When Daenerys returned to her tent, the eunuch who had treated Drogo was still there. Several women with skin like chicken and terrifying appearances were spreading their dry, tree-root-like legs while their gray hair swayed with the rhythm of a sacrificial dance.
Their toothless mouths were wide open as they sang ancient Dothraki ballads. Their shrill voices pierced the eardrums.
They sang and danced around the naked man on the bed. The flames of the nearby bonfire followed the beat of the ballad, sometimes suddenly leaping up into two-meter-high orange flames and other times almost extinguishing in an instant, leaving only flickering charcoal.
Dany's scalp tingled at the sight, and she stood frozen at the door, her legs as stiff as reinforced concrete pillars.
This is just the dance of the Dothraki witch doctors, nothing more. You are still the Mother of Dragons. It's just a flickering flame, maybe caused by the wind, she told herself.
"Roar—"
Drogo suddenly let out an inhuman howl from the fur bed. The sound expressed only one thing: unbearable pain.
Dany had seen him smile faintly while enduring wounds far worse in the past.
For a strong man, having a layer of skin stripped from his chest was considered a superficial injury!
Even if the wound was inflamed and infected and bacteria had penetrated his internal organs, he should be sleepy with a fading consciousness, almost comatose. Though she had just graduated, she had completed dozens of internships and knew inflammation alone could not cause this degree of pain.
Recalling the time Drogo was treated by Mirri Maz Duur, Dany remembered how he would punch and kick the air in agony every night, tearing apart several sheepskin blankets.
Dany was now certain that the witch had done it on purpose. She wanted to take revenge on the Dothraki in the cruelest way possible. Nothing would please her more than to see the khal die in endless suffering.
No, she wasn't satisfied yet. Daenerys touched her belly. The witch wanted to sacrifice Drogo's son to the devil and torment Daenerys for life.
Soon, Drogo, who was lethargic by day and tormented by pain at night, was forced to drink two large bowls of poppy wine by several horsemen and women healers.
Poppy milk, a milky white liquid extracted from poppy flowers, has miraculous pain-relieving and anesthetic properties. It is the most commonly used anesthetic in Westeros and the Nine Free Cities.
While the horsemen lack the skills of Westeros maesters to purify poppy milk, they can soak poppy petals in wine to achieve similar effects.
These eunuch fully lived up to the title of "Dothraki doctors." They had no formal training and only acted as doctors because they could not have children. They also cooked, herded horses, and tended sheep.
Their medical skills were atrocious, and their knowledge of witchcraft was limited. They couldn't properly treat even minor injuries, let alone remove dark spells. Dany was sure they hadn't realized Drogo was under a curse.
After the eunuch bowed and left, Daenerys walked to the bed with her maid's support.
"Jhiqui, bring me a dagger. A sharp one," she said.
When Daenerys married Drogo, she received many gifts, including three maids from Viserys: the Dothraki girls Jhiqui and Irri and the blonde, blue-eyed Lysene Doreah.
Jhiqui and Irri were both around Dany's age—fourteen—and had been captured as slaves when Drogo destroyed their fathers' khalasars.
Doreah was older, around 20, and had been the head girl of a renowned brothel in Lys.
They were not ordinary maids. Irri was skilled in riding and was responsible for teaching Daenerys how to ride a horse.
Jhiqui was fluent in Common Tongue, Dothraki, and High Valyrian and taught Daenerys the Dothraki language.
Doreah trained the inexperienced Dany to become an expert rider, commonly known as an "old driver."
Jhiqui moved quickly and retrieved a 30-centimeter-long dagger from a half-height purple wooden chest with a red copper frame.
"This is Drogo's dragonbone dagger, Khaleesi," Jhiqui said.
"Swish!"
The blade was unsheathed, casting a snow-white streak in the dark red torchlight.
It was as thin as a cicada's wing and completely flawless. Daenerys's smoky purple eyes flashed with satisfaction. What a fine blade!
As she leaned over the tallow candle that Doreah was holding, apparently about to cut away the gauze on Drogo's chest, Ser Jorah hurried over and said softly, "Khaleesi, you're not well. Let me do it."
'I'm disabled? Do you think my master's degree is fake?'
Dany glanced at the big bear, held the blade over the candle's outer flame, and skillfully cut through the filthy silk cloth stuck to Drogo's skin. Underneath was a layer of bluish, wet mud and hardened fig leaves. Over seven or eight days, the hairless men had applied more than ten layers of "Dothraki holy medicine"—mud paste—layer by layer.
Calling them Mongol doctors was an insult to real Mongol doctors.
Jorah turned away, watching Dany with surprise and confusion. The way she handled the dressing, cutting and peeling it with ease, was astonishing for a pregnant woman who was not skilled with weapons.
