The day of the presentation was a sweltering blur of dust and the smell of horseflesh. Magister Illyrio had arranged the meeting with a singular purpose: to trade the silver-gold beauty of fifteen-year-old Daenerys for the forty thousand screamers of Khal Drogo's khalasar.
Viserys paced the terrace of Illyrio's manse, his fingers twitching. "Look at her, Illyrio. She is the blood of the dragon. Drogo would be a fool to refuse. Once the wedding is done, the Dothraki will march for me."
Beside them stood Daenerys, draped in silks so thin they were like a second skin. She was trembling, her eyes downcast. Santia, only ten, stood behind her sister, a petite and ethereal shadow. Even at ten, Santia possessed a haunting, porcelain beauty—slender, small-boned, and crowned with hair that shimmered like spun moonlight.
Khal Drogo rode into the courtyard atop his great red stallion. He was a mountain of bronze muscle, his braid swinging heavy with bells. He didn't look at the Magister. He didn't look at Viserys.
His eyes scanned the siblings, lingering briefly on Daenerys's terrified face. Then, they shifted. They landed on Santia.
The Hum in Santia's mind, which had been a low vibration, suddenly peaked. She didn't wait for the Khal to speak. She reached out, her consciousness sliding like silk into the cavernous, wild mind of the warlord.
I am the one you seek, she projected. I am the storm you have dreamed of.
Drogo froze. To the observers, it looked like he was merely assessing the girls. But inside his skull, his world was being razed to the ground. He felt a psychic weight so immense it made his own physical strength feel trivial. The girl before him was tiny, a child who looked like she might shatter in a high wind, but her mind was a sun—blinding, hot, and absolute.
"The Khal is pleased," Illyrio began, stepping forward with a bow. "He accepts the Princess Daenerys. The wedding shall be—"
"No."
The word was a low, guttural growl that cut through the Magister's speech. Drogo pointed a thick, scarred finger, but he wasn't pointing at Daenerys. He was pointing at Santia.
"I take the little one," Drogo rasped in Common Tongue, his voice shaking with a new, terrifying obsession. "She is the Moon of my Life. Not the woman. The child."
The courtyard went deathly silent.
"What?" Viserys sputtered, stepping forward. "No, you don't understand. The deal was for Daenerys! Santia is—she's a child! She hasn't even flowered!"
Daenerys gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. A wave of relief washed over her, followed immediately by a sickening horror for her little sister. "Viserys, you can't! She's ten years old!"
Santia didn't move. She stared up at Drogo, her violet eyes deep and ancient.
Tell them, she commanded the Khal silently.
Drogo turned his gaze to Viserys, a murderous glint in his eyes. "I take her. Or I take your head. She is the Dragon. The other is just a girl."
Viserys blanched. He looked at the forty thousand warriors outside the gate, then at his petite, silent sister. He saw the way the Khal looked at her—not with lust, but with a fanatical, soul-deep reverence that bordered on worship.
"If... if that is what the Khal desires," Viserys stammered, his greed quickly overriding his shock. "A Targaryen princess is a Targaryen princess. If she is the one who brings me my army, then she is the one who shall marry him."
"Viserys, no!" Dany cried, grabbing her brother's arm. "She's your sister! How can you do this?"
"I would let his whole khalasar have you if it meant my throne, Dany!" Viserys hissed, shoving her away. "And if he wants the little one instead, he shall have her. She's quiet, she's beautiful—she'll be a fine Khaleesi."
Santia felt the familiar trickle of blood from her nose. She wiped it away with a small, pale hand, her face a mask of serene triumph. She looked at Melisandre, who stood in the shadows of the archway, her ruby glowing with a fierce, crimson light. The Priestess bowed her head; the first great piece of the world had been moved.
Santia looked back at Drogo. She had traded her childhood for a khalasar, and she had done it without saying a single word aloud.
"I will go with him," Santia said softly, her voice carrying a weight that silenced even Viserys. "The dragon does not fear the horse."