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Chapter Text

1st DAY of the 4th MOON, 209 AC

Lady Jena Dondarrion had been praying at her son’s bedside. The gods claimed her husband on the last day of the first month during the Ashford tourney. Then Daeron the Good and Valarr were taken by the plague in the months afterward. Now the realm’s fate rested on Matarys’ shoulders. 

He only saw twenty namedays when a horrid shiver took hold of him, with a sweltering fever soon after. His pale, freckled face was gaunt and thin with ghostly colour. 

Jena’s fists were clenched white, and tears from her blue eyes stained her freckled cheeks, her red hair was done in a simple, loose braid. Lines had formed on her face from stress and age at almost forty. 

She shot up on her feet when the maester came in. 

“I bring good tidings, Lady Jena,” He said joyfully. “Prince Matarys, may yet still live. Tonight will prove if our predictions are true.” 

She smiled and wiped her tears, looking at her son. He was sleeping soundly, a rarity as he would be tossing and turning and throwing down sheets--sometimes even his own clothes--because of the heat. Or screaming and saying words in his sleep. 

Jena kissed his forehead and whispered, “Good night,” to him. 

The Stranger did not come to Matarys’ door that evening. 

And for that, the newly Heir to the Iron Throne lit a candle for him and the Mother, who was merciful and protected him. The Father was given a libation of honey milk, a drink his own sire had loved in his life. Matarys kissed the golden seven-pointed star that hung from his neck and wiped a tear from his cheek. 

15th DAY OF THE 4th MOON, 209 AC

When he was confined to his bed, he laid down as a prince, a mere second son. But when he arose, he became a Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and the thirteenth king to sit on the Iron Throne. 

The High Septon anointed him with seven oils and placed Aegon III’s golden circlet upon his red hair, which now had floral designs inlaid with sapphires to remind him of the spring illness he survived. 

Matarys’ blue doublet felt hot under his red-and-black Targaryen cloak. The golden chain of lightning bolts and the three-headed dragon did him no better. Making him feel heavy in addition to the suffocating heat of the beating sun despite the season. Nevertheless, he kept his shoulders back. I must look like a proper king, he told himself. 

The crowds cheered for their monarch. Giving him a new name, “Matarys the Lucky” in their almost deafening chants. Despite the praise, there was bristled pride from the insinuation that luck is what helped him live and not the maesters who attended his bedside. Or the mother and kin who prayed every night and day at the sept and in the keep. That it was all merely the work of gods because it wasn’t. 

The king arranged for pieces of bread and gold, silver, and copper coins to be given to the commons. He had always liked meeting with the smallfolk. Hedge knight, fisherman, or peasant it mattered not, they all liked him in turn for his attention. And Matarys was not about to give that up now. 

The walk to the Red Keep felt like an eternity before he arrived. He took a sigh and unfastened his cloak and handed it off to his squire, Prince Aelor, his cousin. He wore lighter clothes than the king, a black tunic with the red dragon emblazoned on it and a silver falcon hanging from his neck on a small chain. 

Aelor had always been more Andal-looking, a fact that Matarys also related to. His eyes were blue like the colour of the Arryn sigil and he was golden-haired, almost the spitting image of his mother. 

He walked up the steps of the hideous Iron Throne as the lords and ladies watched, among the forefront was his own family. There was his mother, now Queen Mother Jena, who wore a black dress with purple lightning bolts on her bodice and skirts with white, linen sleeves and a necklace that matched her girdle of white pearls and an amethyst gemstone. He had inherited her colouring of red hair, blue eyes, and freckles, and everyone else who bristled at his father’s looks had been glad for it. Happy for a prince that looked like them. 

Daeron II and Myriah had wisely arranged the match between Baelor and Jena to soothe the pride of the Marcher lords. After centuries of bloodshed between them and the Dornish, they would have at last peace within a king they hoped to represent both, along with the blood of the dragon, to make a long-broken realm whole. 

They had gotten their wish, but not with the grandson they expected. Valarr was wed long before him, as he was second in line for the throne, and expected to symbolise the union of the Rhoynars and Marchers. Matarys had outright refused to marry when his parents brought it up, and his grandsire was generous enough to let him be for another couple of years. That green boy didn’t like to be chained. But he was that boy no longer, now a man grown and a monarch. 

