Game of Thrones Iron Stark

Daenerys and Khal Drogo rode side by side at the head of the largest khalasar on the Dothraki sea. Behind them stretched a sea of riders, wagons, and herds, all moving toward fresh grass. They had no home but the wind and the horizon.

"My sun and stars," Daenerys said, voice thin with pain. "We need to stop. I think the baby is coming."

Drogo's face tightened. He scanned the endless grass. "My moon, this is no place to birth a child. We find safety first."

She had never seen worry on his face before. Not for her. Not for the son growing inside her. Not until now.

"Are we crossing another tribe's land?" she asked. "If we're only passing through, maybe they'll leave us alone."

Drogo gave a short, bitter laugh. "On the Dothraki sea there is no such thing as passing through. Every meeting ends in blood."

He sent word quietly to his bloodriders. Bows strung. Blades ready. The khalasar slowed, spreading out.

Grass rustled ahead. Two whistling arrows cut through the air. Two warriors toppled from their horses.

Shouts erupted. Horses screamed. The tall grass hid everything. Men could be ten feet away and invisible.

"Blood of my blood," a bloodrider said, holding up a dead man's arrow. "Black Panther tribe. Whistling arrows."

Drogo's jaw clenched. He looked at Daenerys, then at the horizon where the grass began to move.

"My moon, you will live. For our son. Find Ser Jorah. Now."

Jorah was already pushing through the crowd, eyes locked on Daenerys like a man seeing his last dream.

"Take her and ride," Drogo ordered. "Protect the khaleesi. I will hold them here."

Daenerys tried to stand. Her belly was too heavy. "Drogo—what's happening? Tell me!"

More arrows. Two more men fell. The ground trembled. Over the low hills came the Black Panther riders, black hides and rhino leather, chanting as they came.

"Run!" Drogo barked. "Jorah, get her out of here!"

Jorah didn't argue. He pulled Daenerys onto a horse with her handmaids and a small escort, then spurred hard back the way they had come.

Drogo watched her go, then turned his horse toward the enemy with his bloodriders at his side.

The Black Panther khal stepped forward, old and lean in leopard skin, three sons behind him.

"Drogo," the old man called. "Finally. You killed our brothers in the White Lion tribe. Today we take payment."

Drogo spat on the grass. "You wanted their lands long before I touched them. Don't dress it up as honor."

The old khal smiled. "We are children of the Cat God. Sons of the first Cat King. Your horse god was once our slave. Today the cats hunt the horses."

Drogo's patience snapped. "Dragons burned your last Cat King to ash and scattered your tribes. How much strength have you really clawed back? Enough to frighten me?"

The old man screamed and charged.

Arrows flew from both sides. The grass exploded into screaming riders and flashing steel.

Far away, Daenerys heard the roar of battle behind her. She gripped Jorah's arm so hard her nails dug in.

"Ser Jorah—Drogo. He'll be all right, won't he?"

Jorah kept his eyes forward. "He's fought worse odds. Right now we worry about you. The baby's coming and we need clean ground and a midwife."

He glanced at the empty grassland. "Out here that means a witch or a priestess. There are no maesters on the Dothraki sea."

One of Daenerys's handmaids looked around nervously. "If only we had a real midwife. There's nothing but grass for miles."

Daenerys suddenly straightened. "The box. Tony Stark's books. There's a small one about giving birth in the wild. I read it weeks ago."

Jorah found the thin booklet fast. The cover was plain. Inside, clear Common Tongue instructions signed by Tony Stark.

He read quickly while they rode.

Find a hidden spot. When the mother feels the urge to push like she needs to shit, have her lie down. Put something soft under her. Support the baby's head with a cloth in your right hand. Use thumb and middle finger of the left to guide the head up and out. Turn the head sideways, ease the shoulders, pull gently. If the baby doesn't cry, lift the legs and slap the back until it does. Tie the cord twice, cut between the knots. Deliver the afterbirth by twisting and pulling.

Jorah closed the book slowly.

He had seen men die in every way a man could die. He had never delivered a child.

"We keep riding," he said. "If we find a village or a wise woman, we use them. If we don't…"

He met Daenerys's eyes.

"Then we do it ourselves. You, me, and the handmaids. Tony Stark's words will have to be enough."

Daenerys nodded, jaw tight against the next contraction.

Behind them the battle sounds grew fainter. Ahead lay only open grass and whatever fate waited in the next hidden hollow.

Jorah touched the book again like it was a blade he might need to use.

This was their last choice.