Chapter Text
Poison in your wine, poison in your goddamn veins. You knew it was there. You know what it tastes like, you’re still a drunkard. You could have simply not drunk it. Larys Strong knows that, Turn-tail Velaryon knows that, you know that.
Still, you cannot stop yourself from gulping it down like you’re drinking a river of relief. Because it is— a relief— you’re living half a life. Everything fucking burns. You want Sunfyre back. You want Aemond to scowl at you, Daeron to make stupid burnt man walks into a whorehouse jokes, and you want to lay your head on Helaena’s lap while she rambles on about her creepy insects. You want Ser Criston to whack your head with a wooden sword, and Ser Arryk to laugh at you. You want your mother back, the one that had actually loved you even when you were the worst person in the world, and not this stone-hearted creature that cannot even seem to look you in your eyes.
Still want the truth? Here it is: You want to die.
What about Jaehaera? What will she do? She’s a babe, just a little girl. Why didn’t you think of her. Why do you never think about anyone but yourself? You’d leave our mother to take care of your daughter? Aemond’s ghost hovering around your head as you feel life slip away in a dream. He’d always loved your children the best. All three of them had clamoured for they uncle Aem, and you remember feeling jealous, like a fool.
And now you’d give anything for that moment back.
You’d give anything to do it again— to do it right.
Anything?
Anything, you promise. To whom, you have no idea. Criston Cole’s (your father’s) ghost scolds you about making reckless bargains and you laugh, rough and painful, Ser, now is the time to make all the wrong choices. What more do I even have?
Grandmother still lives. Jaehaerys tells you, solemn, matter of fact, always his grandmother’s little Maester. Daeron nods, and you see the smirk threatening his blank face, and Aemond still looks so cross. Helaena just looks at you, Maelor in her arms, calm, silent, waiting.
What a vivid-fucking-dream. What a trip. All your ghosts come to see you die. You hope they enjoy it, for all the misery and decay you abandoned them to.
Don’t kid yourself, Jae-lad. That woman is not your grandmother anymore. Alicent Hightower died the day you did. Jaehaerys pouts, and you feel nostalgia overcome you. Oh, what a way to die. Good choice, Aegon Targaryen, finally you made a good choice.
Helaena speaks— always so cryptic, your sister. Anything?
Anything.
Very well then. Off you go, little dragon—
Aegon Targaryen, not yet second of his name, wakes up in his nursery, four years old again.
His mother frets, Ser Criston threatens, and the Grandmaester calls it a fever-induced-delirium, and threatens to send his nursemaids to the stock for neglecting their charge, but Aegon knows.
He knows what’s going to happen.
Oh, little Egg, what have you done?