A burst of noisy clamor came from outside the tent. Daenerys, sitting cross-legged in the raging flames with the black dragon egg cradled in her arms, opened her eyes in irritation.
She was disinfecting herself!
A temperature of over a thousand degrees—far more effective than any antibiotic or penicillin. Mm, and much cleaner too, with absolutely no side effects.
She clenched her fist, and Dany could clearly feel her body lighter and stronger than before.
Stepping out of the fire pit, she rinsed the grime from her body with scalding hot water, then picked up a down-filled bundle she had prepared in advance—modified from a duck-feather pillow.
Soon after, Daenerys emerged looking no different from before, her belly swollen and heavy, lifting the cowhide tent flap with difficulty as she stepped outside.
The blazing sun was slanting westward, dragging a long shadow behind the hills. The weather was stifling and windless. A group of Dothraki warriors hid from the sun in the shade of the hills.
Outside Drogo's grass-mat palace, guards stood in a ring like javelins planted in the ground. Ser Jorah, like a tin-plated iron can, stood three meters outside the camp gate.
He was shouting insults at a Dothraki man.
The other pointed a curved arakh at him and cursed, "Coward! Weak Andal hiding back inside his tin shell again!"
"Andal" was what the horselords called Jorah Mormont.
The Song of Ice and Fire has three main storylines: the Wall in the North of Westeros—the biting cold winds and the threat of the Others to all mankind; King's Landing, the capital of Westeros—the game of power; and Essos, the continent of the Nine Free Cities—Daenerys's road to freeing slaves.
In other words, the core stage of the story lies in Westeros.
And the continent of Westeros is composed of four races:
1. The original inhabitants—the Children of the Forest, giants, and other fantastical races, with a history of millions of years. They knew magic and used stone tools, essentially primitives, now mostly living north of the Wall; 2. The First Men, natives who migrated from Essos twelve thousand years ago, possessing a Bronze Age level of civilization. They were the first wave of invaders; most people in the North and beyond the Wall are their descendants; 3. The Andals, invaders from Essos eight thousand years ago, who brought ironworking and the Faith of the Seven; 4. The Rhoynar, who crossed the sea a thousand years ago to seek refuge—fleeing the dragon-and-magic civilization of Valyria (a super civilization, akin to Atlantis). Lacking a higher level of civilization, they couldn't invade a Westeros that had already developed a knightly culture, and could only choose to integrate, settling in the relatively barren Dorne—the southernmost land of Westeros, all deserts and wasteland.
Thus, the king of Westeros bears the title: "King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men."
Jorah Mormont, lord of Bear Island in the North, should belong to the First Men, not the Andals.
It's just that knightly culture was founded by the Andals, and knights are almost the primary image other peoples have of warriors from the Sunset Lands. Jorah also wears full knightly gear.
Well… Jorah might not even truly be a knight. Knighthood originates from a faith—an anointing with holy oil by a septon of the Seven, and being formally dubbed by another recognized knight.
Jorah Mormont, a northern lord, a First Man, worships the Old Gods rather than the Seven.
He received full knightly training, owns a suit of knight's armor and a warhorse, yet that doesn't necessarily make him a knight.
For example, House Stark of Winterfell—from Duke Eddard downward—not a single one is a formally anointed knight.
To the "primitive" horse-riding tribes—the Dothraki—anyone who wears steel armor is a weak, cowardly fool.
Wearing iron armor = afraid of death = cowardly weakling. That's probably their entire logic chain.
When the horselord caught sight of Daenerys emerging from the tent, not only did he fail to restrain himself, he mocked even more loudly.
Jorah pressed his left hand to his sword, pointing and jabbing at the Dothraki warrior with his right, hurling curses back without mercy. "You trash from a primitive tribe, horse-fucking bastard, you don't know a damn thing. This suit of plate on me is worth a hundred of your dog heads!"
He cursed in Dothraki for a while—aimed directly at the horselord—and then switched to Westerosi Common Tongue with a thick northern accent, venting his resentment toward the entire Dothraki people. Filthy words poured out nonstop—most others couldn't even understand him.
Because he had been watching his opponent closely, the Dothraki warrior immediately noticed the change in his gaze. Jorah glanced back at Daenerys, guessed that his guard duty for the day was over, and with a sharp shing, drew his two-handed knight's sword and charged.
The horselord had been waiting for this. He hadn't acted earlier only because this was the khal's camp—any reckless intrusion would have seen him riddled with arrows on the spot.
The man Daenerys had thought was just a minor extra moved so fast her eyes couldn't keep up. His arakh almost traced a silver curtain of blade-light.
Jorah wore a full suit of dark-gray fine-steel armor. The great helm was lowered, leaving only two narrow eye slits. Below were gorget, greaves, gauntlets, and boots—all gleaming with metallic luster.
Despite such heavy armor, his movements were anything but slow. The two-handed greatsword spun like a windmill.
Clang, clang, crash! The two exchanged blows in rapid succession, the sound of blades colliding as dense as a rainstorm—the "raindrop symphony" on banana leaves outside a window.
Yellow sparks flashed on and off between sword and blade, and across Ser Jorah's armor, like fireflies dancing around him.
It sounded long, but in reality, in the blink of an eye, Jorah staggered back three steps, bracing himself on his sword. Heavy, ragged breathing came from beneath his visor and reached Daenerys's ears.
