Lilith’s fall from her horse was not severe—she rode a short, small mare just like Dany—but the sudden impact triggered premature labor.
Premature labor was not a major issue, as she was due in a matter of days anyway.
The real problem was that the fall had shifted the baby into a breech position, leaving the infant stuck in the womb.
The hairless men of the Dothraki relied on the “blessings of the Horse God” for even the most common blade wounds.
Advanced midwifery was far beyond their capabilities.
They had essentially sentenced Lilith to death.
“Take her to my palace,” Dany said, a deep light flashing in her violet eyes.
She turned to the handmaid behind her.
“Irri, have someone partition off a corner of the palace.
Make absolutely sure the Khal is not disturbed.” Drogo’s woven-grass palace was large enough to host the daily meetings of the khalasar’s leaders, spanning over two hundred square meters.
There was more than enough room to accommodate a pregnant woman.
The black slave women and the horse lords were not surprised by the Khaleesi’s actions.
After all, Daenerys had already offended a group of Dothraki warriors to save raped Lamb Women.
Lilith was considered one of their own now.
After all, a wife shared her husband’s fate, even among the horse lords.
“She made a mistake and spoke out of turn.
She deserves punishment, but she is also carrying a new seed for the khalasar.
Tell Jhaqo that if this woman gives birth to a strong boy, her crimes will be forgiven.
If it is a girl, I will have her whipped twenty times and reduced to a slave.” Receiving the Khaleesi’s orders, the slave women hurriedly went to inform Jhaqo.
As soon as Daenerys returned to her tent, Ser Jorah asked her to dismiss the handmaids and servants.
His face was grave.
“Rumors are everywhere.
The entire khalasar is whispering that Khal Drogo fell from his horse.” “He did not,” Dany argued.
“Because you caught him.
I saw it, his bloodriders saw it, and the khas behind you saw it.” Sweat covered his bear-like face.
“You know his condition better than I do.
Even if we fool them today, what about tomorrow?
Or the day after?
Soon, he won’t even be able to climb onto his saddle, and then…” A Khal who cannot ride cannot rule.
It wouldn’t matter if the Khaleesi was perfectly healthy and possessed unmatched wisdom; it would all be useless.
“I have made my decision.
Do not mention fleeing again; leaving is a dead end.” She paused, looking straight into Jorah’s eyes.
“Ser, you are my sworn knight.
I expect you to protect me in the chaos to come.” “Without a doubt.
No one will harm you so long as I draw breath,” Jorah Mormont promised with a solemn nod.
Then, his worry resurfaced.
“But without Drogo, his khalasar will immediately descend into chaos.
I fear I alone won’t be enough…” “It doesn’t matter.
My khas will assist you.” Dany looked him up and down.
He wore a faded Dothraki painted vest, his exposed skin burned red by the harsh sun.
He had loose, patterned sand-silk trousers and open-toed riding sandals laced up to his knees, with his sword hanging from a braided horsehair belt.
Aside from the lack of a braided hair with bells, he looked exactly like a horse lord.
“From this moment on, you must wear your knight’s armor,” she said.
“I understand,” the large bear nodded in agreement.
Sporadic cries for help from Lilith drifted from the deepest corner of the grass palace.
Daenerys sent Jorah away to change his gear, then lifted the cowhide flap and stepped outside.
On a hill beside the grass palace, Cohollo stood at a vantage point, shouting loudly with a stern expression as he directed the tribe to make camp.
It was obvious that he was worried about Drogo’s injuries and in a terrible mood.
Dany waved him down and said, “Cohollo, go and fetch Mirri Maz Duur.” “The maegi?” He spat.
“I will not.
Khaleesi, you have no right to command me.” Although Daenerys had saved Mirri Maz Duur, her status as a slave remained unchanged.
Right now, she should be with the other Lamb Men in the long slave train.
“It is for Lilith.
Our hairless men cannot heal her, so we might as well let Mirri Maz Duur try,” she told him.
Cohollo glared at her from his horse, his eyes as hard as flint.
“Maegis are women who lay with demons.
They are evil, cruel, and soulless, practicing the darkest and most terrifying sorcery.
In the night, they seek out men and drain their life force until they die.
Trusting them is the most foolish thing in the world.” They respected spirits and gods by keeping their distance.
The Dothraki did not dabble in dark magic, but over thousands of years of survival, they had developed wise and practical traditions.
Had Daenerys, an outsider, not intervened, it was uncertain whether Drogo would have actually died from his infected wound.
Dany touched her belly and reasoned, “I don’t trust her either, but if she can save Lilith from a difficult labor, wouldn’t my own child’s safety be more assured?” The veteran bloodrider opened and closed his mouth, gave her a pitying look, and rode off without another word.
He assumed she was ignorant of Dothraki traditions.
Daenerys’s eyes darkened as she watched the man’s figure disappear among the cluster of tents.
She turned and called for Eroeh—the timid Lamb Girl and the very first woman Dany had saved outside the mud walls of the Lamb Men’s town.
After bathing and changing her clothes, Dany sat quietly by the roaring campfire in the center of her tent.
The flames blazed, radiating an oppressive heat that her handmaids couldn’t endure, so she sent them all away.
