"Khaleesi, you should kill or drive away the witch. She can work terrible magic and consort with demons," Jhiqui whispered in Daenerys' ear.
A blood witch… No, she had saved her sun and stars. That day, Drogo had been swaying in the saddle, barely able to stay upright. At night, Daenerys had seen bloodflies hovering inside their tent—ominous creatures said to gather only around the dead. Despite his grave injuries, Drogo had stubbornly insisted on riding.
The one who had saved him was Mirri Maz Duur, the so-called witch. She claimed to be a healer and had dressed his wounds with a poultice of herbs wrapped in sheepskin. Drogo bore a deep gash across his chest and an arrow wound, both serious injuries.
Yet after just five days, he had torn off the healer's dressings, and his condition worsened. The wound, now swathed in damp sheepskin, festered. His once-vibrant face grew pale and bloodless. He rode all day in a daze, unresponsive to anyone who called his name.
Ser Jorah Mormont had warned her in a hushed voice that if Khal Drogo fell from his horse or could no longer ride, his khalasar would abandon him. They would follow a new khal—one of the very men who had once served under Drogo.
Some whispered that the witch had cursed him.
On the eleventh night, Daenerys reached out and touched Drogo, only to find his body ice cold. A shiver of fear ran through her. She trembled, softly calling his name, but he did not stir. There was no response. Bloodflies buzzed around them, some even landing on his unmoving form. They were as large as bees, their wings making an eerie, unsettling hum.
Tears blurred her vision as she called for him again, voice cracking with despair. The world seemed to collapse around her. In her desperation, she thought of the dragon eggs.
She rushed to the chest where they lay, cradling them in trembling hands. But in her haste, she forgot about her swollen belly—she stumbled, falling hard to the ground.
The eggs tumbled from her grasp, and pain shot through her. Blood pooled between her legs, seeping into the cracks of the eggshells, staining them red.
Ignoring the pain, she gathered the eggs once more, pressing them to her chest. She lifted Drogo's limp hand, placing it over the eggs, then clung to him, whispering words of comfort. I am the last true dragon, she told herself. Daenerys Stormborn. The gods will not take my sun and stars from me.
Her cries brought others rushing into the tent. When they saw her weeping over Drogo's body, they knew.
More people gathered. Several blood riders approached, only to be met with a sight that chilled them to the bone. A severed horse's head lay discarded, its blood smeared over Khal Drogo's bare chest. Mirri Maz Duur knelt beside him, daubing the blood onto his skin as she murmured in an eerie, lilting chant.
Shadows coiled and shifted in the dim light—shadows shaped like men, like horses, like creatures beyond reckoning.
The blood riders watched in horror as the darkness slithered toward Drogo's lifeless body. The black mist seeped into him, making his still form jerk unnaturally. The swirling shadows suddenly surged upward, vanishing into the night. A piercing cry echoed through the tent, and Mirri Maz Duur collapsed in a heap.
Silence followed. No one knew where the shadows had gone. But then…
Drogo's chest rose. His breath, shallow and slow, returned.
At that moment, Daenerys groaned in pain. Her belly, already swollen, tightened as another wave of agony coursed through her. The child was coming.
She screamed, "Black wings!" Her maids rushed forward, summoning the midwife. But the child the dosh khaleen had prophesied—the stallion who would mount the world—never took his first breath.
Daenerys told no one about the dream she had that night.
In it, she saw a dragon—a true dragon. She saw her brother Rhaegar, the prince who had been called beautiful, his silver hair long and shining, his voice like music. The last true dragon, or so they had said.
But the man in her dream had short silver hair. He was clad in black armor, a red cloak billowing behind him as he rode into battle.
Beneath him stretched a battlefield of fire and blood, where three great rivers met and mingled. He was outnumbered, only four men at his side, yet he fought, and he did not fall to the Usurper as the world had claimed.
His horse collapsed beneath him, and he tumbled, rolling down a slope thick with trees and brambles. His sword gleamed cold in the moonlight—surely, it was Dark Sister, the legendary blade of House Targaryen.
Viserys had once spoken of the two great ancestral swords: Blackfyre and Dark Sister. One was lost in Essos. One had been wielded by great warriors of old.
Daenerys saw him now, standing at the heart of a battlefield. She stepped forward, reaching for his helmet, but the image blurred before her eyes.
Then, out of the darkness, black wings swept downward from the sky.
When Daenerys opened her eyes, she found herself surrounded by a group of people. Her belly was still, and little Rhaegal made no sound within her.
She placed a gentle hand over her womb and whispered in her heart, Do you know, little Rhaegal? I dreamed of your uncle. One day, you will be as tall and brave as he was.
Just then, Jhiqui approached with a complicated expression. "Khaleesi… Khal Drogo has awakened."
To Daenerys, the past days had felt like a nightmare. And now, she had finally woken up.
She watched with joy as Drogo opened his eyes, blinking in confusion. Then, with his usual strength, he mounted a horse once more—though not his own, for his original horse was dead.
Among the Dothraki, horses were sacred. Their faith, their way of life. Drogo was furious at the loss of his mount, but Daenerys soothed him, telling him that it had been a fierce and noble steed, one that had carried him back from the darkness. After all, was he not the father of the prophesied Stallion Who Mounts the World?
At her words, Drogo's anger settled. Without another word, he rode off to patrol his khalasar, offering no explanation to anyone.
But in the shadows, Mirri Maz Duur trembled.
She alone knew what had been done. Blood magic. She had used blood magic to bring the dead back to life. And now, she thought of the prophecy—the one whispered among the priests of Char:
"After a long summer, when the stars weep blood, Azor Ahai shall be reborn in the land of smoke and salt, and shall awaken the dragon from stone."
The silver-haired woman… She was of the dragon's blood—evil, cursed. And now, she carried that evil within her womb.
The Dothraki had their own prophecy: the prince who rides the stallion will conquer the world.
Now, the man had returned. The child had lived.
Disaster. This would be a disaster that would sweep across the world.
It was she who had set the dragon free.
Cole did not know how long he had been climbing.
Higher and higher he went, but the path before him was endless. The scales had vanished, the Gate of Xaro Xhoan Daxos was nowhere in sight. All that remained was an iron chain stretching upward, while below him lay only fire and purgatory.
He was exhausted, but he could not stop. The magma beneath him was rising fast, and the severed limbs of the damned clawed at him, trying to drag him down.
He prayed, gasping, "If this is a dream, let me wake soon… whether it be the new gods or the old."
Far beyond the inferno, on a distant sea, a raft drifted aimlessly.
It had been floating for an eternity, carrying nothing but a stone… and a corpse.
(Author's Note: In the original story, blood magic was used to resurrect the Horse King by sacrificing Drogo's stallion and Daenerys' unborn child, but the magic only left him in a vegetative state. However, in this version, because Daenerys' blood was mixed with the dragon eggs and they were pressed against Drogo's body, the dark power of blood magic shifted its focus to Cole. This introduces an element of cause and effect—by altering the course of fate, Cole must now endure unnatural calamities.)
---------------
Check out advanced chapters on : patreon.com/Veni_V