When Daenerys returned to her tent, the eunuchs treating Drogo had yet to leave. A group of withered, ghastly women, their legs splayed like gnarled tree roots, danced around the fire. Their wild, gray hair swayed with their ritualistic movements as they chanted ancient Dothraki songs.
Their toothless mouths gaped wide, emitting sharp, grating voices that stabbed at the eardrums.
They circled the bed where Drogo lay, his body bare, chanting and dancing. The flames on the nearby brazier surged with the rhythm of their song—sometimes leaping two meters high in a burst of orange light, other times dimming suddenly, leaving only flickering embers.
Daenerys felt her scalp tingle as if her legs were rooted to the ground, frozen like steel-reinforced concrete.
It's just the Dothraki's shamanistic dance—nothing to fear. You're the Mother of Dragons, after all. A flickering flame? Perhaps it's just the wind, she told herself silently.
"Roar—"
From the bed, Drogo suddenly let out an inhuman howl, the sound laden with one unmistakable emotion: unbearable agony.
Daenerys had seen him countless times before, facing wounds ten times worse than this with a calm, faint smile.
This towering warrior, as imposing as a god of war, had once dismissed a deep gash across his chest as a mere scratch. Even with festering infections, even as illness invaded his organs, he should have been dazed and insensible, barely feeling anything—that much she knew from her medical training and numerous internships. Inflammation alone could not possibly provoke such searing pain.
Thinking back to the nights since Mirri Maz Duur began treating him, when Drogo thrashed in torment on the bed, ripping apart countless sheepskin blankets, Daenerys was certain now: that witch had done this deliberately.
She had used the cruelest methods to exact revenge on the Dothraki. What could be more satisfying to her than seeing a Khal die in excruciating pain and endless suffering?
No, Mirri Maz Duur was not done. Daenerys instinctively touched her stomach. The witch planned to sacrifice Drogo's son to her dark gods, leaving the Khal's Khaleesi to suffer for the rest of her life.
By day, Drogo was lethargic; by night, he writhed in pain. Eventually, the Dothraki healers forced him to drink two large bowls of poppy wine.
Poppy milk, a milky white liquid extracted from poppy flowers, was a powerful painkiller and anesthetic, widely used in Westeros and the Free Cities.
(Note: In A Song of Ice and Fire, poppy milk is a fictional substance inspired by real-world opium but distinct from actual poppy flowers. In this fantasy setting, it is considered a lower-tier magical item that does not exist in reality.)
"You think my master's degree is fake?"
Daenerys shot a sidelong glance at Jorah, dismissing his concerns with a look. She held the knife steady, passing it briefly over the candle's outer flame to sterilize it. Then, with practiced precision, she sliced through the filthy, crusted bandages clinging to Drogo's skin. Beneath the layers of fabric was a hardened, compacted mix of blue mud and fig leaves, stacked layer upon layer. Over the past seven or eight days, the healers had slathered on more than ten layers of what they called the "sacred Dothraki remedy"—essentially just mud paste.
Calling them quack doctors would be an insult to actual quack doctors.
Jorah turned his head slightly, looking at Daenerys with a mixture of surprise and doubt. Her deft, sure-handed movements as she peeled away the dressings belied her appearance—a young, pregnant girl with no combat training.
The topmost layers of the dressings were still damp, but the deeper ones had dried to the consistency of the mud-brick walls of the sheepherders' huts. As Daenerys tapped rhythmically, the dried layers cracked and crumbled like brittle clay.
She peeled away the fragments clinging to the wounded flesh, exposing strips of purple-black fig leaves. Gradually, a sickly, sweet stench of rot filled the spacious tent, the air so pungent it stung the nostrils and made it hard to breathe.
Doreah clamped a hand over her mouth, her cheeks puffing out as if ready to retch. The large tallow candle in her other hand wobbled dangerously until Jorah quickly took it from her. Freed from her duty, Doreah stumbled backward and rushed out of the tent, flinging open the leather flap before vomiting outside.
Irri held a wooden tray in her trembling hands, which was now piled with removed chunks of mud, leaves, and bloodied, decaying bits of flesh.
Drogo's injury was now fully revealed to Daenerys. His left chest was pitch black, the rotting flesh glistening under the flickering candlelight.
With each labored breath he took, his chest rose and fell, causing thick streams of dark purple pus to ooze from the wound in three rivulets. The pus soaked into the once-pristine white lambskin beneath him, intensifying the sickly-sweet odor. Even the stoic Jorah began to gag.
