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Chapter 9: The Andal and the Witch
🕑 Added 2025-09-05 11:18:24 +0000 UTCA loud commotion outside the tent ripped Daenerys from her concentration. Annoyed, she opened her eyes. She was sitting cross-legged on the black dragon egg, directly in the heart of the bonfire, letting the flames lick at her bare skin.
She was disinfecting herself.
A fire of more than a thousand degrees was more effective than any antibiotic, cleaner than any poultice, and with no side effects. She clenched her fists. Instead of feeling weak from the ordeal of the birth, her body felt relaxed, energized, and stronger than ever before.
Stepping out of the flames, she washed the soot from her body with a cloth dipped in scalding water. Then, she retrieved a pre-prepared down-stuffed bag—effectively, a duck-feather pillow—and secured it beneath her dress, perfectly recreating the swell of a pregnant belly.
Moments later, a Daenerys who looked for all the world like she was still nine months pregnant pushed aside the heavy cowhide curtain of the tent and walked out.
The sun was slanting toward the west, dragging long shadows from the hills. The air was hot and still. A group of Dothraki warriors were lounging in the shade, escaping the worst of the afternoon heat. A ring of Dany's own guards stood like javelins outside Drogo's tent, and beyond them, looking like a walking tin can, was Ser Jorah. He was in a heated argument with a Dothraki warrior.
The man gestured at Jorah with his curved arakh. "Coward!" he sneered. "The cowardly Andal hides in his iron shell again!"
Andal. It was the Dothraki name for all men from Westeros. Dany's mind, a strange fusion of two lives, cataloged the inaccuracy. Jorah was an Earl from Bear Island in the North; his people were descended from the First Men, not the Andals who had invaded thousands of years later, bringing their iron and their Faith of the Seven. The title of the king she was meant to be was 'Monarch of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men' for a reason. They were three distinct peoples.
But the Dothraki saw a man in armor, and the knights of Westeros were an Andal creation. Jorah, a follower of the Old Gods, was not even a true knight—that title required an anointing by a septon of the Seven—but he wore the armor and fought with the longsword, so to the horse-people, he was an Andal. And to them, armor was a sign of fear. Their logic was simple and brutal: wearing armor meant you feared death, and fearing death made you a coward.
The Dothraki warrior caught sight of Dany and, instead of quieting, laughed even louder.
Jorah, his left hand resting on the pommel of his sword, pointed at the man with his right. "You piece of trash from a primitive tribe!" he roared back, his Dothraki rough but serviceable. "You horse-fucking bastard! A suit of my armor could be traded for a hundred of your dog heads!" He continued to curse, switching between languages, venting his frustration at the entire Dothraki nation in the Northern-accented Common Tongue.
He was watching his opponent closely and immediately noticed the shift in the Dothraki's eyes as he saw Daenerys. Jorah must have decided his guard duty was over. With a loud rasp of steel, he drew his greatsword and charged.
The Dothraki had been waiting for this. He couldn't attack Jorah on the holy ground of the Khal's camp, but if Jorah charged him… With a speed that blurred the eye, the warrior's arakh danced, becoming a shimmering curtain of silver blades.
Jorah, despite the crushing weight of his dark grey steel plate, was not slow. His huge helmet was pulled down, leaving only narrow slits for his eyes. He met the charge, his greatsword swinging in a powerful, fanning arc.
Clang! Ping! Clang! The sound of clashing steel was as rapid as a summer hailstorm. Yellow sparks flew where the arakh glanced off Jorah's armor, flickering around him like fireflies. The fight was a whirlwind, over in a flash. Jorah was driven back three steps, and the sound of his heavy, ragged breathing was audible from beneath his visor.
The Dothraki warrior collapsed onto the red sand, limbs flailing, a shocked howl escaping his lips. Dark red blood poured from a deep wound in his chest, instantly swallowed by the dry, cracked earth.
