Drogo's KhaLS had been camped in the desolate Gobi Desert for two days. Throughout the tribe, the whispers that "the Khal will die" spread like wildfire.
This was no mere rumor. Everyone knew that Khal Drogo was too ill to even mount a horse. Without their Khal to lead them, the KhaLS were unable to move.
That evening, Mirri Maz Duur, her face ashen, announced, "The Khal's wound has festered. No healer can save him now. All that remains is to guide him toward the darkness, to let him ride into the night without pain."
Daenerys feigned utter despair, begging Mirri Maz Duur to save her "Sun and Stars."
Mirri Maz Duur studied Daenerys and her swollen belly with eyes as black as night. Her voice dropped to a near whisper, barely audible, "There is indeed another method, a magic.
"But this spell is not only difficult to perform, it's also deeply dark. For some, death would be a cleaner end.
"I learned this spell in Asshai, at a terrible cost—my mentor came from the Shadowlands."
"Bloodwitch." She whispered the word, openly revealing her true identity as a Maegi for the first time.
She had previously denied being a witch, claiming only to be a healer and a priestess.
Her voice seemed to carry a dark, magical power. As Daenerys, baked by the intense heat of the furnace, she suddenly felt an icy, slimy tentacle constrict her neck—unable to breathe, her brain starved of oxygen, her mind growing hazy.
She heard herself mumble through the fog, "Do it. Hurry, save him..."
A surge of molten lava erupted from her lower abdomen, the searing heat jolting her nerves awake.
The dragon egg had been hidden against her skin all along.
Forcing down her horror, she adopted a hesitant expression. "Khal's bloodriders would never agree. Is there no other way?"
Mirri Maz Duur paused, then shook her head. "No."
Daenerys pressed her lips together, meeting the woman's gaze with cold eyes. "You admit you're a Maegi?"
"Do I?" Mirri Maz Duur seemed unconcerned, smiling. "Silver Lady, only a Maegi can save your warrior now. And you must pay the price."
Daenerys glanced at Drogo, who lay unconscious, and asked, "What do you want? Gold, horses...?"
The Maegi cut her off unceremoniously. "This isn't about gold or horses, Lady. It's about blood magic. Only death can buy life."
"Death? You want my life?"
The Maegi assured her, "Not your death, Khaleesi."
Her gaze drifted repeatedly to Daenerys's abdomen, her eyes dark and filled with hidden malice.
Daenerys decided not to waste more time. "Whose death will awaken my Sun and Stars? It's not his horse, is it?"
"Silver Lady, you are brave to face the cruelest truth. You've already guessed, haven't you? Blood magic demands an equal exchange—the life of a noble Khal to purchase the rebirth of another great horse-lord from the Lord of the Night."
Mirri Maz Duur smiled, pointing at Daenerys's belly as if a hellish demon were eyeing food for an impure sacrifice. "Khal Drogo isn't just your Sun and Stars; he's your guarantee of safety.
As long as your husband lives, a multitude of children will await your care—perhaps twins like the Silver Lady, representing the Sun and Stars."
Daenerys's face contorted with rage as she snatched the teapot from the table and hurled it across the room.
*Crash!*
The Maegi hadn't expected such a reaction. The teapot struck her squarely on the forehead, and a mixture of blood and milky white horse milk trickled down her cheek.
"Aggo, Rakharo! Drag that Maegi out, gag her, and tie her up!" Daenerys shouted at the guards on duty outside.
Two days and nights passed, and Drogo's KhaLS teetered on the brink of collapse. Each night, Daenerys could hear the weeping of Iri, Jhiqui, and the other handmaidens.
That morning, she had even seen Doreah's chest, abdomen, and thighs covered in bruises from brutal assaults.
It was Qotho and Haggo's doing.
The Khal's bloodriders could share everything with the Khal except his mount. Drogo had forbidden them to touch Daenerys, yet they had always treated her handmaidens as their personal playthings.
They hadn't been this brazen before, but now...
"Everyone knows the Khal is dying," Ser Jorah told her, his face etched with exhaustion. "According to Dothraki custom, his bloodriders must die with him. Qotho and the others, seeing their own lives drawing to a close, have become this deranged—the dead have nothing to fear."
The past two days had been the most grueling for him. He hadn't taken off his heavy armor since putting it on, standing guard outside by day and propping up a chair by the door at night, his cold-gleaming sword resting across his knees.
"This place is barren," Jorah said, his voice tinged with despair. He rubbed his tired eyes, their light dimming. "The stream three miles away has been nearly drained by horses and men, and there's no grass. The livestock can barely hold on. The Dothraki will never watch their horses starve and die. They'll act soon—tonight or tomorrow at the latest."
I did this deliberately. I deliberately watched Drogo take the wrong path, deliberately choosing this barren land that couldn't sustain a large KhaLS for long.
Because I want the Khaskos to break under the strain, and then lead their respective Khas tribes to scatter on their own.
I cannot allow an ambitious man to challenge for the Khal position near my Khas. In the ensuing chaos, her Khas tribe wouldn't survive, and as Khaleesi, her life might not be spared either.
Sensing the final moments had arrived, she turned to the knight, his face gaunt and his eyes dark-ringed. "I think I'll give birth tonight. Go summon Mirri Maz Duur."
