Love Is The Death Of Duty • Aemond Targaryen

22.

The days pass slowly in Winterfell as Maegor recuperates from his wounds and tries to cope with his unwilling discovery of Jace's doings with Cregan. His brother has been staying out of his sight, knowing that if he tries to speak with him once more, Maegor would only let the anger get the best of him again.

It's not the relationship itself that makes his blood boil. Unlike Jace, always trying to meddle in his affairs, Maegor couldn't care less about who his brother beds and pins for.

What drives him crazy is Jacaerys always running his mouth and speaking ill of Aemond's bond to him and then acting like a saint.

A coward that's what Jacaerys is. Running around with Cregan behind Maegor's back and having the audacity to reprimand him in his face about his mishaps. Perhaps to soothe his own guilt by doing so.

His injuries are tended to diligently by the maesters, and though the pain was a constant companion in the beginning, now it's faded into a pestering and dull throbbing.

Most of his time is spent in the secluded space of the bathhouse, but lately Maegor's been out on the training grounds more often. He can finally use Nightbringer again, even if the constant tightness and occasional spikes in his right shoulder remind him that he still needs some time to rest until he'll be back to his peak.

Maegor spars alone. For him this is an outlet to let out his anger constructively, not to sharpen his skills. He needs a worthy training partner for that. There have been a couple of times when a few knights and high born courtiers boldly offered to assist him, but they soon came to regret it when they had a first hand taste of the Prince's viciousness. Training grounds or not they all submitted in defeat.

One crisp morning, Maegor swings Nightbringer at a wooden dummy with relentless fury. He remains unaware of the two figures observing him from the other side of the yard. Cregan Stark and Jacaerys stand side by side, now always seen together, rarely apart. Their eyes are fixed on the Targaryen prince.

"He's relentless." Jace sighs in frustration.

"He's a warrior, through and through, you have to give him that. But he's letting his emotions control him." Cregan hums, a thoughtful look on his face as he studies the young Prince closely.

As Maegor's blade strikes the dummy with a resounding crack, causing it to break in half Cregan steps forward, his voice cutting through the crisp morning air.

"Prince Maegor."

"What do you want?" Maegor whirls around, his expression darkening at the sight of the lord of Winterfell.

"You could use a real opponent, not just a wooden dummy." Cregan says, his tone calm and measured without a hint of a challenge this time.

Maegor tries to read him, find out his hidden intentions. Perhaps the young wolf is trying to measure his powers to see what he'd be up against. Suddenly he gets an idea and his eyes narrow, a glint of malice flickering in their depths.

"Very well, lord Stark."

Cregan nods, taking off his sword strapped across his back, too large to fit on a normal waist belt, along with his thick fur coat.

Maegor's sharp eyes study the weapon, Daemon told him about it before, when he was only a child.

It's Ice, the ancestral greatsword of House Stark. A two-handed sword as wide across as a man's hand and six feet long. And like his own Nightbringer it's been forged from Valyrian steel. It gleams menacingly in the morning light.

When the two men get ready to face each other, the animosity between them lingers heavy in the air. Soon enough, quite the audience gather around them, Jace included, who's watching uneasily, already sensing a knot rising in his throat. He's known Maegor long enough by now to be aware of his unpredictable temper. A small trigger is all that's needed to make him snap with anger.