"Khaleesi… Khaleesi…" Jorah called her name several times, glancing between Daenerys, pale and frozen in place, and Irri and Jhiqui, who turned their faces away, covering their noses. Despite his attempts, he couldn't form a coherent sentence.
When Daenerys finally regained her composure, she instructed Irri and Jhiqui to prepare hot water, strong liquor, and other supplies. Before she could move, Jorah grabbed her arm urgently.
"Khaleesi, you saw it, didn't you? Your husband is dying," he said, his voice tense.
I know, Daenerys thought silently. She could easily imagine his chest cavity filled with putrid pus, his heart soaked in the blackened, poisoned blood. Even if she could remove the black magic, wounds like these would be fatal even with modern medicine.
In truth, she realized, Drogo was already dead. The witch had only used her dark sorcery to prolong his suffering, keeping him alive in torment.
"What are you trying to say, Ser Jorah?" Daenerys asked flatly.
"Child, while he still draws breath, we need to leave," Jorah urged.
"Leave? And go where?" Daenerys asked, her gaze fixed on Drogo's heaving chest.
"To Asshai by the Shadow. It lies far to the south, at the edge of the known world. They say it's a bustling port. From there, we could find passage back to Pentos."
Jorah hesitated before adding, "But… can we trust your khalasar? Just the two of us might not be enough…"
Daenerys let out a dry, bitter laugh, shaking her head. "You're overthinking, Ser Jorah. We cannot leave. If we go alone, we won't survive. If we take the khalasar, we'll draw too much attention. Do you think forty thousand screeching horsemen are blind?"
To Asshai?
A journey of thousands of miles. Even a grown man would struggle to endure such an arduous trek. For Daenerys, a pregnant fourteen-year-old girl, the thought felt more painful than a swift death by her own hand.
Jorah Mormont glanced at her swollen belly, frowning. "Your Grace, for the sake of your child, you must try to escape this place."
"The Dothraki submit to Khal Drogo's power, but only to him. They will not follow a helpless infant. This is entirely different from how things are in Westeros.
"When Drogo dies, Jacqo, Pono, and the other warlords will immediately begin fighting for the position of khal. His khalasar will collapse into chaos, tearing itself apart until a new victor emerges."
"And then?" Daenerys asked flatly.
Jorah hesitated, struggling with his words before speaking softly. "The new Khal will not allow rivals to live. Your child will be taken from you the moment it's born. They will feed him to the dogs—just as Drogo once did to Ogo and his son."
Daenerys was stronger than Jorah had imagined. Though her face turned an even paler shade, she did not descend into hysterics or despair.
"What if... I have about a week left—seven days until my child is due. If Drogo dies before then, before my child is born, would they let me go?" Daenerys asked hesitantly.
"I am the khaleesi. According to Dothraki tradition, no one is allowed to harm a widow of the khal. At most..."
She bit her lip, forcing herself to utter the final words: "At most, they'll send me back to Vaes Dothrak to live among the dosh khaleen."
Jorah's expression shifted in shock. "Are you saying you're willing to live out the rest of your life in the city of the horse lords?"
Then he shook his head bitterly. "It won't work. Haven't you noticed? None of the dosh khaleen in Vaes Dothrak have children. Over all these years, hasn't a single khaleesi, pregnant like you, ever lost her khal?"
"Just a baby... merely a child without a tribe," Daenerys murmured, her violet eyes wide with fear and disbelief.
Jorah let out a bitter laugh. "Do you remember your brother Rhaegar?"
Fourteen years ago, just before Daenerys was born, her elder brother, Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, fell in battle against the Usurper at the Trident.
Her father, the 'Mad King' Aerys, was betrayed by a Kingsguard sworn to protect him. His throat was slit, and he died beneath the Iron Throne.
On the same day, Rhaegar's children—three-year-old Princess Rhaenys was cut in half, and infant Prince Aegon was ripped from his mother's breast. Amid the princess's heart-wrenching cries, Aegon was smashed against a stone wall like a melon, his tiny body reduced to a bloody pulp.
The entire Targaryen dynasty was wiped out, leaving only Daenerys and Viserys. And now, even Viserys was gone—only Daenerys remained.
Her fate was worse than that of Murong Fu. At least he had four loyal retainers and distant relatives.
"Westeros, a land that prides itself on chivalry, still committed such atrocities. Do you think the barbaric Dothraki would be any kinder?" Jorah paused before adding gravely, "And there's one more thing. Beneath the Mother of Mountains, the dosh khaleen prophesied that your child would become 'The Stallion Who Mounts the World.'
"His future accomplishments are enough to strike fear into anyone. No one would risk letting him grow up and come back for revenge. They won't let either of you leave."
(End of Chapter)
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