Lyra's fall from the horse hadn't been severe—the filly was a small one, much like Dany's—but the jolt had sent her into a premature, and complicated, labor. The fetus was in the wrong position, stuck in the uterus, unable to be born. It was a death sentence. The Dothraki healers, who treated even the simplest of cuts with chants and mud poultices, had no answer for such a crisis.
"Send her to my tent," Dany commanded, a deep, calculating light in her violet eyes. She turned to her maid. "Irri, have a space isolated in a corner of the tent. We must not disturb the Khal."
Drogo's massive yurt, over two hundred square meters, was large enough to accommodate another person without issue. The Dothraki were not surprised by their Khaleesi's order; they had already seen her risk the wrath of her own warriors to save the 'goat-women.' To them, Lyra, having been with Jhogo, was now one of their own people.
To prevent any conflict with the Ko, Dany immediately issued a public decree. "She has made a mistake," she announced to the slave woman who had driven the cart. "She said things she should not have said and deserves punishment. But she is also laboring to give new life to the khalasar. Tell Jhogo this: if this woman bears him a healthy son, her crimes will be forgiven. If it is a daughter, I will see her given twenty lashes and made a proper slave."
The slave woman, given a clear order from the Khaleesi, hurried off to deliver the message.
As soon as Daenerys returned to the tent, Ser Jorah was there, waving her handmaidens away so they could speak in private. His face was grim. "The rumors are everywhere," he said, his voice a low, urgent rumble. "All through the khalasar, they are saying Khal Drogo fell from his horse."
"He did not," Dany countered.
"Because you caught him," Jorah shot back, sweat beading on his brow. "I saw it. His bloodriders saw it. Every khas behind you saw it. You know his condition better than I do. You may have covered for him today, but what about tomorrow? Or the day after? Soon he will not even be able to climb onto a horse, and then…"
And then it would be over. A Khal who cannot ride cannot rule. Her own wisdom and cleverness would be useless against that single, unshakeable fact.
"I have made my decision," she said, her voice firm, cutting him off. "Do not mention running away again. That path leads only to death." She paused, looking him directly in the eyes. "Ser, you are my sworn knight. I need your oath that you will keep me safe through the turmoil to come."
"There is no doubt of it. No one will harm you until I am dead," Jorah Mormont said, his voice thick with conviction. He nodded solemnly. "But I worry. Without Drogo, this khalasar will erupt into chaos. I am only one man."
"You will not be alone. My khas will stand with you." Her eyes traveled over his attire: the bleached and faded Dothraki vest, the baggy sandsilk trousers, the riding sandals. Except for the lack of bells in his hair, he looked like one of them. "And from now on," she commanded, "you will wear your armor."
"I understand," the big bear nodded, a new understanding dawning in his eyes.
From the partitioned corner of the tent, Lyra's sporadic cries could be heard. Dany sent Jorah to retrieve his equipment while she herself went to find Cohollo. The old bloodrider was on a high rise, his voice booming as he directed the camp's construction, his mood as foul as the thunderclouds on the horizon.
Dany beckoned him down. "Cohollo," she said, "fetch me Mirri Maz Duur."
"The witch?" he spat. "I will not. Khaleesi, you have no right to order me."
"It is for Lyra," she explained calmly. "Our healers cannot help her. Let the witch-woman try."
Cohollo stared at her, his eyes as hard and unyielding as flint. "Witches are evil. They have congress with demons and perform the darkest sorcery. They drain the life from men. To trust one is the height of foolishness."
Dany placed a hand on her belly. "I do not trust her," she said, her voice a careful balance of reason and vulnerability. "But my own time is near. If she can save Lyra from a death in childbirth, will the child in my belly not be safer for her skill?"
The old bloodrider opened his mouth, then closed it. A look of profound pity crossed his face, and he left without another word. He thought she was a naive child, ignorant of the fate that awaited her and her son.
A short while later, Cohollo returned, dragging the Lhazareen priestess behind him. Mirri Maz Duur's clothes were torn, her face was swollen, and blood dripped from the corner of her mouth where a front tooth was now missing. She had clearly been beaten.
After ordering Ser Jorah to stand guard and let no one enter, Dany handed the witch a horn cup of mare's milk. "You said you are skilled in childbirth."
Mirri Maz Duur wiped the blood from her lips and drank deeply before answering, her voice raspy but defiant. "Lady of Silver, my mother was a godswife before me. She taught me the sacred songs and how to make unguents from leaves and roots. As a young woman, I traveled with a caravan to Asshai-by-the-Shadow to learn from their mages. I learned the healing arts of many nations there. A moonsinger from Jogos Nhai taught me her birthing songs. A woman of your own horse-people taught me the magic of grass and corn. And a maester from the Sunset Lands, Marwyn, opened the human body for me and showed me all the mysteries hidden beneath the skin."
She was a scholar, a woman of medicine with more training than any maester. She glanced at Drogo's still form. "I am skilled in many arts, but the Khal abandoned my treatment seven days ago."
Dany interrupted her, pointing to the partitioned corner. "There is a woman in there, fallen from a horse and unable to give birth. She is the one you will treat today. My own child will be born soon. You will use Lyra to prove your skill to me."
"As you wish, Lady of Silver," the witch answered, her dark eyes unreadable.
Lyra's cot was placed in a small, curtained-off alcove, separated from the main tent by a heavy wooden screen from the Summer Isles, intricately carved with a hundred colorful animals. Soon, Mirri Maz Duur began to sing. It was a strange song in a language Dany had never heard, soft and melodious, like a lullaby and a passionate poem all at once.
With the witch's song as a distraction, Dany gathered her tools: the black dragon egg, a small hand crossbow already loaded and strung taut, Drogo's dragonbone dagger, a healer's needle and thread, a skin of poppy wine, and a stack of large cotton cloths that had been boiled in water and dried in the hot sun.
She laid down on her own furs, out of sight. She smeared the poppy wine over her belly, a cooling, numbing sensation. She placed a piece of cork between her teeth. This can't hurt more than resting my feet in the fire last night, she thought grimly. She clutched the black egg, murmuring to it under her breath, a desperate plea for strength.
Thick, dark blood began to stain the furs beneath her. Her face turned waxy pale, her forehead beaded with sweat. Her expression went slack, her mind drifting into a state of shock, and the cork fell from her lips.
Suddenly, the fossilized dragon egg she had wedged between her knees became scorching hot, like a burning coal fresh from the fire. The searing heat shocked her back to her senses, her mind clearer and sharper than ever before. A modern caesarean section took half an hour, including anesthesia. Dany, dazed and in agony, took only ten minutes. A moment later, a bloody, squirming baby boy was in her arms.
With a grimace, Dany poured a small amount of poppy wine into a cup and gently tipped it into his mouth. "Stallion Who Mounts the World," she whispered, her voice trembling, "a little narcotic will not harm you." The infant fell into a quiet sleep. She placed the pale, warm dragon egg in his small hands.
Another fifteen minutes passed. The witch was still singing. With the black dragon egg in her left hand, Dany used her free right hand to wipe the blood from her body, then carefully stitched the incision closed. She gathered all the blood-soaked cloths and blankets and threw them into the heart of the roaring bonfire.
"Thank you, my little dragon," she whispered, lovingly stroking the fine scales of the black egg. Her heart was filled with a profound gratitude and affection—an emotion she now understood, as powerful as the bond between a Stark and their direwolf. In her moment of greatest need, she had tied her soul to the dragon within. She could now control the Dragon Dream.
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