Dany quickly analyzed the brief, brutal duel. Jorah had been struck at least three times in the space of five seconds, but his armor had saved him. The Dothraki had been faster, pressing the attack, but in the last moment, he must have paused to draw a breath. In that instant, Jorah's sword had found its mark.
"Khaleesi," Jorah greeted her, his voice muffled by his helm. Her own guards nodded to her.
The Dothraki in the shadows pointed and laughed, utterly indifferent to their companion bleeding out on the ground. To them, he had lost a fair challenge. He deserved his fate.
"Khaleesi!" Cohollo rode up, his face a mask of fury. "You left the witch alone in the tent with the Khal?"
"She is not with the Khal," Dany said calmly. "She is helping Lyra give birth. Have you not heard her birthing song?" She gestured to Aggo, who lifted the straw curtain partition that sectioned off the birthing area.
The scene was revealed to all. Mirri Maz Duur was singing her soft, melodic song while gently stroking Lyra's swollen belly, as if trying to soothe the child within. On a rough cot of woven rushes, the pregnant woman's face was waxy and pale, her jaw clenched so tightly the muscles stood out on her cheeks. Faint, pained moans and the scent of blood drifted out to the onlookers. Mirri had been at it for over an hour. Seeing the crowd, she glanced at Dany and shook her head slightly, then hastily pulled the curtain closed again.
Reassured that no black magic was being worked on their Khal, the onlookers lost interest.
"Water… water…" the dying warrior on the ground rasped.
Dany walked toward him and tossed a skin of mare's milk onto the sand nearby. She gestured to her maid. "Irri, unlace his vest." She was careful to maintain the illusion of a pregnant woman with limited mobility, who could not bend down herself. "The sternum blocked the blade," she diagnosed, her voice clear and clinical. "The vitals are not hit. Irri, press a cloth to the wound to stop the bleeding. Quaro, go and fetch one of the healers to sew him up."
Quaro's almond eyes widened. "Khaleesi," he said in Dothraki, "he challenged the Andal and lost. He must accept his fate. It is for the Horse God to decide if he lives. Everyone knows this."
"Everyone knows," Irri and Jhogo echoed.
Dany fixed Quaro with a glare of pure ice. "And are you going to let everyone know that you violated an order from your Khaleesi?"
He stared back, his jaw working, but the defiance in his eyes flickered and died. Muttering something under his breath, he spun his horse around and galloped off.
Like a wounded animal, the sun bled red across the barren land before finally collapsing below the horizon.
Just before nightfall, Mirri Maz Duur, the woman of many diplomas, succeeded. The first child was born: a boy, with his mother's silver hair, his father's Dothraki bronze skin, and startling lavender eyes.
As the witch held him up, Daenerys moved to the thick straw curtain separating the alcove. With a swift motion of her dagger, she cut a vertical slit in the weave. "Pass him to me," she commanded. She took the naked, crying baby from the witch's hands through the gap.
"Khaleesi," Mirri said, her voice hoarse with fatigue, "there are twins. Another is coming."
"Continue," Dany ordered. She dawdled for nearly two full minutes before finally walking around the screen into the main area of the tent.
"Wash him with hot water," she commanded, handing the wool-wrapped baby—her own son—to Jhiqui.
By the time the second child, a girl, was born, Jhogo had arrived.
"Hah! A boy and a girl!" he roared with joy, holding up a baby in each hand. "Big and strong the boy, small and fierce the girl! The sun and the stars! This is a blessed gift from the great Horse God!" He turned, holding the baby boy up to the last rays of the setting sun, and the baby girl up to the first star appearing in the dark purple eastern sky.
As Jhogo and his retinue departed, carrying a weak but living Lyra and their new children, Mirri Maz Duur, having just washed, muttered in confusion. "How could he tell the boy was bigger? The two seemed the same size to me."
She shook her head. "These foolish horse-men are strange." Turning, she walked back toward the main part of the tent. Having proven her skill, her new life had begun. She was now bound to the Khaleesi's service, to remain with her khas until the birth of the dragon queen's child.
