Spring Dragon
Tyrion's nights are nonending. He can never fall asleep as glittering flashes of strange light dance in cavernous darkness of the chamber no matter if he closes or opens his eyes, imps laughing at his forlornness. The too big, four-poster bed seems a huge sheet of ice and he: a tiny ball of snow, for he always feels cold there, the blankets and pillows offering no comfort. Little Lannister thinks sometimes that his body, so wrongly made as maesters would say, still foolishly remembers the coolness of winter during which, as Jaime told him, he was born. Perhaps it will at last forget one day, Tyrion dares to hope.
Suddenly something happens, though, the sea waves' sound change into... the rustling of wings? Tyrion sits up on the bed immediately, listening, then slipps barefoot on the freezing flooring and walks outside on the balcony. Somehow the night is fairer here than in the chamber, air bathing in pale yellow moonlight like in birches' dust.
And oh!, Tyrion almost yells, both of joy and fear. A dragon is landing there on the balcony floor, and its skin is whiter than seagulls, than winter as Tyrion imagines it to be, but it is not a winter dragon nevertheless. For its wings, oh, its wings, flapping like permons of ships yanked by a hard wind, are fresh sprouts, young branches of a spring tree, shining greenishly.
"Come, I am not afraid of you," Tyrion encourages shakily. "Or mayhap you're afraid of me...? Do you?" he asks sadly.
He blissfully finds out he has been wrong, though, as the dragon moves closer, embracing him gently with that wing, tucking him with it like with a warmest blanket, and Tyrion snuggles in the whiteness of its skin, his heart hammering.
This dragon exists truly, little Lannister is sure, even if he doesn't know how to explain it to Jaime when his brother finds him on the morrow, on the balcony flooring, which coldness stings like thousands of icicles.