When Daenerys returned to her tent, the hairless women treating Drogo had not yet left. Several women with faces like plucked chickens and terrifying appearances stood with their dried, tree-root-like legs spread apart. Their gray-white, tangled hair hung loose, swaying with the ritual dance.
Their toothless mouths were stretched wide as they sang ancient Dothraki chants, voices sharp enough to stab at the eardrums.
They circled the naked man on the bed, singing and dancing, while the flames in the nearby brazier rose and fell with the rhythm of the song—at times suddenly leaping into orange-yellow pillars two meters high, at times collapsing in an instant, almost extinguished, leaving only glowing charcoal flickering faintly.
Dany felt her scalp prickle with numbness. Standing at the entrance, her legs were like reinforced concrete pillars—she couldn't move a single step.
This is just the Dothraki witch doctor's dance, nothing serious. You're the Dragon Mom, after all. It's just some fire flickering—probably the wind, she told herself.
"Roar—"
From the fur-covered bed, Drogo suddenly let out a non-human howl. The sound carried only one emotion: extreme pain.
In the past, Dany had seen him smile calmly in the face of injuries ten times worse than this.
A burly giant like a raging Zhang Fei—having a layer of skin cut off his chest would count as nothing more than a superficial wound!
Even if the wound became inflamed and infected, even if bacteria had penetrated the internal organs, he should have been dazed, consciousness dulled, almost numb to pain. She had only just graduated, but she'd gone through dozens of internships—she knew well that inflammation would never stimulate the pain nerves to this extent.
Thinking back to when Mirri Maz Duur began treating Drogo, every single night afterward, Drogo had thrashed at the air in pain, punching and kicking, tearing apart several sheepskin blankets.
Dany was completely certain now—the witch deliberately did this. She was taking the most brutal revenge on the Dothraki. Without a doubt, nothing could satisfy her more than letting a khal die in extreme pain and endless torment.
No, she wasn't satisfied yet. Daenerys touched her belly. The witch also wanted to sacrifice Drogo's son to demons, to make his khaleesi suffer for the rest of her life.
Drogo, muddled during the day and struggling in pain at night, was soon held down by several Dothraki healer women and forced to drink two large sea-bowls of poppy wine.
Poppy milk—a milky white liquid refined from poppy flowers—had miraculous effects for pain relief and anesthesia. It was the most commonly used anesthetic across the continent of Westeros and the Nine Free Cities.
(PS: In A Song of Ice and Fire, poppy flowers correspond to poppies in reality, but poppy flowers are not the same as poppy blossoms. Simply put, poppy milk in Game of Thrones is a secondary magical item unique to a fantasy world—something that does not exist in reality.)
The horselords didn't know the maesters' techniques for refining poppy milk, but they could soak poppy flowers in wine, achieving roughly the same effect.
These hairless women fully deserved the title "quack doctors." They'd never received formal training, and only took up doctoring as a "side job" because they couldn't bear children—on ordinary days, they also cooked, tended fires, herded horses, and watched sheep.
Their medical skills were atrocious, their witchcraft almost nonexistent. They couldn't treat even slightly serious injuries or illnesses, nor could they dispel the witch's black magic—Dany was sure they hadn't even realized that Drogo was under a curse.
Only after the hairless women bowed and left did Daenerys, supported by her maids, step up to the bed.
"Jhiqui, find me a dagger. Make it sharp," she said to the maid.
When Daenerys married Drogo, she received many gifts, including three maids from Viserys. The Dothraki girls Jhiqui and Irri, and the Lysene girl Doreah with blond hair and blue eyes.
Jhiqui and Irri were about the same age as Dany—fourteen. Both had been captured and enslaved when their fathers' khalasars were destroyed by Drogo.
Doreah was a bit older, twenty years old, once the top courtesan of a famous brothel in Lys.
None of them were ordinary maids. Irri was skilled in horsemanship and was responsible for teaching Daenerys how to ride.
Jhiqui was fluent in the Common Tongue, Dothraki, and High Valyrian, and specifically taught Dany the Dothraki language.
As for Doreah—she trained the naïve young Dany in "riding skills." Uh… commonly known as turning her into an "experienced driver."
Jhiqui moved swiftly, pulling out a thirty-centimeter dagger from a large chest half a man's height, made of purpleheart wood inlaid with red-bronze edging.
The hilt was yellow-brown bone, the dagger wrapped in a brown cowhide sheath, curved into an arc like an arakh.
"This is Khal Drogo's dragonbone dagger, Khaleesi," Jhiqui said.
Shing!
The short blade slid from its sheath, drawing a streak of snowy white light under the dark red torchlight.
The blade, thin as cicada wings, had not a single nick. Satisfaction flashed through Daenerys's smoky-violet eyes. A fine blade!
Seeing her bend down, using the tallow candle Doreah held up as light, apparently preparing to cut open the bandages on Drogo's chest, Ser Jorah hurried over and said gently, "Khaleesi, your movements are inconvenient. Let me do it."
My movements are inconvenient? You think my medical degree is fake?
Dany shot the big bear a sideways glance. She waved the blade briefly through the candle's outer flame, then skillfully sliced open the filthy cloth stuck to the skin. Beneath it was a layer of blue wet mud hardened together with fig leaves—layer upon layer. Over seven or eight days, the hairless women had repeatedly smeared more than ten layers of this so-called "Dothraki holy medicine"—mud paste.
Calling them quack doctors was an insult to real quacks.
Jorah turned his head slightly, surprise and confusion in his eyes. The dressings were cut and pried away with light, nimble movements—hard to imagine such skill coming from a pregnant girl who knew nothing of blades.
