Drogo's Khalasar had been stranded in the barren expanse of the Gobi for two days, and the news that "the Khal will die" circulated like wildfire among the tribe. It was no longer mere rumor—everyone knew the truth. Khal Drogo was so gravely wounded that he could not even mount his horse, and without his guidance, the Khalasar could not move. The desert winds carried whispers of despair, and each rider knew that the mighty Khal, once untouchable, now teetered on the edge of mortality.
That evening, Mirri Maz Duur entered the tent, her face ashen and drawn. "The Khal's wound festers," she announced, her voice quiet, almost hypnotic. "No healer can save him. All that remains is to guide him along the dark path, to ease his passage into the endless night."
Daenerys knelt beside him, her hands trembling, murmuring desperate pleas to save her "Sun and Stars." Her heart pounded with fear and sorrow.
Mirri Maz Duur studied her carefully, her eyes dark as midnight, her voice low and eerily calm. "There is another way," she said. "A method of magic, but it is difficult and very dark. For some, death may be the easier path."
Daenerys leaned forward, her belly swollen with the child she carried. "What kind of magic?" she asked, her voice quivering.
"I learned it in Asshai," the Witch whispered, her words almost a chant. "My teacher came from the Shadow Lands. I paid dearly for this knowledge."
"Blood Witch," she murmured softly, revealing her true identity for the first time. Previously, she had claimed to be only a healer, a nun of sorts, one skilled in herbs and midwifery. But now the truth was undeniable.
Her voice seemed to twist and coil around Daenerys' mind like a living thing. Scorched by the heat of the fire, Daenerys felt as if icy, sticky tendrils were wrapping around her neck, making it hard to breathe. Her thoughts clouded, her mind struggled to focus. "Do it… save him…" she muttered unconsciously.
The dragon egg she held pressed against her body, hidden beneath her robes, radiating a warmth that stirred her nerves. Clarity returned with the heat.
Mirri Maz Duur hesitated. "The Khal's Bloodrider will never accept this. Is there truly no other way?"
"There is not," the Witch replied after a pause.
Daenerys pursed her lips, meeting the Witch's gaze. "So you admit it. You are a Witch," she said coldly.
Mirri Maz Duur smiled, fearless. "Yes, Silver Lady. Only a Witch can save your warrior now. But you must pay the price."
Daenerys searched her own heart, thinking of Drogo. "What do you want? Gold? Horses?"
"This is no matter of wealth or possessions," the Witch interrupted sharply. "This is blood magic. Only death can buy life."
Daenerys' eyes widened. "Death? You mean… my life?"
"No, Khaleesi. Not yours," the Witch assured her, though her gaze flicked to the swollen belly, dark and unreadable. Malice lingered beneath her calm.
Daenerys' voice hardened. "Whose death could awaken my Sun and Stars? Surely not the horse?"
The Witch smiled, pointing toward Daenerys' womb as if a demon had set its sights on the unborn child. "You guessed it, Silver Lady. To save the Khal, the spell demands the life of another. Blood magic is not forgiving. Khal Drogo lives not only as your Sun and Stars but as the guarantor of your future. As long as he survives, children may follow. But one life must be offered… a life of great consequence."
Daenerys' hand clenched around the teapot in front of her, and in a single motion, she flung it across the room. It struck the Witch squarely on the forehead. Blood mixed with the spilled horse milk, running down her cheek.
"Aggo! Rakharo!" Daenerys shouted. "Drag the Witch away! Gag her! Tie her up!" The guards obeyed, hauling Mirri Maz Duur from the tent.
Two days and nights passed, and the Khalasar teetered on the edge of collapse. At night, Daenerys could hear the muffled cries of Iriqi and the other servants as they worked tirelessly, preparing for the inevitable. By morning, she saw that Doreah's chest, abdomen, and thighs were bruised from Quotho and Haggo's strict discipline. The Bloodriders, bound by loyalty, could share all burdens with the Khal except touching Daenerys herself, though her servants were under their command.
"Everyone knows the Khal will die," Ser Jorah said wearily, rubbing his tired eyes. "According to Dothraki tradition, a Bloodrider lives and dies with his Khal. Quotho and the others are acting mad because they sense the end approaching. Dead men have nothing to fear."
