Lilith's fall from her horse hadn't caused severe injuries—she, like Daenerys, rode a low and gentle mare. However, the fall triggered early labor. Early labor in itself wasn't alarming since her due date was near. The real issue was that the fall had caused the baby to shift into a breech position, becoming stuck in the womb.
The Dothraki midwives, who relied on the "blessings of the Great Stallion" even for common wounds, considered this level of medical care beyond their abilities. They had already declared Lilith's fate sealed.
"Take her to my palace," Daenerys said, her violet eyes flashing with a determined light. She turned to her handmaid. "Irri, isolate a corner of the palace for her, but ensure she does not disturb the Khal."
Khal Drogo's straw-and-reed palace, spacious enough for tribal meetings, spanned over 200 square meters. It was more than sufficient to accommodate a pregnant woman.
Neither the slave woman nor the horsemen were surprised by the Khaleesi's decision. After all, Daenerys had previously risked offending a group of Dothraki warriors to save enslaved shepherd women from abuse.
Lilith, after all, was one of their own—a member of the khalasar.
"Marry a chicken, live with a chicken; marry a 'horse,' live with a 'horse,'" Daenerys thought.
"She made a mistake and spoke words she shouldn't have. She deserves punishment, but she's also carrying new life for the khalasar," Daenerys declared. "Tell Jhaqo that if this woman gives birth to a strong boy, her sins will be forgiven. If it's a girl, I'll have her flogged twenty times and enslaved."
The slave hurried away to report Daenerys's orders to Jhaqo.
When Daenerys returned to her tent, Ser Jorah was waiting for her. He dismissed her maids and addressed her with a grave expression.
"Rumors are spreading everywhere. The entire khalasar knows that Khal Drogo almost fell from his horse."
"He didn't," Daenerys replied firmly.
"Because you caught him," Jorah countered. "I saw it. His bloodriders saw it. The clansmen behind you saw it. You know his condition better than anyone. Even if you manage to hide it today, what about tomorrow? The day after? Soon, he won't even be able to climb onto his horse, and then..."
A Khal who couldn't ride could no longer rule. No matter how clever or capable the Khaleesi, it would be useless.
"I've made my decision. Don't suggest fleeing again. Leaving would only lead to death," Daenerys said, meeting his gaze. "Ser Jorah, you are my sworn knight. I trust you to protect me in the chaos to come."
"Of course. I swear on my life that no harm will come to you," Jorah promised solemnly.
But he hesitated, adding, "Still, without Drogo, his khalasar will descend into chaos. I'm afraid I won't be enough on my own."
"It's fine. My personal clan will support you," Daenerys assured him.
She looked him over: the faded and sun-bleached Dothraki vest, his sunburned skin, loose striped silk trousers, knee-high riding sandals exposing his toes, and the sword strapped to a horsehair belt.
Aside from his lack of braided hair adorned with bells, he looked entirely like a Dothraki warrior.
"From now on, you must wear a knight's armor," she said.
"I understand," Jorah nodded.
From the corner of Khal Drogo's palace, Lilith's faint cries for help reached them. Daenerys sent Jorah off to prepare, then lifted the leather flap and stepped outside.
On the hill beside the palace, Cohollo stood high above the camp, shouting commands to organize the tents. His face was stern, his mood clearly sour as he worried about Drogo's condition.
Daenerys beckoned him down. "Cohollo, bring me Mirri Maz Duur."
"The maegi?" Cohollo spat on the ground. "I won't do it. Khaleesi, you have no right to order me."
Though Daenerys had saved Mirri Maz Duur, the healer's status as a slave hadn't changed. She was now with the other "lamb people" at the back of the khalasar.
"It's for Lillith," Daenerys said. "Our midwives can't help her. Let Mirri Maz Duur try."
Cohollo glared at her from atop his horse, his eyes hard as flint. "The maegi are women who consort with demons. They are evil, cruel, and soulless, practicing the darkest and most terrifying sorcery. At night, they seek men to drain them of their strength until they die. Trusting them is the most foolish thing one can do."
Respect Spirits and Avoid Them
The Dothraki might not excel in dark magic, but over millennia, their culture has evolved practical traditions for survival.
Had Daenerys, the foreign Khaleesi, not interfered, Khal Drogo's fate from his infected wound might have been uncertain.
Daenerys touched her belly and said, "I don't trust her, but if she can save Lillith from a difficult childbirth, wouldn't that ensure the safety of my own baby as well?"
The elder bloodrider opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it, glancing at her with a mix of pity and resignation. Without saying a word, he turned and left.
He assumed she didn't understand Dothraki's traditions.
Daenerys watched his figure disappear among the clustered yurts, her violet eyes deep with thought. Turning away, she called for Eroeh—the first woman she had rescued from the mud-brick walls of the "lamb men's" town. Eroeh was a shy, gentle girl of the lamb people.
After bathing and changing into fresh clothes, Daenerys sat quietly by the central campfire in her tent. The flames roared, heat radiating in waves. Unable to endure the stifling heat, her handmaidens were dismissed. It was the middle of the afternoon, the sun blazing in a mercilessly hot sky.
