He drained it down, and yawned, and filled it once again. If I drink enough fire wine, he told himself, perhaps I’ll dream of dragons.
When he was still a lonely child in the depths of Casterly Rock, he oft rode dragons through the nights, pretending he was some lost Targaryen Princeling, or a Valyrian dragonlord soaring high o’er fields and mountains. Once when his uncles asked him what gift he wanted for his name day, he begged them for a dragon.  “It wouldn’t need to be a big one.  It could be little, like I am.” His uncle Gerion thought that was the funniest thing he had ever heard, but his uncle Tygett said, “The last dragon died a century ago, lad.” That had seemed so monstrously unfair that the boy had cried himself to sleep that night.


“I’ve had many faces, many lives.
There’s one life I’ve tried very hard to forget.”
The Day of the Doctor (*)