Matarys Targaryen

## Prince of Summerhall

**Matarys Targaryen**, the second son of Prince Baelor Targaryen and Lady Barbara Connington, is the current head of House Targaryen of Summerhall, and the Prince of Summerhall. He was previously married to Lady Myrcella of House Fossoway of Cider Hall, who bore him one daughter before passing away.

## History

The second son of Baelor Targaryen and Barbara Connington, Matarys was born not long after the War of the Shadow, in the later parts of 350 AC. Though his brother had born the sparkling violet and shimmering silver of their House, Matarys seized only the hair. His eyes, from the moment they opened a few minutes after he stopped his howlish wailing, were as blue as a summer sky. His mother was to thank for that.

He was never raised for the greatness that came with a Lordship. He was the second son; his lot in life was to find greatness on the battlefield, or in books, or in the Church. *Ruling* was not his calling, neither through birth nor through upbringing. Given his choice of the options presented to him, a young Matarys leaned towards the blade. Horses and metal appealed to him more than stuffy Maesters and their old books and old Septons and their stuffy rituals.

He and his older brother, Rhaegar, were always close. The shadow that often falls over a first son and his brothers passed them by. They rode together, played together, bathed together, ate together... If there was a thing under the sun, odds are, they did it*together.* Inseparable, they were: they even squired together, though Baelor hated the idea. "It's meant to make you whole men," he'd complained, every time they begged, "not teach you how to be more dependent."

Tacticians should look to tragedy, if they desire to learn how best to harry their opponent. It follows relentlessly, nipping at heels, turning pleasure to ash. It struck Matarys first in 364, a few short months before the beginning of the War of the Seven Banners. His mother, after a period of silence only the Gods know the length of, confided in his father that she had been raped. By his kin.

She begged him not to be angry. Pleaded, in every way she knew could, to try and keep him from leaving for Harrenhal the next day, but he could not be persuaded. Baelor, bookish and wise, forgot it all in a heartbeat. Him and his, he said, were worth defending.

The duel he challenged Maegor to did not end well. Baelor laid in a pool of his own blood before the God's Eye. His eldest son, Rhaegar, took his place, inconsolable. Barbara ended her own life not long afterwards. Guilt, her letter said, over a family torn apart by her inability to just *cope.*

Independence was the last thing either of the brothers could manage. Least of all after their night at the summit of Summerhall, locked in each other's arms.

War stripped them from one another before they were ready. Rhaegar, already knighted, went to fulfill his duty in Essos. Matarys stayed behind. His heart aches remembering that day, colored as it is by the events that came after. Men make promises in war they know they can't keep. "I'll be back," the worst of them.

"Corpse Lake" earned its name. Matarys wishes, every day, it could have earned it another way, through another person. He wishes that the better part of him didn't rest at the bottom of that Gods-forsaken lake he knows he'll never see.

Ruling fell to Matarys, and he hated every second of it. Two years of emptiness: his heart of love, and his holding of inhabitants. Summerhall had never been more quiet, and likely never will be. Too many good young men fighting in a war that didn't *matter.*

He dedicated himself to lances and horses. They reminded him of Rhaegar. When he thundered down the list and hit true, he felt one with him again, like it was *his* arm holding the lance, not his.

Not content to leave him well enough alone after ripping his brother from him, the Essosi came to Westeros, bearing fire and steel. Matarys met them eagerly, young as he was. He made his fair share of tactical and strategic failures, young and inexperienced as he was, but his men trusted him because he committed to his plans fully. Risky or not, he was certain of it, and he fought from the front, pennant fluttering on the edge of his lance as he stormed towards the enemy's lines. Leadership from the front earned him respect.

Part of him wished he'd die on their spears. That would have been too kind a release, the Gods decided.

Lord Valarr Baratheon knighted him for his valor in fighting back the invaders. He was eighteen at the time.

The coming decades saw comparatively less time spent at Summerhall: the Castellan could run it well enough, and he hated the memories that sat in the castle. *Especially* in the bedroom he was now expected to inhabit. Tourneys were a preferred escape, and a good use of his skills. He competed in every single one he could. It brought him back, even if it was only for those brief moments.

Life marches on around us. He couldn't escape forever. He married at twenty-five, only because his sisters continued to tell him how *odd* it was that he hadn't. Myrcella Fossoway, of Cider Hall. She had one daughter by him a year or so after they married, but died not long after. He wore the black and wrote letters of condolence to her family, but for some reason, it felt empty.

His daughter, Rhaenys, he loved. Maybe it was the name he affixed to her--one that paid tribute to the brother he'd lost--or maybe it was a paternal instinct unknown beforehand. Either way, *she* kept him in Summerhall, a place he'd refused to tred. *She* brought him back from the haze that had claimed him for so long. What he does, he does for her.

Even so, he can't deny he misses the heat in his blood, or the sound of horses and shattering wood. *A tourney* sounds lovely, and Viserys was kind enough to deliver that.

Clearly, a tourney would be all that came of it. Go. Compete. Win. Go home.