S6, Chapter 1: TYRION

MEEREEN

The two dragons in the crypts of Meereen had been unchained for quite some time. Tyrion had been afraid at first, trembling where he stood, his torch raised as high as he could, his shaky foot refusing to take the other step, but his courage came forth as it had now become customary. Every night, Tyrion descended into the catacomb and served Rhaegal and Viserion their supper; usually, pieces of meat carved from hunted lambs accompanied by a white marbled bowl filled to the brim with fresh water.

Each night, Tyrion would sit closer and closer to them and as his torch approached the beasts, its flickering flame lit the scales of greens and bronze, gold and cream; giant wings of red and yellow towering over his small shadow; green eyes, bronze eyes and razor sharp fangs the size of the imp.

But there he was, legs crossed like a child awaiting a story, swallowing his fear with nostalgic wonder emulating through his eyes. He would watch them eat and screech and pace around the stoned pillars for hours and never get tired.

Then the night would get old, and Rhaegal would be the first to succumb to its spell while his brother Viserion was in perfect fettle.

Over time, the creamy gold scaled dragon took a peculiar liking to the dwarf, and the feeling was reciprocated.

Knowing he would never be a knight, as a child, Tyrion thought he could become the High Septon instead, as the crystal crown added a foot to one’s height. As such, he studied the holy books. He didn’t gain much interest from them except when they spoke of the dangerous, the unpredictable, the legendary… dragons.

Tyrion quickly gave up the holy books and switched his focus to History and there they were, on the markings of the page, in front of his curious, untamed eyes… Balerion and Vhagar and Meraxes. Sunfyre and Tessarion and Vermax. Syrax! Caraxes! The whole dance of them.

Tyrion used to dream of owning a dragon. He once even asked his uncle Kevan for a dragon as a name day present, “little, like I am”, whereupon he was informed that the last dragon had died a century before. He used to start fires in the bowels of Casterly Rock, and stared at them for hours, pretending they were dragon flame, while he himself was a lost Targaryen princeling, or a dragon lord from Valyria. Sometimes, he imagined that he saw his father or sister burning in the fires.

As he grew older, he would rarely ever dream of dragons, though he would always remain fascinated by them.

He closed his eyes real tight and he could relive his first time in King’s Landing, for the wedding of Cersei and King Robert, when he visited the crypts and sought out the dragon skulls.

When he opened them back up this time, the dragons were flesh and blood.

Although the dwarf was well aware that the dragon did not speak or understand the common tongue, Tyrion leaned in as Viserion’s head rested on the stoned ground. And like a father cradling his little baby, the half-man soothed the heavy-eyed animal with one of his legendary stories, until they both slumbered off into their respective realms of fantasy.