In A Song of Ice and Fire, there are many prophecies, and more than ninety percent of them eventually come true. One of them is the prophecy spoken by the Dothraki crone about Daenerys Targaryen: her child would be the Stallion Who Mounts the World.
This "stallion" was not a literal prophecy that she would give birth to a horse.
The Dothraki have a unique reverence and emotional bond with horses. They drink mare's milk at birth, eat horse meat and drink fermented mare's milk when they grow up, ride fierce horses in life, and when they die, their finest horse is slaughtered and buried with them.
To the Dothraki, the "stallion" is a metaphor for a powerful boy.
Unfortunately, the prophecy was still misunderstood. Daenerys did not give birth to a child—or rather, her child was not a boy, but three dragons!
Dragons—the ultimate embodiment of power in the world. Were they not, in essence, the Stallion Who Mounts the World?
Having watched the hit TV series Game of Thrones, the second-generation Daenerys naturally understood the crone's prophecy far better than Jorah, and better than anyone alive at this time.
But this was something she could never say aloud—and did not dare to. The moment she spoke of it, the dragon eggs that were once unnoticed could be snatched away, and she might even lose her own life.
—Even a fool knew that dragons were far more dangerous than any powerful khal.
MMP, the prophecy was so accurate, yet it couldn't foresee black magic. The witches of Vaes Dothrak were seriously lopsided in their skill set.
Fine. Drogo's death was, in a way, a release for this second-generation her—but the real problem was timing.
Her transmigration had come at the worst possible moment.
If Daenerys could wipe away the dark thoughts in her mind, then now that she was here—and knew of the maegi's vicious scheme—she would never allow the child to miscarry, let alone offer it up as a sacrifice to demons.
Losing the baby might save the khaleesi's life, and perhaps the child was never truly hers to begin with—but now, this child was hers.
And she would protect it at all costs.
Daenerys made her decision in her heart and once again rejected Jorah's plan to "elope" with her. Going with him would be a dead end—there was an eighty percent chance they wouldn't even make it out of the grasslands.
When Irri and Jhiqui brought hot water, red wine, and other items, Daenerys tried to clean Drogo's wound with red wine. It was almost useless—purple-black pus and blood continued to ooze out as she wiped.
After struggling for half an hour, Daenerys had no choice but to soak silk in poppy milk, boil it, and then wrap it tightly around Drogo's chest several times.
It couldn't cure the wound, but it could numb it and ease his pain.
She instructed Irri and Jhiqui to help clean Drogo's body, then told Doreah to move out a chest.
It was a cedarwood chest decorated with bronze—about thirty centimeters wide and tall, and a meter long.
"Doreah, spread my bedding here," Daenerys said, pointing toward the bonfire in the center of the khal's tent.
The khal's tent was enormous—nearly two hundred square meters. At the center, the top was open to the sky, and below it was a ground-level hearth encircled by iron plates. Flames leapt within it, bringing warmth to the cool night.
"So close… won't it be too hot?" Doreah hesitated.
"I'm not afraid of heat."
That was the truth.
The moment she arrived in this world, she noticed that the Targaryen family's so-called True Dragon Body was no exaggeration—at the very least, Daenerys felt no discomfort under the blazing sun.
While Doreah was making the bed and folding blankets, Daenerys opened the cedarwood chest. Inside, it was filled with soft velvet, and atop it lay three enormous "stone" eggs.
They were about the size of ostrich eggs, but compared to the dull monotone of ordinary eggs, the stone eggs beneath Daenerys's fingers were incomparably beautiful.
In her previous life, she had been born into an ordinary family and had never seen top-tier jewelry with her own eyes—but she was absolutely certain that the Heart of the Ocean from the Titanic, or the sapphire atop the British queen's crown, would be nothing more than clods of dirt when compared to these three dragon eggs.
These three dragon eggs were wedding gifts from Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of Pentos—fossilized dragon eggs from the Shadow Lands, preserved for tens of millions of years, already petrified into crystal (ps). They looked as if they were crafted from the finest porcelain, enamel, or glass. Especially the resplendent patterns on their surface—so exquisite that one might think they were inlaid with countless jewels and diamonds.
