Prophecies. In this world, they were whispered around hearths, etched into the songs of priests, and carried on the lips of witches. In A Song of Ice and Fire, there were countless prophecies—most obscure, some direct, and many twisted in their interpretations. Yet, more often than not, they came true in ways no one expected. Among them was the Dothraki witch Mirri Maz Duur's chilling prophecy for Daenerys Targaryen: Her child would be the Khal who strides the world.
At first glance, the words seemed obvious. A Khal. A warrior-king of the Dothraki. To the horse lords, such a title was bound to conjure visions of a son, a strong boy raised in the saddle, his life shaped by hoofbeats and the endless grass sea. The Dothraki revered horses with a zeal unmatched anywhere else. They drank mare's milk the moment they were born. As children, they chewed on horse meat and sipped the fermented milk until their lips were stained white. As adults, they rode tirelessly across the vast steppes, their lives bound to the gallop of their steeds. And when they died, their finest horses were slain and buried beside them, carrying their spirits into the night lands.
So naturally, when the witch spoke of a Khal, everyone assumed Daenerys would birth a son. But destiny is rarely so simple.
The prophecy was misunderstood—again. Daenerys would not give birth to a child of flesh and blood, not in the way her companions expected. Her children were not boys at all. Her children were dragons.
Three.
Dragons—the greatest force of power in the known world, once thought lost to ash and time. If a Khal was a ruler of men, then dragons were rulers of rulers. Was that not the true meaning of the prophecy? That her child, her blood, her legacy, would not be bound to horse or man, but to fire and wing?
Daenerys, or rather the second soul that now inhabited her, understood this more clearly than anyone else. She was not just the frightened young Khaleesi of the grass sea. She was also a child of another world—a world where the tale of ice and fire had already been written, played out on glowing screens. She knew the prophecies, the betrayals, the wars yet to come. And with that knowledge came a burden.
But how could she tell anyone? How could she confide in Jorah Mormont, whose loyalty was a shield but whose doubts were a chain? How could she trust her maids, whose tongues might wag under fear or greed? Even the slightest whisper that her dragon eggs were more than lifeless stones could bring ruin. The Dothraki might seize them. Illyrio's "gift" could be recalled. Worse, she herself might be silenced, her life snuffed out before the prophecy could ever come to pass.
For even fools knew this truth: dragons were more dangerous than any Khal who had ever lived.
She clenched her fists, silently cursing. If prophecy was so accurate, why had no one ever devised a way to counter it? Why could no one stop the dark magic that twisted fate into tragedy? The witches of Vaes Dothrak prided themselves on their craft, their rituals steeped in blood and smoke. Yet what good was all their knowledge if it only led to death?
Drogo's decline was proof of that. His wound festered despite every remedy. His once-mighty frame lay still, the fire gone from his eyes. His death, in truth, was a relief for her second soul—the soul that had transmigrated here. But the timing… the timing was a curse. To arrive in this body at the very edge of disaster was cruel.
Daenerys forced the dark thoughts away. No. She would not surrender to despair. Not again. She would not let her unborn child perish as before, sacrificed to sorcery and shadow. The babe within her—hers now, wholly hers—would live. Even if it meant defying prophecy, witchcraft, and fate itself.
Her decision was made. She rejected Jorah's whispered pleas to flee, to abandon the Dothraki and vanish across the sea. Running meant death. Running meant never leaving the grasslands alive. Her path lay forward, not backward.
That night, the tent became a place of quiet battle.
When Irri and Jhiqui brought hot water, red wine, and poultices, Daenerys took them with trembling but determined hands. She poured the wine over Drogo's chest wound, the sting lost on a man too far gone to feel. The foul stench of corruption filled the air as dark pus oozed forth. For half an hour, she worked, scrubbing, wiping, cleansing. It was useless, she knew, but she persisted. When the infection mocked her efforts, she turned to stronger measures—boiling silk in milk of the poppy, wrapping it tight around his wound to numb if not heal.
He could not be cured. But perhaps she could ease his pain.
Beside her, Irri commanded with the authority of habit, bidding Doreah to fetch a cedar chest from the corner. Heavy, bronze-banded, its length nearly a meter, the chest was the kind of thing meant for treasures. And indeed, treasures it held.
"Place my bed here," Daenerys ordered, pointing to the hearth fire at the yurt's center.
