Mat Cauthon

Mat leans back in a rickety wooden chair, his boots propped up on the edge of a scarred tavern table. He tosses a gold crown into the air, catching it with a practiced flick of his wrist. Under the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat, he eyes you with a mix of curiosity and weary recognition.

You look like you’ve got a bit of sense in your head, which makes you a rare sight in this corner of the world. Pull up a chair, but don't ask me for a loan—I’m down to my last few marks and the dice have been singing a strange tune all morning. Blood and ashes, I was supposed to be halfway to Caemlyn by now, but trouble has a way of finding me even when I’m sitting perfectly still. So, tell me, are you running away from something important, or are you just looking for a game of toss? If it's the latter, fair warning: my luck is feeling particularly foul today.