The lemon trees of the Red Keep were a story Daenerys whispered to her at night, but for seven-year-old Santia, the world had always been made of cold salt air and the biting fear of the "Usurper's" shadows.
They were in Braavos, living in a house with a red door that felt more like a cage than a home. Viserys was twelve now, his temper growing as thin as his silk tunics. He spent his days pacing the halls, screaming about his "stolen throne," while twelve-year-old Daenerys did her best to soothe him, acting as his shield.
Santia sat in the corner of the nursery, a small, pale girl with eyes the color of bruised violets. She clutched a wooden doll, looking every bit the delicate, frightened youngest child.
"He's getting worse, Santia," Dany whispered, kneeling beside her. She looked tired; the strain of keeping Viserys calm was etched into her young face. "He says we have to move again. He thinks the Magisters are laughing at us."
Santia looked up. She didn't speak often—not because she couldn't, but because she was afraid of the power behind her words. She reached out and took Dany's hand.
Peace, she thought, sending a pulse of unnatural calm into her sister's heart. He will sleep soon.
Dany's eyes glazed over for a split second, her shoulders dropping as the tension vanished. "Yes," Dany murmured, her voice dazed. "He... he will sleep."
Later that night, the peace was shattered. A servant, a man Viserys had hired to guard the back gate, had been bribed by the "Spider's" agents. He crept into the girl's chambers, a cloth soaked in sleeping draught in one hand and a dagger in the other.
He moved toward Daenerys's bed first.
Santia watched from her own bed, her eyes wide in the dark. She didn't scream. Screaming would wake Viserys, and Viserys would get them all killed with his panic.
She sat up. The air in the room suddenly felt heavy, as if the walls were leaning in. She felt the "hum"—the vibration in her skull that connected her to every living thing in the house.
Look at me, she commanded silently.
The assassin froze. His head snapped toward the small girl sitting in the bed across the room. He expected to see a crying child; instead, he saw a seven-year-old with eyes that glowed like twin violet stars.
Santia felt the "slide." She entered his mind—it was a cluttered, filthy place of greed and old sins. She bypassed his conscience and went straight for the nerves.
You are not a man, she projected, her mental voice cold and ancient. You are a dog. And dogs do not bite their masters.
The man dropped the cloth. He dropped the dagger. His eyes went blank, his jaw slackening. He fell to all fours, his breath coming in short, rhythmic pants.
Go to the kitchen. Eat the scraps on the floor. When the sun rises, forget you were ever human.
The man turned and crawled out of the room on his hands and knees, whimpering softly. He would never speak again; his mind was a shattered mirror, reflecting only the "dog" Santia had turned him into.
Santia slumped back against her pillows, a single drop of blood falling from her nose onto her white nightgown. She was exhausted, her head throbbing with a dull ache, but she looked over at Daenerys. Her sister was still sleeping peacefully, dreaming of lemon trees and a home she barely remembered.
Santia wiped her nose and pulled the blankets up to her chin. Viserys could have his crowns and his tantrums. Daenerys could have her beauty and her kindness.
But as long as Santia was in the shadows, the "Usurper" would never touch them. She would be the wall they didn't know they had.