Game Of Thrones: Khal Pollo (GOT)

The words hung in the trembling air between them, heavier than the scent of blood and dust. "You are mine."

Daenerys Targaryen stared at the man who had slain her intended husband. She should have been horrified. She should have trembled in fear. A part of her was. A thin layer beneath her skin felt cold, a primal reaction to the violence she had just witnessed. Khal Drogo's broken body lay just paces from her, a legend reduced to shattered flesh and bone.

But beneath the horror, there was something else. Something strange and bewildering that churned in her gut. It was not relief. Nor was it joy. It was a cold sense of abruptness, a terrifying recognition that the wheels of fate that had ground her life since birth had just been utterly crushed and remade before her eyes. She had been sold to Drogo like a horse, a sacrifice for her brother's ambition. This man had not bought her. He had not bid for her. He had come and taken her, as if it were his undisputed right.

She looked past Pollo, to the chaos erupting around them. It was not the disorganized mass brawl of a collapsing khalasar. It was something else. It was an organized annihilation.

And then, the explosion of simultaneous action, as if Drogo's death was the keystone that unleashed a calculated avalanche.

Across the field, Vekho, the silent giant, became the embodiment of a war god's fury. Cohollo, Qotho, and Haggo, Drogo's Bloodriders, had finally recovered from their shock. Heart-wrenching roars of grief and rage tore from their throats as they charged Vekho simultaneously, their arakhs hungry for vengeance. They were the three greatest warriors in Drogo's khalasar, each a legend in his own right. Together, they should have been an unstoppable force.

They met Vekho in a deafening clang of steel. The fight was brutal and unforgiving. Cohollo, the oldest and most cunning, tried to flank him. Qotho, the swiftest, struck from the front, his arakh a blur. Haggo, the strongest, swung his weapon with force that could split a horse in two.

Vekho did not attempt to match their speed or cunning. He was a fortress of flesh and bone. He took wounds. A shallow cut from Cohollo scored his shoulder. The tip of Qotho's arakh sliced his arm. But he did not falter. He ignored the pain, his cold eyes focused on his objective.

He slammed his shoulder into Qotho, sending the smaller man flying backward with a sickening crunch of ribs. Without pause, he spun, his massive arakh swinging in a terrible horizontal arc. Haggo tried to parry, but the force behind the swing was too great. Steel met steel, and Haggo's arakh shattered into pieces. Before Haggo could react, Vekho's second swing cleaved through his neck, nearly severing his head.

Cohollo, the last one, stared in horror for a fleeting moment before charging with a desperate yell. Vekho met him. He did not use his weapon. He dropped his blood-soaked arakh, caught Cohollo's wrist with one hand, and with the other, he gripped the veteran warrior's face. There was a wet, sickening crunch as he crushed Cohollo's skull with raw power. Three legends. Three deaths. In less than a minute. Vekho's mission was complete.

Meanwhile, on the camp's periphery, the hunt was on. Qorro and his light horse moved like a pack of shadow wolves. They did not engage in pitched battles. They were assassins. They saw their targets, the panicked Ko of Drogo's khalasar attempting to rally their followers.

Jhaqo, ever arrogant and ambitious, managed to gather about fifty warriors. He was shouting, trying to form them into a defensive unit, dreaming of escaping and carving out his own khalasar from these ashes. That was when the first arrow struck his throat, silencing his words forever. Qorro's riders emerged from the dust and smoke, their bows singing in unison. They rained arrows down on Jhaqo's small group, killing the aspiring leaders before their rebellion could even begin. Throughout the camp, similar scenes repeated. Drogo's Ko were hunted down and slain with ruthless efficiency. The hope of successor khalasars was extinguished before their flames could even ignite.

In the heart of the chaos, Garo and his core force advanced like a disciplined steel wedge. They ignored the sporadic fighting around them. Their objective was singular. They reached the Targaryen silk pavilion and formed an impenetrable wall of shields around it. Illyrio's Unsullied, seeing that the force was not attacking but securing, maintained their positions in a tense standoff. They were professionals, and they recognized another professional's moves. Garo wasted no time on them. He left a small contingent of his force to guard the pavilion and led the rest towards Drogo's main tent.

From her vantage point on the platform, Daenerys watched all of this with wide eyes. She saw a typical Dothraki warrior from Drogo's khalasar, his face a mask of confusion and fear. His Khal was dead. His Bloodriders, their pillars of strength, were butchered. His Ko, their aspiring leaders, were being hunted like animals. He looked up, to Drogo's banner, a fiery red stallion on a golden sand field, still proudly flying above the main tent. It was the only remaining symbol of authority, the sole hope in this sea of despair.