But it was Matarys who was crowned king before the eyes of gods and men. He shook himself out of it as the Iron Throne loomed closer, Now is not the time to dwell on the past. He had a duty to fulfil. 

Finally, he sat on the seat of melted and deformed steel and held a sword’s hilt in his hand as he leaned back with open knees and a straightened back. 

Matarys saw the Kingsguard standing diligently. There was red-haired Ser Donnel of Duskendale next to the taller Roland Crakehall. Roland was the heir of Crakehall until he was sworn in after the Rebellion. Then there was Willem Wylde; Tommen Costayne, who recently joined after the Tourney of Ashford; Michael Mertyns; Rupert Crabb; and lastly Alyn Connington, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Known as the Pale Griffin for his Tarthian white-blond hair instead of the typical red shades. It had been his mother’s influence at court that brought her Connington cousin to court to serve as part of the Kingsguard, which was where their shared looks came from.  

Besides the Queen Mother; the other kinsmen in attendance were Aerys, the 32-year-old Prince of Dragonstone, and his 28-year-old wife, Aelinor Penrose. She was also kin to Robin Penrose, Elaena’s son, as his cousin. 

Brynden was standing next to his paramour, Lady Shiera Seastar. Both of them were into their thirties, with Shiera being 31 and Brynden 34. 

The sickly and short Prince Rhaegel was with his tall wife, Alys Arryn, along with their twin children, Aelor & Aelora, both 14 and already growing into their looks. 

Sandy-haired and 19-year-old Daeron came alone, standing for his father. 

Beautiful, pink-haired, and dark-skinned Kiera of Tyrosh stood next to him. 

The unofficial mistress of coin: Aunt Elaena Targaryen, was there too. Almost in her sixth decade but never lost her beauty as her golden streak started blending into grey with the rest of her hair. She was with her Dornish husband, Ser Michael Manwoody, who Matarys planned to install as his master of coin to keep the intelligent princess close. 

Most of Elaena’s seven children came as well with their growing families. The only one not in attendance was Joy Penrose, now Lady Errol due to her recent marriage. 

Jon Waters had married his second cousin and another bastard like him, Mya Rivers--Bloodraven's sister--out of love and they had a son named Melwyn Waters. 

Jeyne married a younger son of the Hardys, whose sigil was a red lily on green, and had a baby girl named Lillian. 

Lord Viserys Plumm was with his eldest daughter and son, Eleyna, and Osmund. Both had bright-blond hair and purple eyes. Eleyna was flowered and a year shy of her majority. While her younger brother was thirteen. He had left behind his cousin-wife, Lady Esther Plumm, born of House Brax, and his other seven children, which included three other daughters and four sons. 

Dark-haired and dark-eyed Lord Robin Penrose was there and left behind his pregnant wife, Paege Peasebury, the Lady of Poddingfield in her own right. 

The fair-haired and brown-eyed Laena Penrose, now 22 years old, attended with her younger sister, Jocelyn, who had brown hair and purple eyes. Jocelyn from what he knew was his exact age, 20 years old. 

Of course, lords from all over were there to swear fealty, or they sent representatives if they couldn’t be there in person due to the epidemic. But his family were the ones he paid attention to. 

After the vows were spoken, they cheered his name. “Matarys the Undying!” “Matarys the Deathless” “The King who cheats death!” They called him. The people admire me, he realised, both small and great. It filled him with a warm sense of accomplishment.

That evening, they held a great feast with seven courses for the gods. One was roast duck and Dornish lemons, the king’s favourite, and roast goose. Others were pies of lime and pear and apple tarts. 

He danced and spun fivescore maidens, or that’s what it felt like at least. He realised he got tired a bit quicker than he did before he fell ill. Which worried him. He dismissed himself from the feast, letting the people enjoy it in full without him. 

After eating lime pie and an apple tart, he was on his way to the master chambers in Maegor’s Holdfast, and had walked past two lovers in embrace. It wasn’t until he saw the flash of pink hair that he realised who they were. 

“Kiera?” Matarys was mystified. “Is that my cousin--” 

“Daeron,” the man answered. His sandy-brown hair was a mess, his sallow skin flushed, and his brown eyes were overtaken with black. 

He was almost irritated, no he was irritated. How dare his cousin tryst with his former goodsister, especially the cousin who was known to like one too many drinks. And how dare she dishonour his brother’s memory like this? 

