A commotion outside the tent made Daenerys, who had been sitting cross-legged in the flames, holding the Black Dragon egg, open her eyes in annoyance.
She was sterilizing herself!
The thousand-degree heat was more effective than any antibiotic or penicillin, and cleaner too, with no side effects.
Clenching her fist, Daenerys felt her body lighter and stronger than before.
Stepping out of the fire, she washed the grime off with boiling water and picked up the down-filled bundle she had prepared—a pillow made from duck feathers.
Soon, Daenerys, looking exactly as she had before, her belly swollen, struggled to lift the cowhide curtain and stepped outside.
The sun was setting in the west, casting long shadows behind the hills. The air was stiflingly hot and windless, and a group of Dothraki warriors huddled in the shade.
Spear-like guards stood in a circle around Drogo's grass-mat palace. Ser Jorah, like a tin can, stood three meters from the camp gate.
He was exchanging insults with a Dothraki.
The Dothraki pointed his arakh at Jorah and shouted, "Coward! The weak Andal has retreated back into his tin can again!"
"Andal" was how the Horsemen referred to Jorah Mormont.
The story of *A Song of Ice and Fire* follows three main threads:
1. **The Wall in the North of Westeros:** The biting wind, the threat of the White Walkers to all of humanity.
2. **King's Landing, the capital of Westeros:** The game of power.
3. **Essos, the Nine Free Cities:** Daenerys's path to slave liberation.
In essence, the core of the plot is located in Westeros.
The continent of Westeros is inhabited by four main races:
1. **The First Men:** Indigenous peoples like the Children of the Forest and Giants, with a history of a million years. They understand magic, use stone tools, and are fully primitive. Most now reside north of the Wall.
2. **The First Men:** Migrated from Essos twelve thousand years ago. They possess a Bronze Age level of civilization and were the first invaders. Their descendants are prevalent in the North and north of the Wall.
3. **The Andals:** Invaders who arrived from Essos eight thousand years ago, bringing iron technology and the faith of the Seven Gods.
4. **The Rhoynar:** Fled across the sea a thousand years ago to escape the dragon- and magic-dominated Valyrian Empire (a super-civilization akin to Atlantis). Lacking a higher level of civilization and unable to invade Westeros, which had developed a knightly culture, they were forced to assimilate, settling in Dorne, the relatively barren southernmost region of Westeros, characterized by deserts and steppes.
The title of the King of Westeros is "King of the Andals, Rhoynar, and First Men."
Jorah Mormont, as Earl of Bear Island in the North, should belong to the First Men, not the Andals.
However, knightly civilization was founded by the Andals, and knights are almost the only image other peoples have of the warriors of the Sunset Continent. Jorah, moreover, is dressed in full knightly attire.
Well, Jorah may not even be a true knight. Knighthood originates from a faith—the Seven Gods anoint them with holy oil, and they are sworn in by another established knight.
Jorah Mormont: Northern Earl, First Man, follower of the Old Gods, not the Seven.
He has received complete knightly training, possesses a full set of armor, and a warhorse, yet he may not be a true knight.
Take the Starks of Winterfell, for example. From Duke Ned downwards, none of them are formal knights.
The "primitive" tribes on horseback—the Dothraki—consider men in steel armor to be cowardly cowards.
Wearing iron armor = fearing death = cowardly coward—that's probably their logic chain.
The Horseman glanced at Daenerys as she emerged from her tent, but instead of restraining himself, he only laughed more raucously.
Jorah pressed his left hand to his sword and pointed aggressively at the Dothraki warrior with his right, shouting back in kind, "You primitive tribal scum, you mongrel of the horse! You know nothing! This suit of steel armor I wear could buy you a hundred dog heads!"
He alternated between cursing the warrior in Dothraki—targeting him personally—and spewing venom in the Northern accent of Westerosi Common—venting his resentment against the entire Dothraki people. The foul language he unleashed was so crude that most onlookers barely understood it.
The Horseman, having been wary of Jorah all along, immediately noticed the shift in his gaze. He glanced back at Daenerys, then, as if guessing his guard duty was complete, drew his two-handed Knight's sword with a *shing* and charged at the Dothraki.
The Horseman had been expecting him. He'd held back only because this was the Khal's camp; had he dared to trespass, the guards would have riddled him with arrows like a hedgehog.
The Horseman, whom Daenerys had initially dismissed as a mere grunt, moved with blinding speed. Her eyes couldn't keep up with his movements as his arakh blurred, weaving a silver curtain of blade-light.
Jorah was clad in full plate armor forged from dark gray steel, his massive helmet pulled down to reveal only narrow slits for his eyes. Below this were a gorget, knee guards, gauntlets, and tall boots—all gleaming iron plates.
Despite the weight of his armor, his movements were surprisingly swift, his two-handed greatsword whirling in a fan-like arc.
*Clang! Clang! Clang!* The two exchanged blows with a fury that rivaled a torrential downpour, the clash of steel ringing like hailstones against the banana leaves outside the window.
Yellow sparks flickered between the blades and across Ser Jorah's armor, like fireflies dancing around him.
