Lilis had fallen from her horse, but her injuries were not immediately life-threatening. Like Daenerys, she had been riding a small, low-set mare, yet the fall had caused premature labor. The problem, however, was not merely that she went into labor early; the baby had become malpositioned in the womb, stuck in a way that it could not safely exit.
In the world of the Dothraki, their hairless people relied heavily on the blessings of the Horse God even for minor wounds. For a complicated birth, they would often condemn a woman to death if she failed. Midwifery was considered a high-level skill, one that could invoke fear and awe in equal measure.
Daenerys' violet eyes glimmered with determination. She turned to her servant Ili and commanded, "Ili, prepare a space in the corner of the palace. Under no circumstances may the Khal be disturbed."
Drogo's wicker palace, the central hub for the Khalasar leader's affairs, spanned over two hundred square meters. There was more than enough room to accommodate a laboring woman. The black slave women and the Horse People were unsurprised by the Khaleesi's decision. After all, Daenerys had previously offended the Dothraki warriors to protect the Lamb's People women who had been violated.
Lilis was one of the Ma People, after all. As the saying went, when you marry a chicken, you follow the chicken; when you marry a horse, you follow the horse.
Daenerys' order was precise. "If this woman gives birth to a strong son, her crime is forgiven. If a daughter, she will be whipped twenty times and reduced to slavery."
Ili immediately carried out the order, preparing to report it to Jia Ke.
Returning to her own tent, Daenerys was met by Ser Jorah, who dismissed the maids and servants. His expression was tense, filled with worry. "Rumors are spreading everywhere. The entire Khalasar is talking about it… Khal Drogo has fallen from his horse."
"He did not," Daenerys corrected calmly.
"Because you held him back," Jorah said, sweat dripping down his bear-like face. "I saw it. His Bloodrider saw it. The Khas behind you saw it too. You know the situation better than anyone. Even if we cover it up today, what about tomorrow, and the day after? Soon, he may not even be able to ride, and then…"
A Khal who could not ride could not rule. A wise and vibrant Khaleesi meant little without her Khal.
"I have made my decision. Do not speak of escape again. Leaving is a dead end," she said firmly, locking eyes with Ser Jorah. "You are my sworn knight. I trust you to ensure my safety during the chaos to come."
"There is no doubt," Jorah replied solemnly. "No one will harm you while I draw breath."
He hesitated, concern etching his features. "But without Drogo, the Khalasar could quickly descend into chaos. I may not be able to handle it alone…"
"Do not worry. My Khas tribe will cooperate with you," Daenerys reassured him, noting the practical attire of the bear-like warrior: a faded, sand-colored vest, reddened skin scorched by the sun, loosely patterned sand-silk trousers, tied riding sandals, and a sword dangling from a horsehair belt. He resembled a Centaur in appearance, minus the braids and bells in his hair.
"From now on, you will wear your knight's armor," she instructed.
"I understand, Silver Lady," he said, nodding.
Lilis' cries pierced the air from the far corner of the wicker palace. Daenerys instructed Ser Jorah to change into proper attire, then lifted the cowhide curtain and stepped outside. On the hill above the palace, Ko Moro directed the camp setup with harsh, commanding shouts. Drogo's foul mood and visible worry were evident.
Daenerys stopped him with a raised hand. "Ko Moro, find Mirri Maz Duur."
"Witch?" he spat. "I will not. Khaleesi, you have no right to command me."
Though Daenerys had rescued Mirri Maz Duur, she remained a slave in the Dothraki hierarchy, alongside the Lamb's People.
"For Lilis," Daenerys pressed. "Our hairless people cannot assist her. Why not allow Mirri Maz Duur to try?"
Ko Moro's gaze hardened. "Witches consort with demons. They are cruel, soulless, and cast the darkest spells. At night, they drain men of life. Trusting them is foolish."
The Dothraki, though not practitioners of dark magic, had developed cautious, practical traditions over millennia. Even so, without Daenerys' intervention, Drogo might have died from an infected wound.
