The arrival in Pentos was meant to be a moment of desperate negotiation for the "Beggar King," but for Santia, it was the first time she would truly test the leash she held on the world.
Magister Illyrio's estate was a sprawling fortress of pale stone and sprawling gardens, smelling of sweet jasmine and heavy incense. Viserys walked through the gilded gates with his chin thrust out, trying to project the image of a King returning to his people, though his boots were worn and his eyes were frantic. Daenerys, now fifteen and blooming with a beauty that made men catch their breath, followed closely.
Ten-year-old Santia walked a pace behind them. She was a small, pale ghost in a tattered dress, her silver hair tangled from the sea air. To the guards, she was an afterthought—a fragile child clinging to the shadow of her older siblings.
"The Magister is a man of taste," Viserys muttered, eyeing the Unsullied guards. "He knows the value of a dragon."
But as they reached the grand entrance, the Magister wasn't the one waiting for them.
Standing on the marble steps was a woman in robes of shimmering, blood-red silk. Her hair was a river of copper, and the ruby at her throat pulsed with a rhythmic, hypnotic light. Even the Unsullied, men who knew no fear, seemed to lean away from her.
Viserys stopped, his hand going to the hilt of his borrowed sword. "Who is this? Illyrio didn't mention a Red Priestess."
Melisandre didn't look at Viserys. She didn't acknowledge the "King" at all. Her gaze swept past him, past the beautiful Daenerys, and locked onto the small, silent girl in the back.
In an instant, the Red Priestess sank to her knees, her silks spreading across the marble like a pool of spilled wine. She pressed her forehead to the cool stone. "The night is dark and full of terrors," she whispered, her voice carrying through the courtyard like a chime, "but the Dawn has finally walked through the gate."
Viserys let out a sharp, confused laugh. "A bit dramatic, isn't she? Well, if she wants to worship the Dragon, I suppose I can allow it." He stepped forward, expecting her to rise and lead him inside.
Melisandre remained motionless. She wouldn't move for him. She was waiting for a frequency only one person in the courtyard could emit.
Santia stepped forward, letting go of Daenerys's hand. The "Hum" in the air became a physical weight, a vibration that made the birds in the lemon trees go silent. She looked down at the kneeling priestess, her violet eyes deep and unreadable.
Rise, Santia commanded.
The word didn't vibrate in the air; it thundered in the marrow of Melisandre's bones. The priestess stood, her eyes shining with a fanatical, terrifying joy.
Santia walked closer, her voice dropping into a low, regal tone that Viserys and Dany could barely hear, but which felt like a landslide in Melisandre's mind.
"You have seen what I am," Santia said, her gaze steady. "You have tasted the shadow and the fire. But I do not want a single servant. I want a world that breathes when I breathe."
She reached out, her small hand hovering just inches from Melisandre's pulsing ruby.
"Go," Santia commanded, the power in her mind flaring until the air around them shimmered with heat. "Into the streets of Pentos, into the camps of the Dothraki, and across the sea to the stone walls of Westeros. Find the broken, the lost, and the hungry. Show them the light of your fires, but give them my voice. Raise me an army that does not fight for gold or a throne, but because they no longer know how to live without me."
Melisandre bowed her head again, a shiver of ecstasy running through her. "They will be yours, my Queen. Every soul I touch will become a wick for your flame. I will build you a church of iron and a legion of ghosts."
"Good," Santia said softly, her face returning to the mask of a quiet, fragile child. She turned back to her siblings, who were staring at her in stunned silence. "She says the Magister is waiting for us inside, Viserys. We should go in."
Viserys blinked, shaking off the strange trance that had gripped him. "Yes... yes, of course. Odd woman. Useful, though."
As they walked into the cool shadows of the palace, Santia felt the tether between her and Melisandre tighten. Behind them, the Red Priestess turned toward the city, her eyes already searching for the first soul to harvest for her God.