The fossilized surfaces of the three dragon eggs were covered in tiny scales. As Daenerys brushed them with her fingers, they reflected the glow of the setting sun, emitting a metallic sheen.
One was deep green, mottled with bronze-like spots, nurturing a green dragon within.One was a pale milky white, traced with golden lines—a white dragon.The last was black, like an ocean beneath midnight skies, alive with dark red waves and swirling currents.
As Daenerys stroked them, a gentle heat rose from the dragon eggs. The scorching warmth that passed into her skin made her so comfortable she nearly moaned.
"Doreah, come touch them. Are the dragon eggs hot?" she withdrew her hand and turned to the handmaiden.
Doreah, puzzled, rubbed her hands over the three eggs back and forth, then said in confusion, "They're icy cold—just like before?"
Daenerys waved her hand, telling her to prepare dinner—ah, that big fat goose.
The goose weighed four or five jin. Daenerys ate a little over half of it—one goose leg and half a breast.
The goose meat was stewed with turnips and apples, unexpectedly delicious. She dipped black bread into the broth and ate in a daze, consuming nearly three jin of food.
Mm. This little girl's physique was absurdly good—tough and durable. Could it be because of the true dragon bloodline?
"Burp—Doreah, give the remaining goose to Ser Jorah. Irri, Jhiqui, help me wash up," Daenerys said tiredly after a satisfied burp.
Irri and Jhiqui were Dothraki and preferred roasted horse meat. Doreah had a small appetite—a small bowl of soup was enough for her.
As for Ser Jorah, like Daenerys, he was a foreigner and not accustomed to the food of the horse lords.
After bathing, and watching Irri feed a large bag of thick mare's milk to the unconscious Drogo, Daenerys prepared to sleep.
In the quiet, spacious tent, there were only three people. Not far away, Drogo's pain nerves—stimulated by black magic—caused his body to twitch from time to time, occasionally letting out fragmented, hoarse groans. Daenerys slept on the side of the bed closest to the bonfire, with Irri sharing the bedding on the outer side.
Every night, the three handmaidens took turns sleeping beside her to attend to her needs.
The Dothraki girls were astonishingly big-hearted—their khal was on the brink of death, yet once they covered themselves with feather quilts, they fell straight into sleep.
Daenerys lay naked, pressing the three dragon eggs tightly against her skin, as if drawing in the energy of life and primal force they represented.
This was not an illusion. The dragon eggs truly had a healing effect.
Daenerys Targaryen was a princess of a fallen kingdom. A few months before her birth, her father and brother's throne had been seized by the usurper—Robert Baratheon. If not for a loyal old knight who fled with her and Viserys to Braavos, she likely would have shared her nephew's fate—smashed against a wall, bursting into a mess of red and white pulp.
Before the age of five, with the old knight's care, she lived a few relatively comfortable years like a commoner. After the knight died of illness, her young brother led the even younger Daenerys as they drifted across the Nine Free Cities.
From age five to thirteen, to evade assassins sent by the usurper, they traveled tens of thousands of li—this was no exaggeration, truly tens of thousands of li.
In the narrow streets and shadowed alleys of the western continent of Essos, the figures of two silver-haired Targaryens had appeared time and again.
At first, the magisters, princes, and merchant lords who ruled the Free Cities were happy to host Targaryen heirs. But as Robert Baratheon sat more securely upon the Iron Throne, those once-open doors closed one after another, and the siblings' lives grew increasingly harsh.
Over the years, they pawned all their jewelry—even their mother's crown.
The money they gained was quickly spent. Penniless, they became the laughingstock of those in the know. In the taverns and alleys of Pentos, people gave Viserys a nickname: the Beggar King. As for Daenerys, timid and fearful, she never dared to inquire what others called her.
Because of this, deprived of clothing and food, Daenerys grew up malnourished—thin as a bean sprout, with no chest and no hips. Living long under the terror of Viserys's dragon-sleeping rages, she became meek and submissive, hunched over like a little old woman.
