The Story

20 years ago, under a peach colored Dawn, a little girl was born, and her name was Daenerys. They both smiled, for their house was on a tranquil shore of a little lake, and the dawn-sign and the tranquility sign had auspicious tidings with many spirit signs. Their village, being farthest from Amoris, did not have a priest to administer the auspice reading, so instead they summoned the wise crone from her hut on the beach. She came quickly, for she had had potent dreams, and she burned crushed lavender and moonglove, to sharpen her inner sight and dull her outer shell, and she cast the bones. When she came out of her trance, she pondered the symbols long and hard, reading them again, and again, and then again, for what she saw there no one on the island had seen in a very long time. She pulled out her bag of herbs, certain they had molded, and discarded them: then she plucked fresh herbs from the forest and burned them again, the potent fumes clouding all senses but the magesight. The bones fell again, and again the sign of the Forge, of passionate flame, of creation stared back at her in ivory and ebony.