Drogo's khalasar had been stranded in the desolate wasteland for two days. Rumors of the Khal's impending death spread ceaselessly among the tribe.
But it wasn't just a rumor—everyone knew it to be true. Khal Drogo was so gravely ill that he could no longer mount his horse. Without their Khal to lead them, the khalasar could not move.
That night, Mirri Maz Duur, her face as pale as death, announced, "The Khal's wound has festered. No healer can save him now. All that remains is to guide him gently down the dark road, to help him ride without pain into the night lands."
Daenerys feigned overwhelming grief and begged her to save her Sun and Stars.
Mirri Maz Duur's pitch-black eyes studied Daenerys and her swollen belly. Her voice, calm and almost whisper-like, carried an eerie stillness. "There is one way—a spell. A dark magic.
But this ritual is difficult to perform, and it is shrouded in shadows. For some, death might be the kinder choice.
I learned this spell in Asshai, and the cost I paid was steep—my teacher was from the Shadow Lands."
"Blood magic," she said softly, the word falling like a stone into a still pond. For the first time, she openly revealed her true identity—a shadowbinder.
She had always denied it before, claiming only to be a healer and a priestess.
Her voice carried an unnatural weight, a dark power that seemed to tighten around Daenerys' throat like a frozen, slimy tendril. She couldn't breathe; her brain screamed for oxygen, her mind clouded.
In a daze, she heard herself murmur, "Do it… Save him…"
A sudden rush of molten heat surged from her abdomen, shocking her awake.
—The dragon egg had been pressed close to her belly all this time.
Suppressing her fear, she hesitated and asked, "The bloodriders will never agree to this. Is there no other way?"
Mirri Maz Duur paused briefly, then shook her head. "No."
Daenerys pressed her lips together, staring coldly into her eyes. "You admit you're a shadowbinder now?"
"Does it matter?" Mirri Maz Duur said with a faint, fearless smile. "Silver Lady, only a shadowbinder can save your warrior now. And there will be a price."
Daenerys glanced at Drogo, lying unconscious. "What do you want? Gold? Horses?"
The witch cut her off sharply. "This is not about gold or horses, Khaleesi. This is blood magic. Only death can pay for life."
"Death? You mean… mine?"
Mirri Maz Duur reassured her, "Not yours, Khaleesi."
But her gaze repeatedly flickered to Daenerys' swollen belly, her dark eyes glinting with a sinister intent.
Daenerys decided there was no point in further debate. She asked directly, "Whose death, then, will bring back my Sun and Stars? Surely not his horse?"
"Silver Lady, you are brave to face the harshest truth. You already know, don't you? Blood magic demands an equal exchange—a great life for a great life. A Khal's noble blood must be given to the god of night in exchange for your great horse lord's rebirth."
Mirri Maz Duur smiled cruelly, pointing at Daenerys' belly as though eyeing an offering meant for unclean gods. "Drogo is not just your Sun and Stars. He is your safety, your shield.
If your husband lives, a future full of children awaits you. Perhaps even twins, destined to bear the light of your Sun and Stars."
Daenerys' face twisted with rage. She grabbed the clay pot in front of her and hurled it.
Crash!
The witch hadn't expected such a violent response. The pot struck her forehead, and blood mixed with milky mare's milk dripped down her face.
"Aggo, Rakharo! Take her away, bind her, and gag her!" Daenerys commanded the guards outside.
Two days and nights passed. Drogo's khalasar teetered on the brink of collapse. Every night, Daenerys could hear the soft sobs of her handmaidens, including Irri and Jhiqui.
That morning, she had seen bruises blooming across Doreah's chest, stomach, and thighs.
It was the work of Cohollo and Haggo.
The bloodriders of a Khal could share everything with him except his mount. Drogo had forbidden them from touching Daenerys, but her handmaidens had always been at their mercy.
They had not been so brazen before, but now...
"Everyone knows the Khal is dying. According to Dothraki tradition, his bloodriders will follow him in death. Cohollo and the others see their end approaching, and that's why they've become so unhinged—dead men have nothing left to fear," Ser Jorah told her, his voice weary.
He had suffered the most these past two days, his heavy armor never leaving his body. By day, he stood guard outside the tent; by night, he sat at the entrance, his sword gleaming coldly across his knees.
"This land is barren, Daenerys. The stream three miles away has nearly run dry from the needs of men and horses. Worse still, there's no grass. The livestock won't hold out much longer," Jorah said, rubbing his tired eyes. "The Dothraki won't watch their horses starve and die. Soon, they'll act—if not tonight, then tomorrow."
I did this intentionally. I let Drogo lead us astray, guiding the khalasar to this lifeless wasteland, a place that could never support such a vast tribe.
I hoped that, once their endurance gave out, the lesser Khals would splinter off with their own khalasars.
I couldn't allow ambitious men to fight over Drogo's place near my small khalasar. If they did, none of us would survive the chaos. As Khaleesi, my life would be forfeit.