The king curled his fists and marched away with a scowl on his face. 

They say never to go to bed angry but it seems he didn’t take that lesson to heart this time. 

Bloodraven was heard to say, “He has the anger of Bittersteel that one.” In reference to Matarys. His mother merely jested that, “It is the storm in his blood, and if it bothers you so much, mayhaps he should find his own glory in Essos too.” While his father seethed in silence behind a smile like he always did with Rivers. 

He had always said that even, “The Black Dragon has more honour than Brynden ever did.” In reference to how Daemon Blackfyre dismounted to make sure his opponent, Ser Gwayne Corbray, wasn’t trampled and then himself was slain by white-wood arrows. 

Ever since the Rebellion, no one really ever trusted the Blackwood again. Not even his own sisters, who had gone elsewhere to serve as companions and ladies-in-waiting. Gone elsewhere to save their reputations. 

Baelor, who had been the same age as Daemon and trained with him, misliked him especially. They always were passive-aggressive with each other on the small council, to his grandsire’s vexation. 

His scorn had been passed to his wife, and then to their sons. 

As he thought about Brynden, he remembered what he saw as he slept in his sickbed a little more than a fortnight before. It was vivid and colourful, unlike the usual blurry dreams. And so memorable he could recall it now. But he didn’t want to. His mother said it was so terrifying he woke up screaming. He couldn’t let that happen again, not only was it humiliating, but he would never find sleep otherwise. 

But when he rested his head, Matarys dreamed of something else entirely. Before him stood a man in front of a pomegranate tree. His sleek, black hair was crowned with tansy, pink snapdragons, and lavender on fern leaves. But before he knew it, his wavy, shoulder-length locks shifted to white-gold and back again, back and forth, back and forth. His smile was the only clear detail about his face, besides his mesmerising indigo eyes that called out to join him. His demeanour was inviting, warm even, and so Matarys walked forward. And took the pomegranate he offered. 

THE 16th DAY of the 4th MOON, 209 AC

But when he put it to his mouth, he was awakened by a ringing sound. The bell the servants use to wake up their superiors. 

“Your Grace, the small council commences in two hours' time,” a handmaid of his mother’s told him as she stood at the door. They usually give them an hour for getting dressed, and another for eating. 

On his first day as king, he wore puffy, blue, velvet sleeves under a linen, black long tunic with silver dragons as patterns. And of course, his golden-and-sapphire circlet. 

He broke his fast with his mother and the rest of his family, besides Rhaegel and his wife and daughter, who were on their way to Dragonstone. 

Matarys could not even look Kiera or Daeron in the eye, nor could they with him, as they looked elsewhere every time he glanced at them. 

“What’s the matter with you, cousin?” Aelor chirped as Matarys took a bite of his pear. “Is something not to your liking?” He subtly referred to the secret lovers with an eyebrow raise and a side-eye. 

He almost choked on his food from shock. “Excuse me? You cannot call me, cousin . From now on, it is either Your Grace or you don’t speak to me at all.” 

“Ever since they put that crown on your head, you’ve become a stick in the mud.” The adolescent boldly declared.

“That’s what sitting on a throne of blades does to you. You’d do well to learn duty, boy.” Jena reprimanded him. 

Aelor merely rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath. 

“What was that?” She raised an eyebrow, and the king held a laugh in as he drank his summerwine. 

“Nothing, Queen Mother,” he said politely with a dead tone.

“Good, never disrespect your superiors--especially your king. You may be of royal blood but you are a mere squire and have no place to act or talk like that.” Dondarrion lectured him. 

Matarys looked around the rest of the table. Aerys was in bliss, slurping his stew loudly. While Aelinor, Daeron, and Kiera were looking for an excuse to leave while picking at their plates. 

He coughed into his hand to get their attention. The air was growing tense and he needed to break the ice. “So, Daeron…”

Said man looked up as he wiped the red juice from a blood orange. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“Why didn’t you join your father on the kingsroad to Summerhall?” He really was curious. Matarys had no idea how his cousin would react. 

“Well, maybe I just wanted to stay at court,” he answered sullenly. 

“I never said you couldn’t,” he said with a sickeningly sweet smile. “I’m glad you’re here cousin, the court will be vibrant with your presence. Gods knows we need it because of this damned sickness.” 

Daeron straightened his shoulders and held his chin up. “May I be dismissed?”