The top layer of the dressing was still moist, but the bottom layer was as dry as the mud walls of the sheepmen. Under Dany's steady tapping, it crumbled like clay.
She peeled off pieces stuck to flesh and removed the blackened fig leaves. Gradually, a putrid-sweet stench filled the yurt. It was so overpowering that the others couldn't breathe.
Doreah covered her mouth with one hand; her face was swollen with nausea. The thick tallow candle in her other hand trembled. Jorah quickly took the candle from her. Doreah ran out of the tent, lifted the leather curtain, and vomited.
Irri held a tray full of discarded mud and leaves, all stained with pus, blood, and tiny scraps of rotting flesh.
Now, Drogo's injury was fully exposed to Daenerys. His left chest was black, and the festering wound gleamed in the candlelight.
As he panted with difficulty, his chest rose and fell, releasing streams of thick, purple-black pus and blood that stained the white lambswool beneath him. The stench was so intense that even Jorah began to gag.
"Khaleesi... Khaleesi..." Ser Jorah looked at Daenerys's pale face, then at Irri and Jhiqui, who had turned away, covering their noses. He opened and closed his mouth several times, but he couldn't form a complete sentence.
When Dany recovered, she ordered Irri and Jhiqui to prepare hot water, spirits, and other items. Jorah grabbed her arm anxiously.
"Khaleesi, do you see? Your husband is dying."
"I know. I can guess his chest is filled with foul pus and blood. His heart is soaked in poison." Even if we dispel the witch's curse, this would be a fatal case in modern medicine, Dany thought.
It's safe to say he's already dead. The witch is simply prolonging his suffering with black magic.
"What do you want to say, Ser?"
"Child, we must go—before he takes his final breath!" Jorah pleaded.
"Go? Where?" Dany asked blankly, her eyes still fixed on Drogo's chest.
"To Asshai, in the Shadow Lands. It's far to the south, beyond the known world. They say it's a prosperous port. From there, we can board a ship to Pentos."
Ser Jorah hesitated. "Can we trust your khalasar? I fear it may be just the two of us..."
"Heh." Daenerys let out a pale, bitter smile and shook her head. "You're overthinking it. We can't escape. With such a small group, we won't be able to protect ourselves. If we bring the Khalassar, a large group will draw attention. Do you think forty thousand screaming warriors are blind?"
Should we go to Asshai?
It's ten thousand miles away. Grown men can't endure such a journey, let alone a pregnant fourteen-year-old girl. She might as well stab herself now.
Ser Jorah looked at Dany's swollen belly and frowned. "Princess, you should try to escape for your child's sake."
The Dothraki obey Khal Drogo because of his strength, but that's all. They'll never follow a starving infant. This isn't Westeros.
When Drogo dies, Jaqen, Bono, and the other khals will immediately fight over leadership. His khalasar will split apart and kill each other until only one remains."
"Then what?" Dany asked dully.
Jorah hesitated, then whispered, "The new khal will never leave his rivals alive. As soon as your child is born, he'll feed it to the dogs. Just like Drogo did to Ogo and his son."
Dany was stronger than Jorah expected. Aside from her pale face, she did not break down in despair.
"If... I have about a week—seven days—until I give birth. If Drogo dies before then, before my child is born, will they let me live?" Dany asked hesitantly.
"I'm Khaleesi. According to Dothraki tradition, no one can harm a widowed khaleesi. At most..."
Dany clenched her teeth and forced out the words. "At most, they'll send me back to Vaes Dothrak to become one of the Dosh Khaleen."
Ser Jorah was shocked. "You would live and die in the city of the Dothraki?"
Then he shook his head in anguish. "It's no use. Don't you see? None of the dosh khaleen in Vaes Dothrak have children. Surely, in all these years, some khaleesi must have lost her khal while pregnant."
"It's just a baby... a baby without a khalasar." Dany's purple eyes flickered with disbelief.
Jorah smiled bitterly. "Do you remember your brother Rhaegar?"
Fourteen years ago, just before Daenerys was born, the crown prince died at the Trident, fighting the usurper.
Her father, the Mad King Aerys, was killed beneath the Iron Throne by a knight sworn to protect him.
On that same day, Rhaegar's children—Dany's niece and nephew—were slaughtered. Three-year-old Princess Rhaenys was split in two. Infant Prince Aegon was torn from his mother's arms and smashed against a stone wall, reduced to a bloody pulp.
The Targaryen dynasty was left with only Viserys and Daenerys. Now, only Dany remains.
"Even in Westeros, where chivalry is honored, this is what happens. As for the barbaric Dothraki..." After pausing, Jorah added, "And don't forget—under the Mother of Mountains, the dosh khaleen predicted that your child would be a stallion who mounts the world." His future would terrify all enemies. No one will risk letting him grow up and come back for revenge."