Sensing the final moment was near, she turned to the gaunt knight with dark shadows under his eyes and said, "I think I'll give birth tonight. Go and bring Mirri Maz Duur."
Pain flickered in Jorah's eyes. He wanted to tell his princess not to hope—not to dream of this child—because the devastation of reality would be unbearable.
"Khaleesi, didn't you say she wants to sacrifice your child?" he croaked.
"Don't worry. She will only sing the birthing song. She won't come near me," Dany reassured him.
Mirri Maz Duur had been confined to a nearby tent for two days. Though her clothes and hair were disheveled, her spirit seemed intact.
"I've heard the whispers of the horsemen. Your husband's khalasar is crumbling. Only his return from the darkness can change this—your fate, your child's fate," she said smoothly.
"I'm in labor. Help me deliver this child first," Dany said, lying on a blanket soaked in sweat, as though she had just stepped out of a boiling bath.
"I will help," Mirri Maz Duur hesitated for a moment, then moved toward her bed.
"Wait," Dany commanded, signaling Irri to stop her. "This is a natural birth. You will stand behind the screen and sing the birthing song."
She turned to Irri with firm authority. "Irri, stand guard. If she tries anything, shoot her with the crossbow."
"You don't trust me?" Mirri's face darkened.
"No," Dany said coldly. "At least not until my son is safely born. You know why."
Mirri Maz Duur's expression froze as she contemplated her options. Should she let the child be born? Either way, the boy—the prophesied stallion who mounts the world—was doomed. He would die by the hand of a new horse lord or be sacrificed to the shadow demons she served.
Why hadn't this silver-haired woman broken as expected? Why had the dark sorcery woven into her whispers failed?
It burned her to know she couldn't deliver her vengeance directly.
But under Irri's watchful gaze and the crossbow aimed at her heart, Mirri Maz Duur had no choice but to sing.
The birth was unexpectedly smooth. Daenerys screamed for only half an hour before the soft, frail cry of a newborn filled the air behind the wooden screen.
"Don't move!" Irri shouted sharply.
Mirri Maz Duur halted her steps as she attempted to move past the wooden screen. She turned to the handmaiden and said, "Your Khaleesi needs me. There's still much work to do after the child is born."
In truth, she had no other motives at that moment. She simply felt something was profoundly wrong about this birth and desperately wanted to see it with her own eyes.
"Stop. Do not move," Irri commanded, holding the crossbow steady.
From behind the screen, Daenerys's weak voice came through. "Irri, let Jhiqui and Doreah come in. Mirri Maz Duur has proven her loyalty. Take her back to her tent. Do not bind her again. And... send her some wine and meat."
Something is wrong. That silver-haired woman is scheming!
Mirri Maz Duur was certain of it now, but she couldn't decipher what Daenerys had done—or was planning to do.
Irri, Jhiqui, and Doreah had no experience with childbirth and had never studied the art of midwifery. They believed everything was the result of Mirri Maz Duur's miraculous birthing song.
Even Ser Jorah and those outside thought the same. After all, just days ago, they had all seen Mirri Maz Duur help the dying Lhazareen girl Lilith deliver a pair of healthy twins.
Before that, everyone had been absolutely certain that Lilith was beyond saving after her fall from the horse.
It was clear that Mirri Maz Duur was no ordinary midwife.
With her help, it seemed entirely natural that the Khaleesi had delivered her son safely.
When Ser Jorah led Cohollo, Qotho, and Haggo into the tent, they naturally assumed the frail baby in Daenerys's arms was their Khal's son.
"My sun and stars... your 'blood of my blood'... he is dying," Daenerys said softly, absentmindedly stroking the baby's thin black hair.
"Woman, the Dothraki are not like the people of your sunset lands," the elder Cohollo sneered, believing he had seen through Daenerys's supposed ambition to rule from behind the veil. "Among the horsemen, from the womb-lake onward, there has never been an infant Khal.
In truth, if a Khal's adult son is not the strongest warrior in the khalasar, he cannot inherit his father's place."
By now, they no longer called her Khaleesi.
As Ser Jorah had warned, she was only Khaleesi when Khal Drogo lived. In his death, she was nothing.
Daenerys spoke to them calmly. "I have accepted my fate—to join the Dosh Khaleen at Vaes Dothrak. But as my husband's blood of my blood, this child is his legacy and your kin.
I hope one or several brave warriors among you will ride through the night and take my Rhaego"—the name Daenerys had chosen for her son long before his birth—"to the north.
Under the shadow of the Mother of Mountains in Vaes Dothrak, there lies a sacred place of peace—where no blades are drawn, no blood is spilled, where all feuds are laid to rest.
Find the ancient crone of the Dosh Khaleen who prophesied that I would bear 'the stallion who mounts the world.' Ask her to rescind that prophecy and take Rhaego as her lifelong servant.
If these requests are fulfilled, I will swear by my title as Princess of Dragonstone, Stormborn, to forever renounce any claim on Khal Drogo's legacy on behalf of my son."
(End of Chapter)
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