The great horse-skin flap of the tent was pulled aside, and the heavy, rhythmic tread of boots announced the arrival of the Khal.
Lya and Mina instantly moved. Though they were barely seventeen, they stood with a quiet, unyielding dignity that commanded the space between the copper bath and the entrance. They did not shout; they simply occupied the air, their faces set in masks of soft, respectful resolve.
Khal Drogo stopped, his massive frame casting a long shadow over the golden silks. Behind him, Daenerys entered, her eyes wide with a mixture of sisterly concern and a sudden, sharp pang of something she didn't quite understand—jealousy.
"The Khaleesi is weary," Lya said, her voice a low, melodic chime. She bowed her head just enough to show respect to the Khal, but her feet didn't move an inch. "The sun was harsh, and the journey was long for one so petite. She is but a babe in this great world, Great Rider. She needs the silence of the moon."
Mina stepped forward, her hands folded over her silk apron. "We have bathed her in milk and mint to soothe her skin. She is resting now, tucked into the furs. She is so small, my Lord... so fragile. She requires the gentleness of a dream, not the noise of the camp."
Drogo looked at the two young women. Usually, slaves shrank from his gaze, but these two looked at him with a fanatical, calm light in their eyes. They weren't defying him out of malice; they were guarding a miracle. Drogo felt the lingering "Hum" of Santia's influence—a silent command that whispered through the tent, reinforcing the idea that she was a sacred, untouchable thing.
The Khal let out a low, guttural grunt of approval. He looked toward the nest of furs where Santia lay, her silver hair spilling out like a halo. To the giant warlord, she looked like a piece of starlight that might vanish if he stepped too close. He nodded once and turned, retreating back into the night to let his "Moon" sleep.
Daenerys, however, lingered. She watched the way Mina reached down to adjust the fur around Santia's shoulders with a touch so tender it was almost painful to witness. She saw Lya pick up a silver brush and begin to smooth Santia's hair with a rhythmic, obsessive devotion.
"I am her sister," Dany said, her voice sounding thin and strangely hollow to her own ears. "I have cared for her since the day she was born on the ship. I know what she needs."
Lya looked up, her gaze respectful but distant. "You have been a shield, Princess Daenerys. But she is the Sovereign now. She is our heart. You have your own path to walk, but inside this tent, she is our sweet baby. We will let no shadow fall upon her."
Dany felt a hot prickle behind her eyes. For years, she had been the only one Santia turned to. Now, she felt like a stranger in her own sister's presence. She saw the way Santia's small hand was curled around the black dragon egg, even in "sleep," and the way the two maids hovered over her like protective spirits.
They love her more than they fear the world, Dany realized with a chill. And they love her in a way that leaves no room for me.
Santia remained perfectly still, her eyes closed, but beneath the surface, her mind was a hum of cold satisfaction. She felt Dany's jealousy—it was a sharp, jagged emotion that she could use later. For now, she allowed the warmth of her maids' doting care to wash over her, a physical manifestation of the absolute power she held over their souls.