A/N: Prompt word: Strings.
01x09, 'Baelor'
Khal Drogo is beyond help.
But Daenerys isn't. And, gods willing, neither is her child. Jorah doesn't want to be responsible for anything happening to them.
Something dances in the tent. Demonic noises issue from within its depths. Mayhaps Qotho was right after all, and Mirri Maz Duur was a witch rather than a healer. He doesn't want to go in there.
But the midwives won't come. Even Rakharo can't be convinced to fetch them. They think her mad to dabble in something so dangerous.
She should have let Drogo go.
But she loves him. And Jorah knows something about the madness of love.
He carries her into the tent, afraid of what he'll see.
Demons, shadows, hell...
A blood bath, a dead horse, and Khal Drogo lying prostrate. All tricks and lies after all.
Or perhaps not. Mirri Maz Duur stops singing and turns those dark eyes on him. Sinister.
"I said no one could enter."
He doesn't have time to dwell on it. "The baby is coming."
There's a gleam in her eyes. Daenerys groans, barely cognizant. Jorah shushes her gently.
"Help her."
She indicates the furs in the corner. "Lay her there. Ensure no one else enters."
Jorah does as he's bid. He doesn't want to leave her alone, but he won't be any use to her. He brushes a strand of her silver-blonde hair away from her face, pushes himself back to his feet, and heads for the tent's entrance.
He stands stationary with his hand on the hilt of his sword, blood flecked across his face and trickling down his neck.
The screams go on and on. The shadows dance.
And then, nothing. Terrible silence.
Jorah strains to hear Rhaego's cries.
Mirri Maz Durr appears at the flap of the tent.
"Come," she says to Irri. After a moment's hesitation, a deer ready to skitter, she does so.
More silence.
And then Irri screams.
Jorah whips around, already drawing his sword, but Irri is not in danger; she reappears, the colour drained from her face, a ghost.
"Monster," she says.
His hopes snap like thread.