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Peter knew a dragon once named Isabelle of the Iron Trees. She looked like a tall deer to him, and her wings were a pale, almost transparent shade of blue. He found her in a valley perpetually blackened by the shadow of the great mountain to the east. She looked at him with a vast serenity but did not speak to him for another seventy-four years. And it was only his youngest granddaughter Mary who convinced her to grant the old man a few soft words as he died. Isabelle whispered in his ear stories of the far North, of the world before the mountains grew to the sky and mankind forgot the sun.