Touching her belly, Daenerys reflected, "I do not trust him, but if he can save Lilis, my unborn child will be safer as well."
Ko Moro's lips moved silently. He gave her a sympathetic glance before leaving, perhaps assuming she did not understand Dothraki customs.
Daenerys called to Elloye, the shy Lamb's People girl she had rescued first from outside the mud walls of their settlement. After washing and dressing, Daenerys sat quietly by the fire at the camp's center. Flames roared, and the stifling air drove away all remaining servants. It was late afternoon, and the heat was oppressive.
Soon, Ko Moro returned, leading the short, battered figure of Mirri Maz Duur. Her clothes were torn, face swollen, blood trickled from her mouth, and she had lost a front tooth—clear evidence of severe abuse.
After instructing Ser Jorah to ensure privacy, Mirri Maz Duur accepted a glass of mare's milk. "You said you were skilled in the art of childbirth?"
She wiped blood from her mouth, drank deeply, and explained, "Silver Woman, my mother was a Priestess. She taught me songs and spells to honor the Great Shepherd God, and the preparation of sacred smoke, ointments, and herbal remedies. I traveled with caravans to Asshai on the Shadow's shores to learn from foreign sorcerers. I studied medicine from distant lands and even learned the Childbirth Song from a Moon Singer in Joggos Nai. A Horse People woman taught me the magic of plants, horses, and care for animals. Maester Marwyn of the Sunset Lands taught me anatomy and the secrets beneath the skin."
Mirri Maz Duur was a master who had studied abroad and earned multiple medical "doctorates."
Her gaze shifted to Drogo, lying two zhangs away. "Though I am skilled, Drogo left my ointments seven days ago…"
Daenerys interrupted, pointing toward the corner. "This pregnant woman fell from her horse. She is your patient today."
Mirri Maz Duur looked surprised. "Another Silver Lady?" She nodded at Drogo and asked, "Should I not attend the great Horse Warrior first?"
Daenerys lowered her gaze, caressing her belly. "Do not meddle in the Khal's affairs. My child will be born soon. Lilis is your test of skill today."
"As you wish, Silver Lady," Mirri Maz Duur said obediently.
To avoid disturbing Drogo, Lilis' birthing area was separated from the main hall. A small straw house with a single door was constructed nearby, its walls adorned with hundreds of colorful carved birds and animals—gifts from the Trade Federation.
Mirri Maz Duur began chanting in a low, soft, melodic language, unknown to Daenerys. It was simultaneously soothing and mystical, reminiscent of the Childbirth Song from Joggos Nai, or perhaps magic from Asshai.
Daenerys observed the surrounding items: the black dragon egg, a hand bow with a metal-tipped arrow, Drogo's dragonbone dagger, needles and thread from hairless humans, poppy wine, and boiled cotton cloth. She rubbed the poppy wine on her belly, biting the cork firmly. The pain of the dagger incision seemed more tolerable than the charcoal-grilled legs she had endured the previous night.
"Dragon child," she whispered. "You are the greatest power in the world. Your arrival will revive the spiritual energy of heaven and earth. You are a living god. Give strength to your mother."
The blanket beneath her was soaked with dark blood. Sweat covered her forehead. Her lips, parting slightly, released the cork from her mouth.
The black dragon egg between her knees radiated searing heat, clearing her mind.
A modern Caesarean section usually lasts thirty minutes, including anesthesia. Daenerys labored for about twenty minutes, and then a bloody baby boy was placed in her arms.
Covering her mouth, she poured a small goblet of poppyseed wine down his throat. "A little anesthetic will not harm you if you are to ride the Horse of the World," she murmured.
The infant slept, clutching the dragon egg tightly. Fifteen minutes later, the witch's chants continued next door. Daenerys wiped the blood from her body, tossing soiled cloths into the fire.
She caressed the black dragon egg tenderly. Gratitude filled her heart; just as Bran Stark could sense the emotions of Summer, she now shared a spiritual bond with the black dragon. With this, she could control her entry into the Dragon Dream, linking herself fully to the life and power of dragons.
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