The horselord collapsed onto the red, gravelly ground, limbs twitching as he wailed. Dark red blood flowed from his chest, only to be swallowed by the cracked earth, like a gluttonous demon.
Daenerys estimated that the entire fight lasted about four or five seconds. Jorah had taken at least three cuts—and yet he was completely fine. At most, there were a few fresh dents left on his steel breastplate.
The horselord had held the upper hand the whole time. Only in the final moment—perhaps when he slowed half a beat while catching his breath—did he take a sword through the chest.
"Khaleesi!"
Jorah and her khas guards greeted her one by one.
In the shade, the Dothraki pointed and whispered toward Daenerys's side, their expressions relaxed. They had mocked the "Andal" for his cowardice just moments ago.
Now that their companion lay on the ground, struggling and bleeding to death, they seemed to think he deserved it—showing neither concern nor sympathy.
"Khaleesi, you left the maegi alone in the khal's palace?" Cohollo rode over, pointing angrily as he accused her.
"She isn't with the khal. She's helping Lillith give birth. Didn't you hear her birthing song?" As she spoke, Daenerys ordered Aggo to lift the grass curtain outside the birthing chamber.
The scene inside was immediately laid bare before everyone. Mirri Maz Duur sang a lilting song from the shadowed lands of the moon while her hands moved over Lillith's taut, gleaming belly, seemingly helping adjust the baby's position.
On the crude bed padded with rushes, the pregnant woman's square face was wax-pale. Her temples were soaked with sweat, silver teeth clenched so tightly the veins in her cheeks bulged. Fragmented moans of pain mixed with a faint scent of blood spilled past the curtain and rushed toward the onlookers.
A cesarean would have taken no more than half an hour. But natural birth—especially a difficult one—often took four or five hours and wasn't considered long at all.
The maegi had already been singing for over an hour, her voice hoarse. Seeing the curtain lifted and everyone looking in, she shook her head at Daenerys from ten paces away, never stopping her song, and quickly pulled the curtain closed again.
Seeing with their own eyes that the maegi wasn't using black magic, everyone soon looked away and went back to their own business.
"Wa… water…" The Dothraki warrior lying on the ground begged for something to drink.
Daenerys walked over and tossed him a bag of fermented mare's milk, then ordered the maid Eyrie to undo his painted vest. She firmly remembered that she was a heavily pregnant woman—she couldn't bend down to feed him, let alone squat to examine his wounds.
"The breastbone blocked that strike. It didn't hit the organs," Daenerys said after a glance. "Eyrie, take that cotton cloth and press the wound to stop the bleeding first. Qotho, go fetch the eunuchs and have them stitch him up."
Qotho replied in Dothraki, "Khaleesi, he challenged the Andal and failed. He should accept his fate. Do not move him, do not treat him. Whether he lives or dies is for the horse god in the sky to decide. Everyone knows this."
"Everyone knows this," the maid Eyrie echoed.
"Everyone knows this," Jhogo agreed.
Daenerys shot Qotho a glare and said irritably, "Do you want everyone to know you disobeyed the khaleesi's command?"
Qotho glared back, his almond eyes wide.
Seeing the determination in Daenerys's eyes, he muttered something unintelligible and rode off.
The sun, like a wounded beast, spilled a sea of blood-red light over the desolate land, swaying as it sank beneath the horizon.
Mirri Maz Duur—who had "studied abroad" in many lands and earned numerous medical "certificates"—truly impressed Daenerys. Before nightfall, the first child was born, crying loudly as it entered the world.
A silver-haired boy, with the bronze skin of the Dothraki, almond-shaped eyes, and pale violet pupils.
Daenerys stepped past the carved screen of a hundred beasts, cut through the thick grass curtain with a dagger, and took the naked infant from the maegi's hands through the opening.
"Khaleesi, twins. There's another one," Mirri Maz Duur said in a hoarse voice.
"Continue."
Daenerys lingered for nearly two minutes before circling back behind the screen.
"Wash him with warm water." Entering the main hall, she handed the baby—wrapped in a layer of wool—to Jhiqui.
By the time the second child was born, Jhako had also arrived at Drogo's grass-mat palace.
"Hahaha! A boy and a girl! The boy is big, the girl is small—symbols of the sun and the star. This is an auspicious sign granted to me by the horse god in the sky!"
Jhako was overflowing with excitement, lifting a baby in each hand. In his left, the boy was raised toward the western sun sinking beyond the horizon. In his right, the girl was held toward the eastern sky, dark purple and studded with the Horse God's Star. The bells braided into his beard rang out with ambitious clarity.
Watching Jhako and the others depart with the children and Lillith, their backs filled with joy, the maegi—just finished washing herself in a nearby small tent—muttered in confusion, "How could he tell the boy was bigger? Aren't they about the same?"
"These foolish horselords are truly strange." Shaking her head, Mirri turned and walked toward Drogo's grass-mat palace.
Having perfectly proven her abilities, she earned the right to become one of the khaleesi's close attendants. Before the khaleesi's children were born, she was to remain with the khaleesi's small khas at all times, never leaving without permission.
...
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"Game of Thrones: Dragon Prince"
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"Game of Thrones The Glory of a Knight"
(End Chapter)