There are many prophecies in *A Song of Ice and Fire*, and over ninety percent of them come true, including the Dothraki crones’ prophecy for Daenerys: her child would be the Stallion Who Mounts the World.
This ‘Stallion’ wasn’t a prophecy that she would literally give birth to a horse.
The Dothraki had a special affection and reverence for horses.
They drank mare’s milk at birth, ate horse meat and drank fermented mare’s milk as they grew, rode fierce steeds in life, and slaughtered their best mounts to accompany them in death.
The ‘Stallion’ was simply the Dothraki metaphor for a strong boy.
Unfortunately, the prophecy was still misunderstood.
Daenerys didn’t give birth to a human child—or rather, her children weren’t boys, but three dragons!
Dragons, the ultimate pinnacle of power in this world—were they not the true Stallions Who Mount the World?
As the second-generation Daenerys who had watched the hit show *Game of Thrones*, she naturally understood the crones’ prophecy far better than Jorah or anyone else present.
But she couldn’t say this out loud, nor did she dare to.
If she did, her currently inconspicuous dragon eggs might be stolen, and she might even lose her life.
—Even a fool knew that dragons were far more dangerous than any powerful Khal.
*Damn it, if their prophecies are so accurate, why don’t they know how to prevent dark magic?
The witches in Vaes Dothrak are way too specialized.* Well, Drogo dying would be a relief for her second-generation self, but the problem was…
her transmigration timing was terrible.
Daenerys quickly banished these dark thoughts.
Since she was already here and knew the maegi’s vicious plot, she absolutely would not let herself miscarry, let alone sacrifice her child to a demon.
Losing the baby might save the Khaleesi’s life, and the child wasn’t originally hers…
but it was hers *now*.
She was determined to protect this baby.
Daenerys made up her mind, once again rejecting Jorah’s plan to run away with her.
Fleeing with him was a dead end; they likely wouldn’t even make it out of the Dothraki Sea.
When Irri and Jhiqui brought hot water, red wine, and other supplies, Daenerys found that cleaning Drogo’s wound with the wine was practically useless.
As she wiped, dark purple pus and blood continued to ooze endlessly.
After struggling for half an hour, Daenerys had no choice but to boil silk in milk of the poppy, then wrap it tightly around Drogo’s chest several times.
It couldn’t cure the infection, but it could numb the wound and ease his suffering.
Instructing Irri and Jhiqui to help clean Drogo’s body with cotton cloths, she then directed Doreah to drag out a chest.
It was a cedar chest decorated with bronze, about thirty centimeters wide and tall, and a meter long.
“Doreah, make my bed here,” Daenerys said, pointing to the campfire in the center of the yurt.
The Khal’s yurt was massive, a full two hundred square meters.
The center of the roof was open to the sky, and below it sat a fireplace enclosed by iron plates.
A roaring fire blazed within, bringing warmth to the cool night.
“Won’t it be too hot being this close?” Doreah asked hesitantly.
“I’m not afraid of the heat.” This was the truth.
As soon as she crossed over, she discovered that the Targaryen family’s ‘body of the true dragon’ was indeed real…
At the very least, Daenerys didn’t feel the scorching heat of the sun.
While Doreah was laying out the bedding, Daenerys opened the cedar chest.
It was filled with soft velvet, upon which lay three massive stone eggs.
They were about the size of elephant bird eggs, but compared to the monochromatic tones of normal bird eggs, the stone eggs Daenerys gently stroked were far, far more beautiful.
In her previous life, born to an ordinary family, she had never seen top-tier jewelry with her own eyes.
But she was one hundred percent certain that the Heart of the Ocean from *Titanic* or the sapphires on the Queen of England’s crown were nothing but clumps of dirt compared to these three dragon eggs.
These three dragon eggs were a wedding gift from Illyrio, a magister of Pentos.
They were fossilized dragon eggs from the Shadow Lands, having existed for eons and turned to crystal.
They looked as though they were made of fine porcelain, colored glaze, or glass—especially the rich, vibrant patterns on their surfaces, so exquisite one might think they were encrusted with jewels and diamonds.
The surfaces of the three fossilized dragon eggs were covered in tiny scales that shimmered with a metallic luster in the fading sunset as Daenerys ran her fingers over them.
One was deep green with bronze flecks, nurturing a green dragon within; one was pale cream streaked with gold, holding a white dragon; the last was black as a midnight sea, alive with scarlet ripples and swirls.
As Daenerys caressed them, a faint, soothing steam rose from the eggs.
The scalding heat radiating from them made her almost moan in comfort.
“Doreah, come feel this.
Are the dragon eggs hot?” she asked, pulling her hand back and turning to her handmaid.
Confused, Doreah rubbed her hands back and forth over the three eggs and said doubtfully, “They’re ice cold, just like before.” Daenerys waved her hand, telling her to prepare dinner…
well, that big fat goose.
The goose weighed about five pounds.
Daenerys ate a small half of it—a leg and half a breast.
The goose meat was stewed with turnips and apples, and it was surprisingly delicious.
Dipping black bread into the broth, Daenerys somehow managed to devour nearly three pounds of food.
*Wow, this young girl’s constitution is ridiculously good.
She’s incredibly resilient.
Is it because of the true dragon bloodline?* “*Burp*…
Doreah, give the rest of the goose to Ser Jorah.