Jorah's exhaustion was evident. He had remained in heavy armor for days, guarding the camp by day and resting only briefly, his sword across his knees, by night. "Besides, the land is barren. The stream three miles away is nearly dry, the grazing grounds depleted. The animals are nearly extinct. The Dothraki will not stand idle while their horses starve or die of thirst. They will move—tonight, or at dawn."
Daenerys had chosen this wasteland deliberately, knowing it could not sustain a great Khalasar. She had hoped that chaos would disperse rival tribes, ensuring her small Khas tribe survived intact. Ambitious warriors near her Khas would threaten her claim as Khaleesi, and she could not risk their interference.
Sensing the approaching moment of labor, she turned to Ser Jorah. "I think I will give birth tonight. Seek Mirri Maz Duur."
Jorah's eyes filled with concern. "Khaleesi, do not despair. Protect the child. Do not succumb to despair, or you will be unable to bear the inevitable blow."
"I won't let him touch my body," Daenerys replied, calming him. "He only needs to sing the Childbirth Song."
The Witch had been kept in a small tent nearby for the past two days. Her appearance was disheveled, but her expression betrayed nothing of her prior threat.
"I hear whispers of the Dothraki," Daenerys said quietly. "Your husband's tribe teeters on collapse. Only his return from darkness can change their fate. And the destiny of my child depends on it."
Daenerys lay on her blanket, sweat covering her as if she had taken a hot bath. "Help me deliver the child first."
Mirri Maz Duur hesitated, then began moving toward her. "Wait," Daenerys called. "I will give birth naturally. Just sing from behind the screen."
She turned to Ili. "Keep watch outside. If the Witch does anything, strike him with a crossbow immediately."
The Witch's face fell. "You do not trust me?"
"Not yet," Daenerys replied. "Not until my son is safely born. You should know why."
Mirri Maz Duur's mind wavered. Should she allow the child to live? The boy, prophesied as the "Horse Who Rides the World," faced death from the rival Khal or the shadow magic of his own fate. Yet, this silver-haired woman seemed unflinching. Her dark magic had failed before; she was impossible to sway.
Reluctantly, the Witch obeyed, singing the Childbirth Song. Ili and Ji Qi, untrained in midwifery, watched in awe, believing the song itself held miraculous power. Even Ser Jorah, standing guard outside, thought the birth a miracle.
The delivery was swift and relatively easy. Daenerys cried for only half an hour before a soft, weak cry echoed from behind the wooden screen.
"Don't move!" Ili commanded, crossbow raised.
The Witch stopped, turning to the maid. "Khaleesi requires me. More complicated tasks will follow after the child is born."
But her mind was elsewhere; she could sense that the birth had been extraordinary.
"Bring Ji Qi and Doreah," Daenerys ordered. "The Witch has proven her loyalty. Return her to her tent, untied. Send her wine and provisions."
Even Ser Jorah and the other guards recognized the miracle. Days earlier, Lilis had nearly died giving birth, yet Mirri Maz Duur had saved her with skill that no ordinary midwife could match.
Now, Khaleesi herself had given birth to a son.
When Ko Moro, Quotho, and Haggo were brought to the grass-curtained palace, they assumed the fragile infant in Daenerys' arms was the Khal's heir.
"My Sun and Stars," Daenerys murmured, stroking the boy's thin black hair. "My Blood of My Blood… you are alive."
Ko Moro scoffed. "The Dothraki are nothing like your Sunset Lands. Since the Ma People were born from the Womb of the Earth, there have been no baby Khals. If the Khal's son is not the strongest warrior, he may never inherit his father's title."
They no longer addressed her as Khaleesi. While Khal Drogo lived, she ruled over countless tribes; without him, she was nothing.
"I accept my destiny, Dosh Khaleen of Vaes Dothrak," Daenerys said, her voice calm but resolute. "But as my husband's Blood of My Blood, this child is his continuation. Brave warriors, take my son Rhaego north. Vaes Dothrak, at the foot of Mount Mother, is sacred. There, swords are sheathed, blood is spared, disputes set aside. Seek the Dosh Khaleen elder who prophesied my son's destiny. Ask him to retract the prophecy and take Rhaego as his servant for life. If these demands are met, I, Princess of Dragonstone, Stormborn, swear by Rhaego to forever renounce any claim to the inheritance of his birth father, Khal Drogo."
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