Love Is The Death Of Duty • Aemond Targaryen

25.

The weeks pass slowly in the Red Keep, each day blending into the next as Maegor settles into a tense routine. The castle, usually a hub of activity and schemes, quiets somewhat with his presence. Otto and Alicent Hightower seem to conduct their plotting in whispers behind closed doors, wary of the volatile Prince who stalks the corridors and courtyards.

Maegor quickly grows bored of the council meetings, his temper flaring too easily in the face of the Hand's calculated manipulations and the Queen's thinly veiled disdain.

Instead, Aemond takes up the mantle, attending every session diligently despite not being an official member. His presence serves as a constant reminder of his stand and keeps the Hightowers' ambitions in check, at least in the open. They might undermine Aegon and think of him as nothing more than a tool instead of a King. They won't do the same with Aemond.

While Aemond navigates the treacherous waters of court politics, Maegor finds solace in the physicality of training and the freedom of the skies. Aemond's chambers become their shared quarters and the only sanctuary in the castle, a place where they can be themselves without the weight and pressure of being surrounded by treachery.

Sometimes afternoons are spent in the training grounds, the clash of steel ringing out as they spar. Maegor's raw power meets Aemond's precision and skill, each bout a fierce and exhilarating contest.

The sparring sessions are always intense, the air around them hot and thick with arousal despite the cold, sharp edges of their valyrian swords. In a way, this is also sex for them. Each clash of steel strengthens their bond.

The physical exertion tempers Maegor's frustration, his anger dissipating with every swing of his sword and being replaced with a drunk, delightful buzz under his skin every time he makes eye contact with his uncle. In these moments, the world outside the training grounds ceases to exist, leaving only the rhythm of their dance.

When Aemond is occupied with council meetings, Maegor turns to the skies for solace. Mounted on the Cannibal, he soars above King's Landing, the wind whipping through his locks. The city sprawls beneath him, a tapestry of stone and life. Saagael's powerful wings beat a steady rhythm, carrying them higher and higher until the Red Keep is but a speck on the horizon.

Maegor relishes these flights, the sense of freedom and solace intoxicating. From above, the city seems peaceful, its troubles and intrigues far removed from the simple joy of flight. When he flies lower, he scans the streets and alleyways, noting the comings and goings of the citizens below. It's a way to keep his mind and vision sharp, to remain vigilant even in the moments of respite.

He uses this time to his advantage, getting more skilled and used with Saagael pulling intricate maneuvers. He couldn't afford to practice when he was fighting in the Stepstones under constant threat of Black Scorpions or in the icy wind of the North.

Unlike the other dragonriders, he refused to put a saddle on his dragon ever since he promised Saagael he'll never be a slave, which meant he couldn't chain himself to it for his safety. But Maegor doesn't need a saddle. He lives for the thrill.

With the pieces of old chains dangling off his dragon wrapped around his arms, they dive and weave through the clouds, even doing barrel rolls with ease. The exhilaration of their flights gives Maegor's goosebumps every time, his spirits lifted by the sheer power and grace of his mount.

Pats along the tar colored scales are always given to express gratitude and everytime Saagael rumbles in response, a deep, resonant sound that vibrates through Maegor's bones.

From this vantage point, Maegor can see the bustling markets, the crowded docks, and the narrow, winding streets that make up King's Landing. It's a view that few are privileged to see, and it fills him with a sense of ownership and pride.