Irri, Jhiqui, help me wash up,” Daenerys said tiredly after letting out a satisfied burp.
Irri and Jhiqui were Dothraki and preferred roasted horse meat.
Doreah had a small appetite and was full after half a bowl of soup.
Ser Jorah, on the other hand, was a foreigner just like Daenerys, unaccustomed to the food of the horse lords.
After bathing and making sure Irri fed the comatose Drogo a large pouch of thick mare’s milk, Daenerys prepared for bed.
There were only three people in the quiet, spacious tent.
Not far away, Drogo’s body twitched occasionally as the dark magic stimulated his pain receptors, letting out intermittent, raspy groans.
Daenerys slept on the side of the bed closest to the fire, with Irri sharing the bed on the outside.
Every night, the three handmaids took turns sleeping in her bed to conveniently attend to her needs.
The horse girl was quite carefree; her Khal was on the verge of death, yet she simply pulled up the feather blanket and drifted into dreamland.
Daenerys lay naked, pressing the three dragon eggs tightly against her skin, as if drawing upon the energy of life and the Force they represented.
This wasn’t an illusion; the dragon eggs truly possessed healing properties.
Daenerys was a princess of a fallen kingdom.
A few months before she was born, her father and brother’s throne was usurped by Robert Baratheon.
If a loyal old knight hadn’t fled to Braavos with her and Viserys, she likely would have shared her nephew’s fate—smashed against a wall into a bloody pulp of meat and bone.
Before the age of five, under the old knight’s care, she had enjoyed a few comfortable years living as a commoner.
After the old knight died of illness, her young brother took the infant Daenerys and began wandering through the Free Cities.
From the age of five to thirteen, to evade the Usurper’s assassins, they had fled tens of thousands of miles—no exaggeration, literally tens of thousands of miles.
The narrow streets and dark alleys of several city-states across the western continent of Essos had all seen the silhouettes of the two silver-haired Targaryens.
At first, the magisters, archons, and merchant princes ruling the Free Cities were happy to host the Targaryen heirs.
But as Robert Baratheon’s hold on the Iron Throne grew ever more secure, the doors that had once been open to them closed one by one, and the siblings’ lives grew increasingly difficult.
Over the years, they pawned all their jewelry, even their mother’s crown.
The coins they received were quickly spent.
Left with nothing, they became the laughingstock of those in the know.
In the taverns and alleys of Pentos, people gave Viserys the nickname “the Beggar King.” As for Daenerys…
she was too cowardly and timid to even dare ask what people called her.
Because of this, the malnourished Daenerys grew up stunted, scrawny as a twig with no chest or curves.
Living in constant fear of waking the dragon in Viserys, she appeared subservient and hunched over like a little old lady.
If it weren’t for the blessing of the most beautiful bloodline in the world of *A Song of Ice and Fire*, Drogo probably wouldn’t have even glanced at her—at first, Viserys had constantly worried he wouldn’t be able to sell his sister off.
Yes, every Targaryen was stunningly beautiful; their family possessed a genetic inheritance of unparalleled looks and temperament.
She only had her first period at thirteen, and having never ridden a horse before, she was forced to ride long distances every day.
In the very beginning, the grueling nomadic lifestyle was almost too much for her to bear, and Daenerys had seriously considered suicide to escape it all.
It could be said that in the world of *A Song of Ice and Fire*, Daenerys had the most tragic fate.
Compared to her, the sufferings of the Starks paled in comparison.
Dead father, dead mother, dead brothers, and losing their kingdom—was that considered tragic?
Daenerys had experienced all of that long ago.
Setting aside national feuds and family hatred, just looking at her personal experiences: growing up starving and struggling to survive, finally meeting Drogo who genuinely treated her well, only to lose her lover, her protector, and her son all within a few days.
And her future would only get more tragic.
The Starks still had a chance to turn things around, but she was constantly falling into a bottomless abyss, never stopping.
*Who dares claim to be more miserable than me?!* Alright, that was getting off-topic.
Back then, Daenerys’s body and mind had been severely traumatized, bringing her to the brink of death and almost driving her to suicide.
And what changed her physical and mental state were the dragon eggs.
Through spiritual communication with the dragons inside the eggs during her sleep, her injuries healed overnight.
From her body to her soul, it was as if she had been cleansed, radiating vitality, reborn anew.
This was a fantasy world, with dragons and magic.
Daenerys’s bloodline was unlike that of ordinary mortals.
“Little darlings, give Mommy strength.
Dragon babies, give Mommy strength,” Daenerys muttered softly like an incantation, cradling the black dragon egg.
Uh, and she was saying it in Mandarin.
Aside from the continuous waves of rolling heat, the dragon eggs showed no other anomalies.
Daenerys placed the dragon eggs next to her feather pillow, turned on her side, and stared at the flickering flames just inches away, her eyes shifting with thought.
*Since I’ve taken over her body, I must do everything in my power to save her child.
To survive, I have to try this.* Gritting her teeth, Daenerys reached her hand toward the dancing flames…
Back when she was still in modern society, she often saw videos on TikTok challenging the limits of roasting—roasting popsicles, roasting air…
Today, she wanted to ask out loud: *Have any of you ever roasted yourselves alive?* Daenerys was going to roast human flesh.
Yes, roast her own flesh.