“Of course, I will see you later.” 

He smiled with his lips but not his eyes. Then wiping his mouth with a handkerchief and scooting his chair out. The sound was loud and screeching as if he prolonged it to annoy him. 

The Queen mouthed, “Good job” to her son, which he smiled at. 

“You may keep eating, but I am done and will be attending the council now.” The king dismissed himself as his pear was thin and his bowl empty. 

They all bid him farewell as he strode over to the council room. The men stood for Matarys and bowed their heads, then sat down when he did. He sat at the head, in front of the window. 

The young Pale Griffin stood beside him on his left. 

On his left, was his master of laws, dark-haired and young Lord Florian Darklyn. He was closer to his age than anyone else on the council. And trusted by Bloodraven. 

The Grand Maester chosen by the Conclave was an unusual choice but not one without strategy. For too long the North had been apathetic in political matters of the Seven Kingdoms. There stood a pale, old, hulking man with a bald spot in his grey hair. But his beard was thick and covered half of his face. Maester Colemon, born of House Locke, had forged chains of black iron, yellow gold, silver, copper, and iron. 

He was suggested by the master of coin, Ser Michael Manwoody, who had studied at the Citadel and forged a chain or two, but left. His black hair was greying but a smile never left his face. 

The King’s Hand, Ser Gerold Lannister, was known as golden-haired and quick-witted, and especially shrewd. He was recommended by his mother. 

His swaggering, giant master of ships had an ironic family name for his position, Ser Lyonel Baratheon. His homewaters were Shipbreaker Bay, but that did not stop him from becoming excellent and knowledgeable with a sail. He was handsome, strapping, and clean-shaven at 18. He had transfixing blue eyes and chin-length, black hair worn with a middle part. Out of his councilmen, Lyonel was easiest on the eyes. 

Then there was his master of whisperers. Hooded and dressed in black and red, Brynden Rivers’ blood-red eye impaled his gaze. His white hair faintly covered the abyssal pocket of his right eye. And his ugly birthmark stood out against his milky skin. Both of his parents liked to call him, “Bloodraven” or even “Lord Rivers” mockingly. He had shit for honour, and was only there because gods knows what he would do if he was unchained by the realm with the power he has. There were many tales and songs written about him, and it was hard to separate fact from fiction, and he couldn’t afford that kind of risk. 

His cupbearer, Aelor, was on the other side, with a flagon of almond milk. He forbade the consumption of wine when it clouded a man’s mind, he could not endure faulty judgements when it came to the realm. Even when his advisors grumbled about it, he could care less. Wine was for feasting, not ruling, Aegon the Unworthy had proved as much.

He called for his cupbearer to pour the milk, and silently asked the others if they wanted the same. 

“Let’s address the dragon in the room,” Matarys requested frankly. “What are we to do about the epidemic?” 

“Your Grace, there might be other matters to discuss,” Darklyn objected. 

“And we will do so in due time. The plague is our top priority.” 

“He is not wrong, Lannisport has been hit badly,” Gerold agreed. 

“It’s even worse for Oldtown from what I’ve heard,” Colemon interjected. 

"Where are Prince Aegon and Ser Duncan?" The king asked, he and his family had been worried sick ever since the sickness broke out. 

"Reports tell me they are currently in Dorne, which has been closed off completely." His spymaster consoled him. In matters of that, he could usually be treated. 

"Good, command Lord Martell to make sure they don't leave and stay safe. Preferably under a roof." Matarys demanded. 

"It will be done," Brynden nodded his head. 

"Now let's move back to the subject," the king said. 

“Your Grace, if I may,” Alyn leaned forward, he and everyone else turned to look at him. “May we look at what other lords have done for their people?”

“That is not a bad idea,” Matarys agreed with his cousin. “Do we have any good examples of this?” 

“We've already mentioned Dorne's isolation,” Manwoody answered. 

“Same for the Vale,” Bloodraven added. 

 Lyonel grumbled and grit his teeth. “Are you suggesting we close off all our major cities, including King’s Landing?”

“It seems to be the wisest course of action--” But Baratheon cut Colemon off before he could finish. 

“Oh, that’s easy for you to say! Your people isolate themselves whether everyone’s dying or not!” The Laughing Storm stood up and argued.  