Then, she saw Garo and his men reach the tent.

Garo himself scrambled up the rough banner pole. With a single powerful slash of his arakh, he cut the ropes. Khal Drogo's mighty banner, the symbol of an unconquered reign, fell limply to the ground like a dirty rag.

For an eternal moment, no banner flew above the khalasar. There was a void. A pause in history.

Then, from below, a warrior tossed another banner up. Garo caught it and with a mighty gesture, he unfurled it. Khal Pollo's banner rose into the morning sky. A jet-black stallion on a blood-red field, a promise of night and violence.

As the new banner snapped in the wind, something invisible broke on the battlefield. The remaining resistance collapsed. Drogo's warriors, now leaderless, hopeless, and without a symbol, stared at the new banner. They saw the discipline of Pollo's force, which had not indiscriminately massacred but systematically eliminated their leadership. They were presented with a simple choice that even the most primitive mind could grasp: die futilely for a dead Khal, or kneel before this new, undeniable power.

One by one, then in groups, then in vast waves, Khal Drogo's warriors began to drop their arakhs to the dusty ground. They knelt, their heads bowed. The sounds of battle subsided, replaced by the clatter of thousands of pieces of falling steel and the collective sigh of a nation surrendering.

Pollo, who had witnessed it all from the platform, finally turned his attention back inward. The chaos had subsided into a brutal order. Drogo's empire had collapsed and been absorbed in mere minutes.

That was when Viserys, her brother, finally found his voice. After being frozen in horror, his delusional greed and arrogance finally won out.

"You cannot do this!" he shrieked, his voice high and unstable. He pointed at Daenerys with a trembling finger. "She is mine to give! The army is mine! I am the dragon! I am the King!"

Pollo did not even turn to look at him. His contempt was so complete it felt like a physical blow. He spoke calmly, his voice barely louder than a whisper, but in the newly formed silence, his words rang clear.

"Garo," he said.

The veteran, who had just descended from the main tent, approached. "Khal?"

"Break both his arms and leave him in the grasslands. If he is strong enough to survive, he can follow us as a slave. If not, the wolves will feast tonight."

The brutality of the command made even the nearest Dothraki flinch. It was worse than a clean execution. It was total disposal. It was a statement that Viserys Targaryen no longer mattered, not even enough to kill.

"No! You cannot!" Viserys shrieked as two burly warriors seized him. "I am your King!" His shouts turned into a horrific shriek of agony as Garo swiftly and emotionlessly carried out the order. There were two sharp, wet snapping sounds. They dragged him away, leaving a trail in the dust.

Pollo now gave his full attention to Daenerys. He observed her reaction to her brother's fate. There were no tears. No horror. Only a cold stillness and a vacant stare in her violet eyes. It was as if the last chain binding her to her miserable past had just been broken.

Pollo's eyes then fell on the wedding gift lying on a silk cushion nearby. Three dragon eggs. One was pale cream with golden streaks. One was pale green with bronze flecks. And another was black like a midnight sea, with swirls and ripples of blood-red.

He approached her. He extended his large, blood-smeared hand, his thick fingers gently brushing the surface of the black egg.

He expected it to feel cold, hard as stone. But it was not.

As his fingertip touched the scaly surface, he felt a faint warmth. A barely perceptible throb of life, like the heart of a tiny sleeping bird. He raised his eyes and looked at Daenerys, and for the first time, he saw a flash of clear understanding in her eyes. She felt it too.

"You are my Queen now," Pollo said, his voice softer than before, but no less demanding. "And these are our wedding gifts." He gestured to two of his own most trusted warriors. "Bring the Khaleesi to my tent. Drogo's tent. See that she is comfortable."

Pollo stood alone on the platform as the morning sun rose higher, illuminating the scene of his total conquest. Eighty thousand Dothraki, the largest khalasar in Essos history, now knelt before him in a sea of dust and blood. His black stallion banner proudly flew over the vast encampment. He had slain a legend, decapitated the leadership of a nation, and united them under his will in a single morning.

He felt the power surging through him, not just the physical power of his new body, but the collective strength of eighty thousand souls who were now his to command. He glanced towards the main tent that was now his, where his new Queen awaited him. He knew, with a primal certainty, that the first intimacy with her would trigger the most important gift. The gift promised by that mad cat god. The gift that would transform him from merely superhuman into something more. Something worthy of conquering the world.

He held Drogo's arakh in one hand and felt the faint echo of the dragon eggs' warmth in his mind. The Grass Sea had been conquered.

Now, he looked west, towards the glittering sea, and beyond it, an entirely new continent awaited.

The real game was just about to begin.