A flicker of pain crossed Ser Jorah's eyes. He desperately wanted to tell his princess, "In this situation, you must not cling to hope for your child. Otherwise, you won't be able to withstand the inevitable, devastating blow."
"Khaleesi, didn't you say she wanted to sacrifice your child?" he rasped.
"Rest assured, as long as she chants the birth song, she won't be allowed near me," Daenerys reassured him.
The Maegi had been confined in a nearby tent for the past two days. Apart from slightly disheveled clothes and hair, her spirits remained remarkably high.
"I've overheard the whispers of many horse warriors," she said calmly, her expression serene as she persuaded Daenerys. "Your husband's tribe is on the verge of collapse. Only his return from the darkness can save everything—your fate, the fate of your unborn child."
"My stomach hurts. I'm about to give birth. First, help me deliver the child," Daenerys said, lying on the blanket, her body drenched in sweat, as if she'd just taken a hot bath fully clothed.
"I'll help you," Mirri Maz Duur said, pausing for a moment before stepping toward Daenerys's bed.
"Wait," Daenerys said, stopping Iri. "I'm having a full-term, natural birth. Just chant the birth song from behind the screen."
She then turned to the maid with a stern expression. "Iri, you stand guard outside. If she shows any signs of trouble, shoot her with the crossbow immediately."
"You don't trust me?" the Maegi asked, her face darkening.
"No," Daenerys replied, glaring at her. "Not until my son is safely born. You know why."
Mirri Maz Duur, her face impassive, pondered in her heart: Should she let the child be born? Regardless, the son prophesied to be "the horse that rides the world" was doomed to die—either by the hands of the new Khal, Qao, or through her own sacrifice to the demons of the Shadowlands.
Why hadn't this silver-haired woman collapsed into madness as expected? The seductive dark magic she'd woven into her words last time had also failed.
It was maddening not to be able to personally deliver the cruelest revenge.
Whatever her inner thoughts, facing the Dothraki maid standing nearby with a crossbow aimed at her, Mirri Maz Duur had no choice but to dutifully chant the birth song.
The birth went surprisingly smoothly. After only half an hour of Daenerys's pained moans, a soft, weak infant cry echoed from behind the wooden screen.
"Don't move!" Iri warned sharply.
The Maegi halted her steps around the screen and turned to the handmaiden. "Your Khaleesi needs me. There's more complex work to do after the child is born."
In truth, she had no other thoughts at the moment. She just felt that this birth process was deeply wrong and wanted to see it for herself.
"Stay put. Don't move," Iri said, her hand steady on her crossbow.
Daenerys's voice, weak from within, called out, "Iri, let Jhiqui and Doreah come in. Mirri Maz Duur has proven her loyalty. Take her back to her tent and don't bind her anymore. Hmm, bring her some wine and meat."
*This isn't right,* Iri thought. *That silver-haired woman is up to something!*
The Maegi was completely certain, yet couldn't figure out what she had done or what she was planning to do.
Iri, Jhiqui, and Doreah had never given birth or learned the art of midwifery. They simply believed that everything was due to the magical birth songs of Mirri Maz Duur.
Even Ser Jorah and the others outside had the same thought. After all, just a few days earlier, everyone had *witnessed* the Maegi help the near-death Lilith give birth to a pair of auspicious twins.
Before that, all the bald men had been absolutely certain that Lilith, having fallen from her horse, was beyond saving!
This proved that Mirri Maz Duur must be an extraordinary midwife witch.
With her help, it was perfectly normal for the Khaleesi to successfully give birth to a son.
When Ser Jorah brought Kohoro, Qotho, and Haggo, the three Bloodriders into the Grass Curtain Palace, they naturally assumed the frail infant in Daenerys's arms was their Khal's son.
"My Sun and Stars, your Blood of My Blood. He's dying," Daenerys said, looking down and idly stroking the baby's sparse black hair.
"Woman, the Dothraki are not like your Sunset Lands," the wise old Kohoro said, mockingly, believing he saw through Daenerys's absurd ambition to rule from behind a veil. "Since the birth of the first child from the womb-lake, there has never been an infant Khal.
In fact, even a grown son might not inherit his father's position unless he is the strongest warrior in the KhaLS."
By this point, they no longer even called her "Khaleesi."
As Ser Jorah had said, she had been the Khaleesi of the 100,000 horsemen only while Khal Drogo lived. After his death, she was nothing.
Daenerys addressed them: "I have accepted my fate as the Dosh Khaleen of Vaes Dothrak. But as the Blood of My Blood of my husband, this child is both his continuation and your bloodline.
I ask that one or more of you brave warriors ride through the night to take my Rhaego—a name I chose for my son from the moment I conceived him—to the North.
Vaes Dothrak, at the foot of the Mother of Mountains, is a sacred land for the Dothraki, a place where blades remain sheathed, blood is not spilled, disputes are set aside, and hatred is abandoned.
Find the old woman of the Dosh Khaleen who prophesied that I would bear the 'horse that rides the world.' Ask her to retract her prophecy concerning Rhaego and to accept him as her lifelong servant.
If these requests are granted, I, as Daenerys Stormborn, Princess of Dragonstone, will swear in Rhaego's stead: I will forever renounce any claim to the inheritance of his father, Khal Drogo."