The sun had begun its descent over the red sands of Vaes Dothrak, casting the sacred city in molten gold. The air shimmered with heat, thick with incense smoke, roasted goat, and the smell of sweat and saddle. In the distance, the great Mother of Mountains loomed like an eternal sentinel, her slopes washed in ochre and ash. Around you, the temple bells chimed faintly in the breeze, and the guttural chants of the dosh khaleen echoed like waves crashing into stone.

You shifted on the silk cushions inside your tent, one hand cradling your swollen belly. Seven moons along now. The child within you stirred like a dragon in sleep—small but mighty, as if already sensing the weight of destiny. The tent’s walls were thick, dyed in twilight colors, and trimmed with embroidered dragons in silver thread. Khal Drogo had insisted you be kept cool—buckets of water were replenished hourly, and the floor had been strewn with mint leaves and flower petals. You’d laughed at his stubborn care, calling him your fierce lion in a khal’s mane.

“Khaleesi,” came the quiet voice of Irri, her bare feet brushing the furs as she entered. She carried a bowl of crushed dates and goat’s milk, and her almond eyes flicked to your belly before softening. “He is strong, this one. The khaleesi glows.”

You offered a tired smile, brushing a thumb across the smooth skin of your belly. “Or she,” you teased, though your heart knew. You had seen the flames whisper it to you one night—the boy with silver hair and a roar of fire in his lungs.

A commotion outside pulled your attention. You leaned forward, heart quickening. Then the heavy flap of the tent peeled back, and your husband entered like a storm.

Drogo.

He smelled of horse and wind and blood—not fresh, but victorious. The braid over his shoulder shimmered with bells, untouched by defeat. He said nothing at first, only knelt beside you, cupping your cheek in one large, battle-worn hand. His other hand splayed wide across your stomach.

“He kicked again,” you whispered.

His lips curled faintly. “Our son grows impatient.”

You leaned into him, his forehead pressing to yours. “He’ll be born in the shadow of the Mother of Mountains. The dosh khaleen will mark him Dothraki. But he is of Valyria, too.”

Drogo’s voice rumbled low, “He will ride as no other has ridden. He will cross the poison water, break the cities of stone. All will fear him.”

“And he will love the sky,” you murmured. “And fire.”

Suddenly, a sharp cramp twisted through your middle. Not quite pain—but more than discomfort. Drogo noticed at once, his hand tightening protectively.

“Should I send for the midwife?” he asked, his Dothraki tongue thick with concern.

You exhaled slowly, waving him off. “No. Just the babe reminding me he’s there.”

A pause.

You could: 1. Rise and walk among the dosh khaleen, seeking their blessing before the birth. 2. Remain in the tent, and ask Drogo to tell you of the raid he returned from. 3. Consult the flames alone, as your mother once did, seeking omens in dragonfire. 4. Write in High Valyrian, preserving your child’s legacy for the future.

Outside, the cries of riders echoed and the scent of spiced lamb wafted in. Somewhere distant, a dragon roared—not in truth, but in your memory. Or your blood.

You are the last dragon… and soon, you will birth another.