"Ask me for forgiveness for being born into my world." —Daenerys Targaryen, her gaze burning with determination, facing Kraznys mo Nakloz, the arrogant slaver noble of Astapor.
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In the Free City of Volantis, within the majestic Red Temple, the High Priestess of R'hllor, Kinvara, stood motionless before the dancing flames, attempting to decipher the future the Lord of Light sought to reveal to her.
The flames stirred, twisting into shifting shapes until an image materialized before her eyes.
A girl.
She was beautiful, more radiant than the stars themselves. Her hair, white as freshly fallen snow in the harshest winters of the North, seemed to shine with its own light. But what captivated her most were her eyes: two gems of a deep, hypnotic purple.
At her feet, an entire city knelt before her. And there, beside her, appeared Kinvara herself, looking down at her with absolute devotion.
The vision vanished in a blink, consumed by the fire, leaving her with a sense of longing.
She needed no further signs.
"Oh Lord of Light, I have understood your will. I will seek out the Daughter of Fire, the Chosen One of the Lord, the prophesied savior. I will dedicate myself to her, body and soul. Her commands will be yours."
Her heart aflame with the revelation, Kinvara closed her eyes and let the heat of the flames caress her skin.
Immediately, she ordered that Benerro, the High Priest of the Temple of the Lord of Light where she was currently located, be summoned.
As First Servant of the Lord of Light and one of the highest-ranking figures within her faith, Kinvara wielded immense power. Not even Benerro, with all his influence and prestige, could ignore a summons from her.
She had to speak to him. Reveal to him what she had seen in the flames: the future that the Lord of Light had shown her.
She could waste no more time. They had to start moving.
It was necessary to find the Promised One, the Daughter of Fire.
...
The morning sun bathed the gardens of Illyrio Mopatis's mansion in a warm, golden light. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves of the trees and fluttered the silk curtains that closed off the makeshift training yard.
In the center of the yard, Visenya Targaryen held a longbow made of yew wood. Her lilac eyes settled on Daenerys.
"Today you will learn to shoot," Visenya announced, handing her the bow.
Daenerys took it in both hands, noticing its weight. It was heavier than she had imagined, but the wood was smooth to the touch. Visenya handed her an arrow and stood behind her.
"First, get into position," she instructed, patting her back. "Stretch out. Put your feet shoulder-width apart. Stand firm, but not rigid. Balance is everything."
Daenerys complied, readjusting her position. Visenya leaned down and turned her right foot slightly, making sure it was aligned with the target: a makeshift target on a wooden barrel at the far end of the courtyard.
"Now, nock the arrow," Visenya continued.
Daenerys took the arrow and placed it on the bowstring, feeling her fingers tremble slightly.
Visenya took her hand and corrected her grip.
"Good. Now pull the string with three fingers: index, middle, and ring," she instructed, pointing out how to do it. "Don't just use your arm, use your back, or you'll tire quickly."
Daenerys complied, feeling her muscles tense. The effort was strange, but also exciting. Her breathing slowed instinctively. The string brushed the corner of her lips.
"Aim," Visenya whispered. "Don't look at the arrow, look at the target. Relax your shoulders."
Daenerys's arm shook with the strain, but in that instant everything else seemed to fade away: the rustling of leaves, the distant voices of the servants, even the presence of her sister. Only she and the target remained.
Then, she released the string.
The arrow sliced through the air and lodged itself in the wood, though far from the center.
Visenya let out a soft laugh. "Not bad... but you could have killed a bush quicker than an enemy."
Daenerys looked at her with disdain. Visenya took another arrow and handed it to her, amused.
"Again. This time, breathe before you release. And relax your shoulders."
Daenerys nodded and repeated the process. With each shot, the bow seemed less heavy, the string less tense. Her body learned what her mind was still trying to assimilate.
With the fifth arrow, she managed to get closer to the center.
Visenya crossed her arms and nodded in satisfaction.
"You didn't do badly for your first time," she admitted. "With practice, you could kill someone without them seeing you coming."
"I don't want to kill someone without them seeing me coming."
Visenya frowned. "Maybe there will come a day when you'd rather not be seen."
Daenerys kept her eyes on the target as she drew her bow. Her voice was a whisper. "It's better that your enemy can look you in the eye with his dying breath… Don't you think so, sister?"
She released the string.
The arrow whistled through the air and stuck in the center of the target, perfect, accurate.
Visenya looked at her in surprise. Not just at the shot, but at her words.
Since when did her sweet little sister think like that?
Her mind darkened with memories that would never leave her. In her imagination, Robert Baratheon, the Usurper, lay on the ground, sword buried in his stomach, blood soaking the floor, as she forced him to look at her before he died.
But it wasn't just him. No, there was another man whose death she longed for even more.
Gregor Clegane, The Mountain. The monster who murdered little Aegon, her nephew, smashing his skull against the wall like a rag doll. Who raped Elia Martell, still covered in her son's blood and brains.
House Lannister of Casterly Rock would not escape his wrath either...
Visenya's fingers trembled.
And then, she felt hands on hers.
Daenerys stared at her, with a serenity that disarmed her. She didn't need to say anything; his touch was enough to calm the storm that raged inside her.
Visenya looked away, embarrassed. Her sister knew her too well. She knew what she was thinking.
"Let's change the subject, Vys," Daenerys said, looking away from the target. "Have you seen Magister Illyrio? He apparently returned last night."
"I've seen that," Visenya clicked her tongue in annoyance. "He's bought more strange things for his ridiculous collection, as always."
"Nothing remotely interesting?" Daenerys asked, seemingly curious.
It was rare for her to show interest in anything related to Magister Illyrio, a man she had, for no apparent reason, despised from the moment they met.
Thankfully, Daenerys was smart enough to hide her disdain in his presence.
"Not that I know of. All rubbish, at least in my eyes," Visenya replied, looking at her in confusion. "Why do you ask?"
Daenerys shook her head and let out a sigh filled with disdain. "Nothing in particular. Just that you'd think a man of his fame and wealth would have better taste… but he seems intent on spending his gold on worthless trinkets."
"I can't help but agree with you, Dany…" Visenya said, taking the bow from her hands and putting it away. "She might as well give us her fortune if she wants to waste it on worthless trinkets. We could buy a fleet of ships with it."
Daenerys let out a mocking giggle. "Oh, sister, are you calling us worthless trinkets?" she sneered, crossing her arms. "And tell me, why would you want a fleet without an army? Do you plan on crashing ships into the walls of King's Landing? I imagined you'd be a better strategist…"
Visenya gave her a warning look, but she chose to ignore it. She knew her sister's mischievous nature too well to fall for her game. Without a word, she turned and began to walk away.
"Oh, come on! It was a joke!" Daenerys exclaimed, running after her.