Before long, Cohollo strode in, dragging a small, battered woman behind him.
Mirri Maz Duur's clothes were tattered, her face swollen, and blood dripping from her mouth. One of her front teeth was missing—evidence of the beating she had endured before being brought here.
After instructing Ser Jorah not to allow anyone else inside, Daenerys handed a cup of mare's milk to Mirri and asked, "You mentioned before that you're skilled in childbirth?"
Mirri wiped the blood from her lips, took the horn cup, and drained it in one gulp. Only then did she catch her breath and answer, "Silver Lady, my mother was once a priestess. She taught me the sacred songs and spells to please the Great Shepherd, as well as the art of making holy smoke and ointments from leaves, roots, and berries.
When I was young and beautiful, I traveled with merchant caravans to Asshai by the Shadow, learning from their sorcerers. Ships from countless kingdoms gather in Asshai, so I stayed there for years, studying the healing arts of foreign peoples.
A moon singer from Jogos Nhai taught me her birthing songs, while a woman of your horse-riding people taught me the magic of grass, corn, and horses.
I even learned from a maester named Marwyn, who came from the Sunset Lands. He dissected corpses and revealed all the secrets hidden beneath the skin."
A seasoned healer and scholar, well-versed in numerous fields of medicine—almost like earning multiple doctoral degrees abroad.
Mirri glanced at Khal Drogo lying on a bed two yards away and explained helplessly, "I'm skilled in many forms of healing, but Drogo abandoned my salves seven days ago."
Daenerys interrupted her, pointing to a screen in the corner. "There's a pregnant woman who fell from a horse behind that screen. She's the one you'll treat today."
"Another Silver Lady?" Mirri seemed to have heard of Lillith's plight. She tilted her head, gesturing toward Drogo's bed with her chin. "Does this great horse-warrior not require immediate attention?"
Daenerys lowered her gaze, gently caressing her belly. "Forget the Khal. My child will be born soon. You must prove your skills in obstetrics by saving Lillith."
"As you wish, Silver Lady," the maegi replied obediently.
To avoid disturbing Drogo, Lillith had been placed on a grass bed in a separate space adjoining the palace.
This makeshift room was built beside the main hall, separated by a thick grass curtain and enclosed by a small thatched structure with only a single doorway. It was far enough to bypass the Khal's quarters entirely.
Beyond the grass curtain stood a decorative wooden screen from the Summer Isles, adorned with intricate carvings of vibrant and lifelike exotic birds and beasts—a gift to Drogo from the Trade Federation.
Mirri Maz Duur began to chant a strange melody, a language Daenerys had never heard before. The tune was haunting and melodious, like the song of a maiden or a passionate ode.
Was this the birthing song taught to her by the moon-singers of Jogos Nhai?
Or perhaps a spell learned from the sorcerers of shadowed Asshai?
As the chant filled the air, Daenerys double-checked the items at her side: the black dragon egg, a loaded hand crossbow with a taut bowstring and a metal-tipped bolt, Drogo's dragonbone dagger, a needle and thread borrowed from the Lamb Men for stitching wounds, poppy wine, and large pieces of cotton cloth boiled in hot water and dried under the scorching sun.
Poppy wine cooled her abdomen as it was smeared over her skin, providing a fleeting sense of relief. Biting down on a piece of softwood, the pain of the dagger slicing into her belly felt almost bearable—certainly easier than enduring the fiery torment of the night before.
"Dragon baby, you are the peak of the world's power. With your arrival, the very essence of heaven and earth will awaken. You are a god reborn into this world. I need you—give your mother strength."
Thick blood soaked the blanket beneath her. Daenerys's face was pale as wax, her forehead beaded with large droplets of sweat. Her expression turned vacant, and the softwood slipped from her mouth, falling from her lips.
Suddenly, the fossilized dragon egg cradled between her knees grew searingly hot, like burning coal. The intense heat jolted her into a clarity sharper than she had ever known.
Under normal conditions in a modern hospital, a cesarean section would take about thirty minutes, including the time needed for anesthesia.
Daenerys, momentarily dazed in the middle of the procedure, completed it in about twenty minutes. By the end, she held a blood-smeared baby boy in her arms.
Covering his tiny, blood-streaked mouth, Daenerys steeled herself and poured a small measure of poppy wine into his mouth.
"Riding the world's greatest steed, a little anesthetic won't harm you," she whispered softly to him.
The little one fell asleep, his tiny arms wrapped around the white dragon egg, which radiated heat.
Fifteen minutes passed, and the maegi in the adjoining room was still chanting. With her left arm cradling the black dragon egg, Daenerys used her free hand to clean the blood off her body. Then, she tossed the blood-soaked cloth and blanket into the roaring fire beside her.
"Thank you, my dragon baby!" she murmured, tenderly caressing the intricate scales of the dragon egg. Her heart swelled with gratitude and affection. Just as Bran Stark could feel the emotions of Summer, his direwolf, she now shared the closest soul bond with the black dragon in her moment of near-death.
Daenerys could now consciously control her entry into the dragon dreams.
(End of Chapter)
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