The top layer of dressing was still damp, but the layers below were dry as the mud walls of a shepherd's hut. Under Dany's rhythmic tapping, they cracked apart easily, just like dried earth.
As the fragments stuck to flesh were peeled away, and strips of dark purple fig leaves were removed, a stench mixed with sickly sweetness gradually filled the spacious yurt. The smell was so strong it made breathing difficult.
Doreah covered her mouth with one hand, cheeks puffing, while the thick tallow candle in her other hand shook uncontrollably. Jorah quickly reached out and took the candle. Doreah immediately backed away several steps, lifted the leather curtain, and ran outside to vomit.
On the wooden tray Irri held with both hands lay a pile of removed mud and leaves, smeared with pus, blood, and tiny bits of rotting flesh.
At this moment, Drogo's condition was fully exposed before Dany. His left chest was pitch black, the rotting wound gleaming under candlelight.
As Drogo breathed rapidly and with difficulty, his chest rising and falling, thick purple-black pus and blood gushed out in three branching streams, soaking the white lambswool blanket beneath him. The increasingly intense sweet stench made even the hardened Jorah feel nauseous.
"Khaleesi… Khaleesi…" Ser Jorah looked at Dany, standing pale-faced and frozen, then at Irri and Jhiqui, who were turning away and covering their noses. His mouth opened and closed several times, but he couldn't form a complete sentence.
When Dany finally came back to her senses and sent Irri and Jhiqui to prepare hot water, strong liquor, and other items, Jorah immediately grabbed her arm and said urgently, "Khaleesi, you've seen it. Your husband is about to die."
I know. One could imagine that his chest cavity must already be filled with filthy pus and blood, his heart soaked in toxic black fluid. Even if the black magic were dispelled, such an injury would be fatal even in the medically advanced modern world, Daenerys thought silently.
One could even say he was already dead. The witch merely used strange black magic to keep him alive, so he could endure even more suffering.
"What are you trying to say, ser?" she asked.
"Child, before he breathes his last, we should leave at once!" Jorah urged.
"Leave? Go where?" Dany stared straight at Drogo's chest, asking dully.
"To Asshai by the Shadow. It lies far to the south, at the edge of the known world. They say it's also a prosperous port. From there, we should be able to find a ship back to Pentos."
After hesitating for a moment, Ser Jorah asked, "Can your khas truly be trusted? With just the two of us, I fear—"
"Heh." A bitter smile appeared on Daenerys's pale face as she shook her head. "Ser, you're overthinking it. We can't escape. With too few people, we can't protect ourselves. With the khas, a whole crowd would be too conspicuous. Do you think forty thousand screaming warriors are blind?"
Go to Asshai?
A journey of tens of thousands of miles—grown men could barely endure such hardship, let alone a fourteen-year-old pregnant girl. She might as well stab herself and be done with it.
Ser Jorah looked at Dany's swollen belly and frowned. "Your Highness, even for the child's sake, you should try to escape this place.
"The Dothraki submit to Khal Drogo's might, but only to that extent. They will never follow a mewling infant. This is completely different from Westeros.
"Once Drogo dies, Jhogo, Pono, and more than a dozen kos will immediately begin fighting over the title of khal. Drogo's khalasar will collapse and tear itself apart, killing each other until a final victor emerges."
"And then?" Dany asked blankly.
Jorah felt pity in his heart. After hesitating, he lowered his voice. "The new khal will not leave rivals alive. Your child will be taken the moment he is born and fed to dogs—just like what Drogo once did to Ogo and his son."
This Dany was stronger than Jorah had imagined. Aside from her face growing even paler, she did not fall into hysterical despair.
"If… I still have about a week. About seven days until my due date. If Drogo dies before then, and my child hasn't been born yet, will they let me leave?" Dany said hesitantly.
"I am the khaleesi. By Dothraki tradition, no one may harm a widowed khaleesi. At most…" She clenched her teeth and forced out the last words. "At most, they would send me back to Vaes Dothrak, to become one of the Dosh Khaleen."
Ser Jorah's expression shook. "Would you really be willing to grow old and die in the City of the Horse Lords?"
Then he shook his head in pain. "It's useless. Haven't you noticed? None of the Dosh Khaleen in Vaes Dothrak have children. All these years, has there really never been a khaleesi like you, who lost her khal while pregnant?"
"Just… an infant? An infant who's lost his khalasar?" Fear flickered in Dany's violet eyes, disbelief written all over her face.
Ser Jorah gave a bitter smile. "Do you remember your brother Rhaegar?"
Fourteen years ago, on the eve of Daenerys's birth, her elder brother, Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, died in battle against the usurper on the banks of the Trident.
Her father, the "Mad King" Aerys, was slain beneath the Iron Throne itself, his throat cut by the very Kingsguard sworn to protect him.
On that same day, Prince Rhaegar's children—Daenerys's niece and nephew—were murdered. Three-year-old Princess Rhaenys was hacked in half. Prince Aegon, still an infant, was ripped from his mother's breast and, amid the princess's heart-rending screams, smashed against a stone wall like a melon, bursting into a bloody pulp.
Of the entire Targaryen dynasty, only Dany and Viserys remained—and now, only Dany.
Even Murong Fu had it better. At least he still had four great retainers and some relatives.
"Even chivalry-worshipping Westeros is like this—let alone the barbaric Dothraki…" After a pause, Jorah continued, "And there's another point. Beneath the Mother of Mountains, the Dosh Khaleen prophesied that your child would become the Stallion Who Mounts the World. His future achievements would be enough to strike fear into any enemy. No one would risk letting him grow up and return for revenge by allowing you to leave."
(End of Chapter)