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Chapter 5: A Test of Fire
🕑 Added 2025-09-05 11:14:54 +0000 UTCThere were many prophecies in this world, and Daenerys knew that most of them, in their own twisted way, came true. The words of the Dothraki crones were no different: her child was the Stallion Who Mounts the World.
It wasn't literal, of course. The Dothraki worshipped the horse above all else. They were weaned on mare's milk, grew strong on horse meat, and were buried with their finest steeds to ride in the night lands. To them, 'stallion' was the highest honor, a metaphor for a powerful male heir.
But the new Daenerys, the woman who remembered a life where all of this was a story on a screen, knew the prophecy was misunderstood by everyone, including its speakers. She wouldn't give birth to a boy. She would give birth to three dragons.
And what was a dragon, the ultimate power in this world, if not the Stallion Who Mounts the World?
This secret knowledge was a heavy, dangerous burden. She couldn't tell Jorah; she couldn't tell anyone. To speak of it would be to turn her dragon eggs from beautiful, petrified curiosities into the most coveted and feared objects in the world. They would be stolen from her in a heartbeat, and her own life would be forfeit. A living dragon was infinitely more dangerous than any Khal.
So accurate with your prophecies, she thought with a flash of bitter anger at the hags in Vaes Dothrak, but you couldn't do a single thing to prevent this curse? Useless.
Still, Drogo's impending death was, in a dark way, a kind of opportunity. The timing was disastrous, but the path forward was clear. She pushed aside the grim thoughts. The witch would not get her child. That much she knew. The baby in her womb was no longer just the continuation of a bloodline; it was hers. And she would protect it.
With this newfound resolve, she had once again rejected Jorah's desperate plan to flee. Following him into the wilderness was a death sentence.
When Jhiqui returned with hot water, red wine, and clean silk, Dany set to work. She scrubbed at Drogo's wound with the wine-soaked cloth, but it was almost useless against the rot. After half an hour of fruitless effort, she gave up. Instead, she soaked a fresh length of silk in the poppy milk solution, boiled it for good measure, and then wrapped it firmly around Drogo's chest several times. It wouldn't cure him, but it might numb the wound and grant him a measure of peace.
Leaving Irri to gently clean the rest of Drogo's feverish body, she directed Dorea to a large wooden box. It was crafted from cedar, a meter tall and just as long, but only a foot wide.
"Dorea, make my bed here," Dany instructed, pointing to the open bonfire in the center of the massive yurt. The Khal's tent was easily two hundred square meters, with a circular opening at its peak to let out the smoke from the iron-ringed firepit below.
"Khaleesi," Dorea hesitated, "will it not be too hot, so close to the flames?"
"I'm not afraid of the heat." It was the simple truth. One of the first things she'd noticed upon waking in this body was an uncanny resistance to heat. The blistering sun of the Dothraki sea, which made others sweat and swoon, felt merely warm and pleasant on her skin. The blood of the dragon was real.
As Dorea arranged the furs and silks for her bed, Daenerys opened the cedar box. Inside, nestled on a bed of soft, black velvet, lay three huge stone eggs. They were far larger than any bird's egg, and infinitely more beautiful. In her old life, she had come from a simple family and had never seen world-famous jewels, but she was certain that nothing—not the Heart of the Ocean from that old movie, not the sapphires in a queen's crown—could compare to these.
They were a wedding gift from Magister Illyrio of Pentos. Fossilized dragon eggs from the Shadow Lands, thousands of years old. Their surfaces were covered with thousands of tiny, intricate scales that shimmered with a metallic luster in the firelight. One was a deep, forest green, flecked with shimmering bronze. Another was a pale, creamy white, swirled with streaks of pure gold. The last, and largest, was as black as a midnight sea, with living ripples and waves of scarlet red that seemed to shift beneath the surface.
As her fingers traced the scales of the black egg, a wave of heat pulsed from it, so intense and deeply comforting it almost made her groan.
"Dorea, come feel this," she said, withdrawing her hand. "Is the egg hot?"
The Lyseni girl looked confused but did as she was told, running her palm over all three eggs. "They are cold as ice, Khaleesi," she reported, mystified. "The same as always."
Dany waved her away. "Prepare the dinner."
That night she ate the goose. The cooks had stewed it with turnips and apples, and the flavor was surprisingly rich. Dipping thick chunks of black bread into the savory juices, Dany ate with a ravenous hunger she hadn't felt since arriving. She devoured a leg, half the breast, and more—a portion that would have shamed a grown warrior. This body is tough, she mused, feeling a surge of strength. The blood of the dragon, indeed.
"Hiccup," she let out a small, satisfied burp. "Dorea, give the rest to Ser Jorah and the others. And then prepare my bath."
After she had bathed, and after watching Irri gently feed the drowsy, semi-conscious Drogo a large skin of thick mare's milk, Dany was ready for sleep. The vast tent was quiet now, occupied by only three souls. Drogo lay on his sickbed, his body occasionally twitching as the curse stimulated his nerves. Dany lay on her own furs near the fire. And sharing the bed with her, sleeping on the outer edge, was Irri. The maids took turns, ensuring one was always near to attend to her. The Dothraki girl was untroubled, falling into a deep sleep almost instantly.
But Dany could not sleep. She lay naked under the furs, holding the three dragon eggs tightly against her skin, pressing them to her belly. She felt a strange energy flowing from them, a feeling of vitality, of primal force. It was not an illusion. These eggs had a healing power.
Her thoughts drifted to the girl whose life this had been. A subjugated princess, born in the midst of a bloody rebellion. If not for a loyal old knight spiriting her and Viserys away to Braavos, she would have met the same fate as her niece and nephew—smashed against a castle wall like a piece of fruit. For years, she had been rootless, penniless, a wanderer. The "Beggar King" and his little sister, chased from one Free City to the next by the Usurper's assassins.
The original Daenerys had been malnourished, stunted, a girl like a frail bean sprout, hunched and submissive from years of her brother's 'waking the dragon.' It was a miracle of the Targaryen bloodline that she possessed any beauty at all. The harsh nomadic life had nearly killed her. That girl, traumatized and on the verge of suicide, had been saved by these eggs. In her sleep, she had formed a bond with them, a kind of soul communication that healed her body and spirit overnight. She had been reborn.
This is a world of magic, Dany reminded herself. And my blood is not the blood of mortals.
She pulled the black egg closer, murmuring softly, "Little ones, give your mother strength. Baby dragons, give me strength."
Apart from the steady, pulsing heat, the eggs remained inert.
Sighing, Dany set them down beside her pillow and turned on her side, her eyes fixed on the fire. The flames leaped and danced, mesmerizing.
If I'm going to live in this body, I have to save her child. I have to survive. I have to try.
Gritting her teeth, she pushed the furs away. She looked at her own pale hand, then at the fire. A crazy, terrifying thought took hold. In her old world, people on the internet did stupid challenges for views—eating strange things, doing dangerous stunts.
She wanted to ask them: Have any of you ever tried to roast yourself?
Slowly, with a hand that did not tremble, Daenerys reached out toward the jumping, hungry flames.