Though the exchange seemed to stretch on, it was over in a flash. Jorah retreated three steps, bracing himself on his sword, his heavy, ragged breaths audible beneath his helmet to Daenerys.
The Horseman warrior lay sprawled on the red, sandy earth, his limbs flailing as he moaned. The dark blood that gushed from his chest was instantly swallowed by the parched ground, as if by some gluttonous demon.
Daenerys estimated that in the four or five seconds of combat, Jorah had taken at least three blows without a scratch, though fresh dents likely marked his steel breastplate.
The Horseman had held the advantage until the final moment, when a slight delay in his breathing during a parry allowed Jorah to strike his chest.
"Khaleesi!"
Jorah and her Khas guards greeted her one by one.
The Horsemen in the shadows pointed and gestured toward Daenerys's group, their expressions relaxed. They had just been mocking the "Andals" for their cowardice.
Now that their own companion lay struggling on the ground, bleeding to death, they seemed to consider him deserving of his fate, showing no concern or sympathy for his plight.
"Khaleesi, you left the witchwoman alone at the Khal's palace?" Cohollo rode up, angrily accusing her.
"She's not with the Khal. She's helping Lilith give birth. Didn't you hear her birth song?" As she spoke, she ordered Aggo to lift the grass curtain outside the birthing chamber.
The scene inside was instantly revealed to all. Mirri Maz Duur, singing a melodious song from the Land of the Moonshadow, gently stroked Lilith's swollen, glistening belly, as if trying to reposition the baby.
On the crude bed lined with rush mats, the pregnant woman's square face was ashen, her temples damp with sweat, and her teeth clenched so tightly that the veins in her cheeks bulged. Faint whimpers of pain and the faint smell of blood wafted through the curtain, washing over the onlookers.
A C-section could be completed in half an hour, but a normal birth, especially a difficult one, could easily take four to five hours.
The witchwoman had been singing the birth song for over an hour, her voice growing hoarse. When the straw curtain was lifted, everyone turned to look. She shook her head at Daenerys, who was three *zhang* away, her song never faltering, and hastily pulled the curtain closed again.
Having witnessed firsthand that the witchwoman wasn't using dark magic, the crowd quickly turned their attention back to their tasks.
"Water..." the Dothraki warrior, lying on the ground awaiting death, pleaded for a drink.
Daenerys walked over and tossed a bag of mare's milk to the ground. She then instructed her maid, Iri, to unfasten the warrior's painted vest—she was a pregnant woman with limited mobility and couldn't bend down to feed him or check his wounds.
"The ribs blocked the arakh's blade; it didn't pierce the organs," Daenerys assessed. "Iri, press this cloth against the wound to stop the bleeding. Qo, go summon the Hairless Men to stitch it up."
Qo said in Dothraki, "Khaleesi, he failed to defeat the Andal. He must accept his fate. Do not move him, nor help heal him. Everyone knows whether he lives or dies is up to the Horse God in the heavens."
"Everyone knows that," Iri the handmaiden replied.
"Everyone knows that," Jhoggo agreed.
Daenerys glared at Qo, her voice sharp. "Do you want everyone to know you've defied the Khaleesi's command?"
Qo widened his almond-shaped eyes in return.
Seeing the determination in Daenerys's eyes, he muttered something unintelligible and rode away.
The sun, like a wounded animal, spilled crimson light across the barren land as it staggered below the horizon.
Mirri Maz Duur, who had "studied" abroad and obtained multiple medical "degrees," truly impressed Daenerys. Before nightfall, the first child was born.
A silver-haired boy with the Dothraki's bronze skin, almond eyes, and pale lavender irises.
Daenerys crossed the Beastwood screen, used a dagger to slice through the thick grass curtain, and took the naked infant from the witchwoman's hands through the opening.
"Khaleesi, it's twins. There's another," Mirri Maz Duur rasped.
"Continue."
Daenerys lingered behind the screen for nearly two minutes before turning around.
"Clean him with warm water," she instructed, handing the swaddled infant to Mirri Maz Duur as they entered the main tent.
When the second child was born, Jhakko also arrived at Drogo's yurt palace.
"Hahaha! A boy and a girl! The boy is large, the girl delicate—symbols of the sun and stars! This is a blessing from the Horse God of the heavens!"
Jhakko, his voice hoarse with emotion, raised the infants in each hand. He held the boy toward the sun, which was rapidly sinking below the western horizon, and the girl toward the Horse God's star, which glittered in the dark purple eastern sky. The bells tied to his beard jingled with ambitious fervor.
As they watched Jhakko, his children, and Lilith depart in joyful procession, the witchwoman, who had just finished cleaning herself in a nearby tent, muttered in confusion, "How could he tell the boy was bigger? They looked the same to me."
"These foolish Horsemen are so strange," she shook her head and turned toward Drogo's yurt palace.
Having proven her capabilities, she had earned the right to become the Khaleesi's personal attendant. Until the Khaleesi's child was born, she was required to stay close to the Khaleesi's young Khas and forbidden to leave without permission.
(End of Chapter)