If not for the world's top-tier beauty buff that came with A Song of Ice and Fire, even Drogo might not have looked twice at her—in the beginning, Viserys had genuinely worried that his sister wouldn't sell.
Well, every Targaryen was a beauty. Their family possessed a hereditary legacy of looks and presence.
She didn't have her first menstruation until thirteen, had never ridden a horse before, and then suddenly had to ride long distances every day.
In the early days, the harsh nomadic life nearly broke her. Daenerys had seriously considered suicide as a form of escape.
It could be said that in the world of Ice and Fire, no one had a more miserable fate than Daenerys. Compared to her, the Stark family's suffering was child's play.
Dead father, dead mother, dead brothers—losing a kingdom (the North) was considered tragic?
Daenerys had already lived through all of that. Setting aside national hatred and blood feuds, just on a personal level—she had grown up starving and struggling. After finally meeting a Drogo who truly treated her well, she lost her lover, her protector, and her son in the span of just a few days.
Her future would only grow more miserable. The Starks still had a chance to rise again—she, however, kept falling into a bottomless abyss, never stopping.
Who dared say they had it worse than her?!
Alright, that was a bit of a tangent.
That day, Daenerys's body and mind were shattered. She hovered on the brink of death and nearly took her own life.
What changed her physical condition and mental state were the dragon eggs.
Through soul communion with the dragons inside the eggs during her dreams, her injuries healed overnight. From flesh to soul, it was as if she had been purified—revitalized, reborn.
This was a fantasy world. There were dragons. There was magic.
Daenerys Targaryen's bloodline was unlike that of ordinary people.
"Little baby, give Mommy strength. Dragon baby, give Mommy strength," Daenerys murmured softly, clutching the black dragon egg as if chanting a spell.
Uh… in Chinese, no less.
Aside from the constant waves of heat, the dragon egg showed no other abnormalities.
Daenerys placed the egg beside her feather pillow, turned onto her side, and watched the flickering flames just inches away, her gaze shifting.
"I've taken over someone else's body. At the very least, I must do everything I can to protect her child. To survive, I have to try."
Clenching her teeth, Daenerys extended her palm toward the leaping flames.
Back in modern society, she often saw all kinds of extreme roasting challenges on Douyin—roasting ice pops, roasting air, all sorts of nonsense.
Today, she wanted to ask one question loudly:
Which of you has ever live-roasted yourself?
Daenerys was going to roast human flesh.
Mm. Roast her own flesh.
(ps: Regarding the origin of Daenerys's dragon eggs—last year, Old Martin released the Ice and Fire prequel, Fire & Blood. Many people believe those were the three eggs that Elissa (you can think of her as a knockoff Arya) stole from Rhaena Targaryen and sold to the Sea Lord.
Actually, answering this question is simple—just look at Martin's writing timeline.
In 1991, A Song of Ice and Fire: A Game of Thrones was already completed. In 2018, because the sixth book, The Winds of Winter, kept getting delayed—seven or eight years of delays, since the early setup was too massive to wrap up—he produced Fire & Blood instead. Personally, I feel its content is pretty bad and not worth much reading. It's mostly flat narration; the core material already appeared in A Song of Ice and Fire. In terms of story conflict and character depth, it's far inferior.
When Martin first wrote A Song of Ice and Fire in 1991, he never imagined it would explode in popularity—ironically, it only became a massive hit after the Game of Thrones TV series aired. The early setting is very clear in the text: the dragon eggs were fossils from tens of millions of years ago.
They absolutely did not come from a hundred-plus years ago. At that time, he hadn't even fleshed out Princess Rhaena's storyline.
So no matter what Old Martin thinks now, this humble author firmly believes the dragon eggs came from fossilized remains in the Shadow Lands. Only then do the eggs feel rare but not utterly unique—if the world truly had only three eggs left, they would have long been hoarded by nobles and elites. How would poor little Dany ever get her hands on them?
Illyrio certainly didn't know she could hatch them—otherwise, he never would have sold her to Drogo.)
(End of chapter)