He huffed from his nose and rose up from his chair. “I may be a maester of the Citadel, but I was born a northman.” Not one in that room could deny the ice in his voice. “Anger me, and you may live to regret it.”  

“And what will an old man like you do, huh? Choke me with your chains?” Lyonel chuckled and taunted. 

“An insolent stripling like you would need a good choking,” he answered bitterly. 

“You--!” Baratheon reached over to him. 

“ENOUGH!” Matarys shouted at the top of his lungs. The room went silent in a second. “How can I rule the realm when my advisors fight like children? Even my cupbearer is more mature than you, and he’s fourteen years old!” He gestured to Aelor, who looked away. “Cease this and only then will we carry on.” 

He glanced at his councilmen, Lyonel and Colemon looked like they were children, who were just yelled at by their parents for being disobedient. Everyone else seemed uncomfortable or even frightened. 

“What about your marriage status?” Darklyn questioned. 

“What about it?” He was baffled. 

“You’re a king and yet you’re unwed,” Ah Bloodraven, always cutting to the chase, as he set a ruby marble in. One of his only likable traits. “You must continue the dynasty.” 

As if there isn’t a score of other Targaryens to take the throne after me. Matarys wanted to say but kept his tongue. “And who would you all suggest?” 

“A Blackwood perhaps, they are a prestigious house,” his master of whisperers came forward first. 

“You think they’re prestigious because you were born in it,” Lyonel rolled his eyes. “The rest of us think you’re just as bad as the Brackens.” 

The others smirked and chuckled. 

“Some might be uneasy with the idea of a king that does not have Targaryen colouring such as yourself,” his master of coin composed himself and pointed out. “It might do some good to wed a maid of Valyrian blood. There is no shortage of them. After all, the Old Blood is strong in my stepdaughters, the ladies Laena & Jocelyn Penrose.”

Ah, of course he advocates for himself and his family, Matarys realised begrudgingly. 

“Ser Manwoody is not wrong in that matter,” his Hand commented. “But Lord Viserys Plumm has the looks and so does his nubile daughter.”

“Lady Eleyna, she’s…quite young no?” Matarys was slightly repulsed by the idea of having a 15-year-old as a wife. 

“Esther Brax was 16 when she married her cousin, and 17 when her daughter was born,” Gerold argued. 

“Yes, but they were the same age and knew each other for 8 years before then during her wardship. It is not the same,” Bloodraven defended him. 

“Mind you all that the woman I marry will be the Queen, not just some other wife. She needs to be fit to help rule the realm.” The king said indignantly. “But I will summon all three maidens to court. And shall have my pick after I’ve learned enough of them. Now, is that all for today?” He was ready to go spar, or read, or do anything else besides this. 

Gerold pulled out a list and his green eyes scanned it. Only answering when he was done reading. “No, there isn't, Your Grace. Those were the only things on our agenda.” 

“Then you are dismissed, thank you for your time today.” 

With that all six men left. But Aelor stayed behind. 

“Cou--Your Grace,” Aelor stopped himself. “Do I really have to go to lessons today?” He asked with a desperate tone. 

“Yes, but not before sparring,” Matarys was unwavering. 

“But Matty, I’m your squire!” He protested. 

“That matters not. You spar for an hour and then have lessons. Be grateful that they’re only an hour. Most noble households require children to have them longer than that.” He looked him dead in his eyes as Matarys’ sky-blue met Aelor’s azure. 

He huffed from his nose but said nothing else as he stormed out the door. 

Matarys merely chuckled at his foul mood and followed him to spar in the courtyard.  

Aelor was already there, his steel singing with Oscar Peake’s, the rugged and handsome son and heir of Lord Gormon Peake. From the look of his glistened skin and light linen shirt, he had been training for a while. His First Men blood ran strong with brown hair slicked back and enthralling, sleepy grey eyes, which were determined daggers as they stared at his cousin. He was a year older, with dark stubble, a greater height, and brawny arms. 

Even a novice could tell that Peake’s swordsmanship was superior to Aelor. He had trained with the master-of-arms ever since he became a hostage at a mere eight years old. 

He used momentum to push the young boy to the floor and pointed his sword at him. “I yield,” Aelor yelled out but muttered something else under his breath. 

“Good,” he held out his hand to help him up, Aelor accepted it and got to his feet. They, and all the other boys there, bowed to the king. 

“Do you wish to train with him, Your Grace,” Oscar looked at him and asked. 

