He was a very very small boy. Really he was. Even if he was twelve already. The strange thing was that his fingertips were a bit too fat, almost like stumps. It made Tyrion clumsy as he pressed the charcoal stub to the parchment. Outside, just out on the lawn, he could hear his sister laughing, his brother cursing. They were chasing each other again, and as usual, Cersei was quicker than Jaime. She ran faster, at any rate. Jaime was stronger.

I'm smarter, he told himself as his awkward fingers traced the majestic line of a bat wing. I'm uglier, but I'm smarter. He couldn't seem them from where he was, but he figured Cersei had let herself be caught, because there were only muffled giggles below. So predictable, my sweet sister, the boy thought. He drew a claw, but the charcoal slipped and he cursed to himself.

There was laughter in the staircase, now. Stomping. Stumbling. The chase had picked up again. Tyrion sighed as his sibling's noise grew in intensity. He drew another line, a graceful curve for the neck, and wondered if he would have enough dexterity for the face itself.

"Imp!" Cersei came in, snatched the parchment from under Tyrion's studious fingers and was gratified with an annoyed frown. "You have no need for it, Cersei," he pointed out as calmly as he could.

"What's this?" She looked at it, held it up where Tyrion couldn't reach. "A dragon!" She laughed and it was like cruel silvery bells stinging his eardrum. "Jaime, Tyrion is sketching a dragon!"

Cersei went into a dance, laughing and giggling, holding the unfinished sketch as if it were an unwilling dancing partner. In the doorway, Jaime looked dismayed. "Cersei, give it back to him," he said meekly.

"What for? Dragons don't exist. He's better off learning that right now. Stupid imp." She leaned over the window and let the wind flap over the charcoal. Just on cue, a light rain began to fall.

Tyrion looked at her with angry skewed eyes and finally hobbled off his chair.

"They exist," he told her quietly. "One day, you'll see."

He left under her mocking laughter and Jaime's pained and helpless look. Better to find himself another quiet spot, he thought as he fingered the piece of charcoal in his pocket.

It was just a sketch, Tyrion told himself. Just a sketch. So why did he find it so damn important?