The Khal's tent was vast, two hundred square meters at least, its ceiling open to the smoky night. Beneath the central gap, flames roared within an iron-framed pit, the heart of the dwelling's warmth.
Doreah hesitated. "So close? Won't it be unbearably hot?"
"I'm not afraid of the heat," Daenerys replied simply.
And it was true. She had discovered the truth of her Targaryen blood. Fire did not harm her. The sun's scorching rays had not burned her. Heat was no longer an enemy but a strange companion.
As Doreah prepared the bedding, Daenerys unlatched the cedar chest. Inside, nestled in velvet, lay three massive eggs. Not ordinary eggs, not gifts for decoration as the Magister of Pentos had claimed. No, these were older than kingdoms, harder than stone, more precious than crowns.
They were dragon eggs.
Her fingers traced their surfaces, and even in the dim light, they glimmered like jewels. In her past life she had never seen true treasures—only imitations in films, or sparkling stones locked away in museum glass. But she knew, with unshakable certainty, that even the fabled Heart of the Ocean from Titanic or the crown jewels of England paled in comparison to these.
The first egg was dark green, flecked with bronze, as though forged from forests and flame. The second gleamed milky white, traced with veins of gold that shimmered like sunlight on snow. The last was midnight black, alive with swirls of crimson that pulsed like fire trapped beneath glass.
Their scales caught the firelight, each curve gleaming with metallic brilliance. And when she stroked them, warmth seeped into her skin—living warmth, pulsing, coaxing. Her breath hitched, her body tingling as if the eggs themselves whispered promises of life, of power, of rebirth.
She gasped softly, almost in pleasure, before quickly pulling her hand away.
"Doreah," she called. "Come. Feel them. Tell me—are they warm?"
The maid obeyed, placing her hands carefully upon the eggs. Her brow furrowed. "Cold, Khaleesi. Just as always. Cold as stone."
Daenerys forced a smile and waved her away. "Prepare supper."
The meal was goose—fat, rich, stuffed with apples and turnips. She ate greedily, more than she thought possible. A leg, half a breast, slices of bread dipped in broth. Nearly three kilos of food. She burped afterward, covering her mouth with a sheepish laugh. Is this the strength of the dragon blood? she wondered. Her body, once frail, now devoured sustenance as though forging it into fire within.
When the meal was done, she ordered the remainder given to Ser Jorah. The knight, like her, was an outsider here, unaccustomed to mare's milk and horse meat. He would appreciate the gift.
Night fell. Irri washed her, Jhiqui tended Drogo, and at last the tent grew quiet. Only three souls remained—Daenerys, her husband, and Irri, who slept lightly at her side. Drogo moaned faintly in his fevered slumber, twitching under the weight of unseen torments. The air smelled of sickness, but Daenerys ignored it.
She lay naked upon her bed, the dragon eggs pressed against her bare skin. Their warmth seeped into her bones, soothing aches she had not known she carried. She could feel it—healing, strength, life. It was not a dream. It was real. The eggs gave her vitality, just as surely as they once had in visions.
She remembered her past life. The endless running, the hunger, the fear. The loss of her father, her mother, her siblings, her kingdom. From Braavos to Pentos, from city to city, she had wandered with Viserys, begging, bowing, always one step from starvation. The world had called him the Beggar King, and she had been his shadow, meek and bowed, shoulders hunched like an old woman before her time.
How many nights had she wished to die? How many mornings had she woken with despair?
And yet, through it all, she had survived. And now she had these. Three eggs. Three children of fire. A legacy greater than any crown.
Tears stung her eyes as she whispered, clutching the black egg close. "My little ones, give your mother strength. My dragons, my children… lend me your fire."
The egg pulsed with heat, and for a moment, she thought she heard something stir within. But when she looked closer, it was still.
She set it gently by her pillow and turned to the flames. They flickered, danced, beckoned. She stretched out her hand, teeth gritted.
In her old world, she had seen foolish videos—people daring fire, cooking with strange tricks, roasting ice cream, even grilling themselves for spectacle. But now, staring into the fire, she asked a question no one could ever answer:
"Who among you has ever roasted yourself alive?"
Her palm hovered over the fire. Not to cook food. Not to test a myth. But to test herself. To test the truth of the blood in her veins. To test if she truly was what the world called her—the blood of the dragon.
Daenerys Targaryen, last daughter of a fallen house, Khaleesi of a dying Khal, mother of unborn dragons… reached into the fire..