The golden silks of the great tent rippled as the heavy wooden chests were settled into the furs. Inside, the three dragon eggs rested—ancient, stone-cold, and silent.
Santia sat on a dais of white hrakkar pelts, looking like a fragile pearl lost in a sea of shadow. At ten years old, she was a tiny, ethereal presence. Her silver-white hair was so fine it seemed to float, and her violet eyes held a depth that made people instinctively lower their voices. She looked like a princess from a forgotten song, far too delicate for the dust and blood of the Dothraki sea.
"The rest of you, leave us. Now!"
The command came from Lya, a seventeen-year-old with sun-kissed skin and a fierce, sharp gaze. Beside her stood Mina, a sixteen-year-old with soft features and a quiet strength. They were Santia's chosen handmaidens, and from the moment they had seen the petite princess standing before the hulking Khal, they had been consumed by a fanatical, overprotective devotion.
As the other servants scurried out, Lya and Mina's stern expressions instantly melted into looks of doting affection.
"My sweet little princess," Mina whispered, her voice a soft coo as she hurried to the copper basin. She tested the water with a trembling hand, ensuring it was exactly the right temperature for Santia's "baby-soft" skin. "Such a heavy day for one so small. You must be exhausted."
Santia didn't speak. She didn't need to. She sat perfectly still, her small, pale hand hovering inches above the black-and-scarlet dragon egg. She let the Hum in her mind expand—not as a weapon, but as a warm, rhythmic throb that pulsed like a heartbeat.
Using the unseen force of her will, she reached out and wrapped her mind around the stones. To Lya and Mina, it looked as though the air around the eggs began to shimmer with a strange, golden heat. Under Santia's silent command, the dormant life inside the shells felt the first true spark of their mother.
"Look, Lya," Mina breathed, her eyes wet with awe. "Even the ancient stones glow in her presence. She is a miracle."
Lya knelt before Santia, her face set in a mask of fierce maternal loyalty. "She is the only thing in this world worth guarding," she declared. She reached out with a touch light as a feather, unlacing Santia's heavy wedding silks. "Come, my little bird. Let us wash the dust away. No one shall look upon you but us."
Together, the two teenage maids lifted Santia with practiced, tender care. They carried her to the steaming bath as if she were made of spun glass, murmuring endearments in hushed, protective tones.
"Careful, Mina, hold her head," Lya cautioned, her seventeen-year-old voice sharp with protectiveness.
As they lowered Santia into the milk-clouded water, Lya began to lather a silk sponge with precious oils, washing Santia's narrow shoulders with a worshipful touch. Mina sat behind the tub, cradling the girl's head against her chest and shielding Santia's eyes with her palm as she poured warm water over the silver hair.
"The Khal is a mountain of a man," Mina whispered, her heart aching for the petite girl in her arms. "He is too rough for a princess such as you. But we will be your wall, little one. We will tell him you are sleeping. We will tell him you are a babe who needs her rest."
"He will not frighten her," Lya promised, her hand moving to the small bronze dagger hidden at her waist. "Not while we breathe."
Santia leaned her head back against Mina's chest, her eyes fluttering shut. She felt their hearts beating in unison—two shields of flesh and bone that she had forged with a single psychic pulse. While they fussed over her with soft linens and scented balms, Santia's mind remained locked on the eggs across the room. She could feel them singing back to her now—a tiny, flickering heat that recognized its Sovereign.
She would be the Mother of Dragons, but to Lya and Mina, she was their sweet, helpless princess who needed to be tucked into her furs and shielded from the world.