It was mid-afternoon, the sun hung high, and the weather was unbearably hot.
Before long, Cohollo strode inside, carrying the short Lamb Woman maegi by the scruff of her neck.
Mirri Maz Duur’s clothes were torn, her face swollen, and blood dripped from the corner of her mouth.
She was missing a front tooth, clearly having been severely beaten before being brought over.
After ordering Ser Jorah to let no one inside, she handed Mirri Maz Duur a cup of mare’s milk and asked, “You mentioned before that you are skilled in the art of midwifery?” Mirri Maz Duur wiped the blood from her mouth, took the horn cup, and gulped it down to the bottom.
Panting, she said, “Silver Lady, my mother was a godswife before me.
She taught me the songs and spells to please the Great Shepherd, and how to make sacred smokes and ointments from leaves, roots, and berries.
“When I was young and beautiful, I traveled with a caravan to Asshai by the Shadow to learn from their mages.
Ships from countless realms gather in Asshai, so I stayed there for a long time, studying the healing arts of foreign peoples.
“A moonsinger from Jogos Nhai taught me her birthing songs, and a woman of your horse-riding people taught me the magics of grass, corn, and horses.
“Furthermore, a Maester Marwyn from the Sunset Kingdoms of Westeros cut open corpses to show me all the secrets hidden beneath the skin.” ‘She’s practically a scholar who studied abroad,’ Dany thought, ‘an expert holding several medical doctorates.’ Mirri glanced at Drogo on his bed a short distance away and explained helplessly, “I am skilled in many healing arts, but Drogo abandoned my poultices seven days ago…” Daenerys interrupted her, pointing to the folding screen in the corner of the room.
“There is a pregnant woman over there who fell from her horse.
She is the one you are treating today.” “Another Silver Lady?” Mirri Maz Duur seemed to have heard about Lilith.
She raised her chin toward Drogo on the bed and asked, “Does this great horse warrior not require immediate treatment?” Daenerys lowered her eyes and stroked her belly.
“Do not concern yourself with the Khal.
My child will be born soon, and you must use Lilith to prove your skills in midwifery.” “As you wish, Silver Lady,” the maegi replied obediently.
To avoid disturbing Drogo, the grass pallet where Lilith rested was separated from the main area of the palace.
It was essentially a small, woven-grass room with its own door built right next to the main hall, meaning one didn’t have to pass by the Khal’s bed to enter.
Beyond a thick grass curtain stood a wooden folding screen from the Summer Isles, carved with hundreds of lifelike, brightly colored exotic birds and beasts—a gift to Drogo from the trade federations.
Mirri Maz Duur began to chant a strange song in a language Dany had never heard.
It was a low, melodious hum, as sweet as a maiden’s song, yet as stirring as a passionate epic.
‘The birthing song taught by the moonsinger of Jogos Nhai?’ ‘Or a sorcerer’s spell from Asshai by the Shadow?’ With the chanting echoing in her ears, Dany once again checked the items beside her: the black dragon egg, a loaded hand crossbow with a taut string and a metal-tipped bolt, Drogo’s dragonbone dagger, a needle and thread for suturing wounds acquired from the hairless men, milk of the poppy, and large pieces of cotton cloth that had been boiled in water and dried under the scorching sun.
Smearing milk of the poppy over her belly felt cool and refreshing.
Biting down hard on a piece of cork, the dagger slicing through her flesh didn’t seem to hurt as much…
at least, it was much easier to bear than roasting her own legs in the charcoal fire last night.
‘Dragon baby, you are the pinnacle of the world’s power.
The spiritual energy of heaven and earth revives with your arrival.
You are a living god.
I need you.
Give mother strength…’ Thick blood soaked the blanket beneath her.
Dany’s face was waxen, her forehead covered in bead-sized drops of sweat.
Her expression grew dazed, and the cork slipped from her slackened lips.
Suddenly, the warm, petrified dragon egg wedged between her knees grew as scalding as a burning coal.
The intense heat instantly jolted her mind into an unprecedented state of clarity.
Under normal circumstances in a modern hospital, a cesarean section took about half an hour, including the initial anesthesia process.
Dany spaced out for a moment midway through.
It took her about twenty minutes in total, and then a bloody baby boy was in her arms.
Covering his blood-streaked mouth, Dany steeled her heart and poured a small cup of milk of the poppy down his throat.
“The Stallion Who Mounts the World, a little anesthetic won’t hurt you,” Dany whispered to him.
The little one fell asleep, his tiny hands clutching the white dragon egg, which was burning hot.
Another quarter of an hour passed.
The maegi next door was still chanting.
Dany held the black dragon egg in her left hand, using her free right hand to wipe the blood from her body.
She then threw all the blood-soaked cotton cloths and blankets into the roaring fire beside her.
“Thank you, my dragon baby!” Dany affectionately stroked the fine scales on the dragon egg, her heart filled with gratitude and tender love.
Just as Bran Stark could sense the emotions of Summer at any time, she too had forged the most intimate soul bond with the black dragon while on the brink of death.
Daenerys was now able to consciously control her entry into dragon dreams.