When Daenerys returned to her pavilion, the hairless men had yet to depart. Several hags with skin like wrinkled parchment stood with their legs splayed like gnarled tree roots, their wild grey hair swaying to the rhythm of a ritual dance. Their toothless mouths hung open as they wailed ancient Dothraki chants, the shrill notes piercing the ears like needles.
They danced around the naked man on the bed while the flames in the nearby brazier pulsed in time with their song. One moment the orange fire would leap six feet into the air, and the next it would vanish into a flickering ghost of embers.
Daenerys felt her scalp prickle. Her legs felt like pillars of reinforced concrete, frozen to the spot. She told herself it was merely the Dothraki medicine dance, that she was the Mother of Dragons and a few flickering flames were nothing more than a trick of the wind.
Then, Khal Drogo let out a sound that shattered the illusion. It was a non-human howl of pure, unadulterated agony.
In her memories, Daenerys had seen this man laugh off wounds ten times worse than this. This giant of a man had lost a mere flap of skin from his chest. Under normal circumstances, it was a surface wound. Even if infection set in and seeped into the organs, he should be slipping into a lethargic, dulled state of consciousness. As a surgical graduate with dozens of clinical rotations under her belt, she knew that simple inflammation did not ignite the nervous system with this kind of white-hot intensity.
She recalled the treatment Mirri Maz Duur had provided. Every night since the maegi began her work, Drogo had been fighting the air in his sleep, tearing through heavy sheepskin rugs in his throes.
The witch was doing this on purpose. She was extracting a brutal price from the Dothraki, finding her satisfaction in watching the Great Khal die in a slow, agonizing crawl toward the grave.
And she wasn't done. Daenerys touched her belly, remembering the prophecy of the stallion. The witch intended to sacrifice Drogo's son to demons and leave his Khaleesi to a life of misery.
The hags forced two large bowls of poppy wine down Drogo's throat. This milk of the poppy, a milky white liquid refined from flowers, was the primary anesthetic of the known world, from Westeros to the Free Cities.
The Dothraki were the ultimate "quack doctors." Lacking formal training and holding their positions only because they were barren, these women spent their days cooking and herding. Their medical knowledge was nonexistent and their magic was a farce. They hadn't even realized that Drogo was suffering from a curse rather than a fever.
Once the hags bowed and shuffled out, Daenerys approached the bed, supported by her handmaidens.
"Jhiqui, find me a dagger," she said. "The sharpest one we have."
Among the gifts she had received upon her marriage were three handmaidens. Jhiqui and Irri were Dothraki girls of fourteen whose fathers' clans had been broken by Drogo. Doreah was twenty, a former top earner from a famous pleasure house in Lys.
They were more than servants. Irri taught her to ride, Jhiqui taught her languages, and Doreah taught her the "arts of the bed" that had turned a frightened girl into a master of the Khal's heart.
Jhiqui moved quickly, pulling a twelve-inch dagger from a cedar chest bound in red bronze. "This is the Khal's dragonbone dagger, Khaleesi," she said.
The blade slid from its sheath with a whisper of steel, gleaming white under the red torchlight. The edge was as thin as a cicada's wing without a single notch. Daenerys felt a surge of satisfaction. It was a fine tool.
As she leaned over the bed, catching the light from a tallow candle held by Doreah, Ser Jorah Mormont stepped forward. "Khaleesi, you are heavy with child. Let me do this."
You think I'm clumsy? Do you think my Master's degree was a gift?
Daenerys glanced at the big bear and ignored him. She passed the blade through the candle's flame and began to expertly cut away the filthy silk stuck to Drogo's skin. Beneath the fabric lay a hardened crust of blue mud and fig leaves. Layer upon layer had been caked on over the last week as the hags applied their "holy medicine" until the dressing was ten layers thick.
Jorah watched in stunned silence. The way she manipulated the blade—light, flexible, and precise—was far beyond the skill of a young girl who had never held a sword.
The top layer of mud was wet, but the bottom was as dry as a Lhazareen wall. Under Dany's rhythmic tapping, it cracked into neat sections. As she peeled back the black fig leaves, a stench of sweet rot filled the yurt, so thick it felt like a physical weight.
Doreah gagged, her face pale, the candle in her hand wobbling. Jorah grabbed the candle before she could drop it, and the girl ran outside to vomit.
Irri held a wooden tray to catch the debris. When the wound was finally exposed, it was a nightmare. Drogo's left chest was a blackened pit of rot that shimmered under the candlelight. As he struggled for breath, thick purple-black pus bubbled out in three distinct streams, soaking into the white lambskin rugs. The smell of sweet decay was so potent that even Jorah looked nauseated.
"Khaleesi... Khaleesi," Jorah stammered, looking from the pale, silent girl to the dying man.
When Daenerys finally spoke, she ordered her girls to fetch hot water and strong wine. Jorah caught her arm. "Khaleesi, do you see? Your lord is dying."
I know. Daenerys realized that the Khal's chest cavity was likely a reservoir of filth, his heart literally soaked in poison. Even if the black magic was lifted, he would never survive this in a modern hospital, let alone here. He was effectively a dead man walking, held together only by the witch's spite.
"What are you trying to say, Ser?"
"Child, before he draws his last breath, we must leave," Jorah urged.
"Leave? To where?"
"To Asshai by the Shadow. It is a long journey south to the end of the world, but it is a great port. From there, we can find a ship back to Pentos."
Jorah paused, looking at her guards. "Can your khas be trusted? If it is just the two of us, we will never make it."
Daenerys let out a bitter, hollow laugh. "Ser, you are dreaming. We cannot leave. A small group is easy prey, but a large group is a target. Do you think forty thousand screamers are blind?"
Asshai? It was thousands of leagues away. A journey that would break a grown man, let alone a girl who was nine months pregnant.
Jorah looked at her stomach. "Princess, for the sake of the child, you must try. The Dothraki follow strength. They will never follow a babe in swaddling clothes. Once Drogo falls, Jhaqo and Pono and the other kos will tear the khalasar apart to claim his place."
"And then?" she asked, her face a mask.
Jorah hesitated, his voice dropping to a whisper. "A new Khal kills his rivals. Your son will be taken from your arms and fed to the dogs... just as Drogo did to Oggo's son."
Daenerys didn't descend into hysterics. She simply stood there, her face as white as bone. "I have perhaps a week left before I am due. If Drogo dies before then, while the child is still inside me, will they let me go? I am Khaleesi. Tradition says no one may harm a widow. They will send me to Vaes Dothrak to be a crone."
Jorah shook his head. "Do you wish to rot in that city? Besides, look at the Dosh Khaleen. Do any of them have children? Do you think you are the first Khaleesi to lose a husband while pregnant?"
"He is just a baby," she said, her violet eyes filling with a new kind of fear.
"He is the son of the Dragon," Jorah countered. "Do you remember your brother Rhaegar? Fourteen years ago, he died on the Trident. Your father was murdered beneath the Iron Throne. That same day, Rhaegar's children were butchered. Princess Rhaenys was three when they carved her up. Prince Aegon was a babe, ripped from his mother's breast and smashed against a wall like a melon."
Dany realized her situation was worse than any fallen noble she had ever read about.
"If the 'knights' of Westeros could do that, what do you think the Dothraki will do? Especially after the crones prophesied that your son will be the Stallion Who Mounts the World. No one is going to risk letting that child grow up to find his revenge."