“No,” he shook his head. “I wish to spar with you.” Then he turned to his cousin, “You need to go back to the training dummy.”

He rolled his eyes and scowled, but did as he bid, slashing at the wooden dummy as if it were Septa Willow, the third bastard daughter of the Unworthy by Merry Meg. 

“Is he improving?” Matarys asked hopefully as they clashed swords. This wasn’t the first time they conversed during a duel. They had trained together under the same master and were close despite circumstances. He would even call him his closest friend and a confidant. 

“Yes, little by little every day. He needs to keep at it though,” CLANG! “Swordmanship builds focus and a sharp mind just as much as books do.” CLANG!

“Did you steal that from your father?” He mockingly teased. 

“No, Matty,” that had been his nickname since he was young, and he was one of the few to have the guts to still call him that. “I stole it from you.” 

The king only laughed. “Say your own words then, thief.” CLANG! 

“I’ll sure try,” CLANG! After that, their swords were at each other’s necks. Shy inches away from cutting each other’s heads off. Neither had noticed how heavy they were breathing, or the reddening on each other’s faces. 

Despite the sweaty smell in the air, Matarys could not help but pay attention to the shine in Oscar’s grey eyes. Or his ruffled, dark hair. His eyes captivated him and dared him to push forward, his defiant smirk said the same thing. And the king almost obeyed. 

“That’s enough practice from you,” he gave up. “I’ll dismiss myself.”

“What? Too tired to keep going?”

“No, I have other duties to attend to,” he lied. 

“Sure, you do,” Peake didn’t believe him. “Well, I’ll not keep you any longer, go on with your so-called duties.” 

“Thank you, Oscar,” he bowed his head and dismissed himself. 

But the image of his smiling eyes and sturdy build planted itself in his mind and refused to be pulled out, like a beautiful dandelion weed, but a weed that distracted himself from his other, more important thoughts nonetheless. 

Even in the pitch of night, it made its home there, and would for other nights to come.

Chapter Text

Hello, I would just like to say that this story will no longer be updated, at least by me. But if anyone wishes to remix and finish it, do so with proper credit.

The end of this story was pretty unclear even to me, because this is an era of Targaryen history that we don't know a whole lot about unlike the reign of Maegor the Cruel, which was central to my other ASOIAF fanfic, The Daughter of Ceryse & the Cruel, which is also discontinued. But Matarys was always going to end up with Daemon II. Even though he would meet him and Alyn Cockshaw in disguise at a tavern, and have a threesome with the two of them. Later discovering their treasonous plot, and showing up to Whitewalls to challenge Daemon to a duel for the throne. Which he would win and Daemon & Matarys would've begun their relationship in the former's captivity in the Red Keep. Although Matarys would dream of Daemon even before meeting him.

As for other conflicts, there were a couple I would've addressed and resolved. The first would be Matarys's bride. He had four options: Elaena's daughters, Jocelyn & Laena; Viserys Plumm's daughter, Eleyna; and even Aerys's wife, Aelinor Penrose. If I had gone with the last option, this would be a source of tension in the court. But Aelinor would've had her marriage to Aerys annulled on the basis of no consummation and married Matarys subsequently. They would've had children together, though this was also unclear to me. But I imagine at least one of them would have Matarys's red hair but Aelinor's purple eyes.

Another source of tension would be the relationship between Daeron the Drunken and Kiera of Tyrosh, as Kiera was just widowed by Valarr's death. And Matarys would feel she moved on from his brother too quickly and resented her and Daeron.

Then there were other love interests such as Oscar Peake, who would've become his lover within a year of his reign after Oscar confessed. And a past one named Jerrel, Matarys's first lover from the ages of 15 to 19. Jerrel was a fisherman's son murdered by his father after his homosexuality and affair with the prince was found out. Valarr, Matarys, and Baelor hatched a revenge plan to hire a catspaw to murder Jerrel's father and throw him in the ocean. This was a traumatizing event and the reason why Matarys kept his sexuality a secret and taken no partners since then. I was also considering Duncan the Tall and even Roland Crakehall. Although these would've been one-sided on Matarys's end.

As for non-romantic conflict, Dagon Greyjoy would've been featured in the story as an antagonist. Using the Great Spring Sickness to his advantage and raiding the western coast. Which in hindsight was a dumb idea considering the spread of disease.