to the Stark wargs it had come more naturally while he clearly would have to fight hard not to be consumed by his dragon's mind.

One thing making it easier to cope was having so much family around. He found himself smiling every day because of them. Those from Winterfell had escorted Munna's body back to the Red Keep, lingering for the wedding. He so rarely got to see them and while he had been in the North he had scarcely allowed himself the time off searching to actually socialise with them. It had been strange marvelling at his cousins growth but not finding time to ask them what had happened over the past few years. Their staying here while he had nothing else to do as he too was away from his residence gave him the time to catch up properly. More people arrived daily, both family and friends. He did not have many friends but rarely quarrelled with anyone. The few friends he did have from various visits, the down time around serious meetings with lords from other towns, and celebrations were almost all present now. He was overdue a good drink in relaxed company.

As much as he was glad for the company, he hated being this idle. There should be more point to his tasks than stabbing in the dark to see what might match what the men of the Night's Watch had told him. Careful and thoughtful he might be, inactivity made him restless. Even as a child when he had spent most of his days as he did now, learning, reading, and training at swordplay - though he only trained now to keep up his ability, not hard enough to improve - it had all felt like there was a point to it if only because someone told him to do it and he watched his own developments. At the Tower of Joy there would always be one of the smallfolk asking after something, an agreement that needed managing, Ysera to argue with. Here there was chatter and piecing together his thoughts. Too much chatter made him long to be alone to rest, while too much studying made him frustrated and bored when he couldn't find the answer.

That morning he had been reading about how wildlings might overcome blizzards those below the Wall could not, with the occasional pause when he reached a dead end of found something too infuriatingly silly to attempt to reach out to Yraenyx's mind. All such attempts were unsuccessful. Blinking in the brighter light, eyes adjusting to focus on things further away than a book on a desk, he was grateful to fill his lungs with fresh air after the musty library. He stretched his limbs by walking out in search of someone to talk to. Once he got fed up of reading, he socialised; thus his free time alternated between two activities. He didn't think he'd be needed for any wedding preparations until later that evening. As Aegon's eldest sibling, he found himself lumped with a fair few things to organise. Unsure where anyone of interest might be, he strolled leisurely to walk the grounds outside the keep behind the guarded walls. Immediately he spotted a few northerners grumpily huddled in the shade of a small cluster of leafy trees. He didn't recognise any of them at a first glance, only telling their origin by their unwisely thick clothing, their having a similar colouration and build to himself, and how they appeared to be complaining about the temperature. It was by no means a hot day, with a slight chill in the air as the seasons changed, but it was certainly warmer than the snowbound north. Perhaps they were simply mocking southerners for their feeble autumn.

Curiously stepping closer, peering at faces, he spied his Lyarra Stark among them. He grinned, picking up speed. Soon he slipped in between the hard-set northerners, looking at Lady Stark with excitement lighting his eyes. He was extremely pleased to find her, loving how much in common he had with the Starks. "Grandmother! How are you faring?" he asked, looking around at the others. They did not seem to mind the prince joining them, and would have hardly prevented their Lady from talking with her own grandson. "Not interrupting anything important, I hope." Some of the faces looked vaguely familiar. Members of the Winterfell household, he thought one might be the master at arms, and a minor lord or lady or two.
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