Game Of Thrones: Khal Pollo (GOT)

Outside, the rumble of eighty thousand newly united Dothraki had settled into an ordered murmur, a nation awaiting the command of their new war god. Inside the vast main tent, now Khal Pollo's, the silence was so heavy it almost had physical weight. The air was thick with the scents of tanned leather, Myrish silk, and the lingering residue of spilled wine, the legacy of its previous occupant. But beneath it all, there was another sharp, unmistakable aroma: the smell of drying blood and brutal victory.

Daenerys Targaryen stood in the center of the space, a pale figure in her wedding silk gown that now seemed like a shroud. Her handmaidens, who had previously hovered around her like a frightened flock of birds, had been dismissed with a single, sharp glance from the new Khal. Now she was alone with him, surrounded by the opulence of Drogo's spoils. Upon a large, carved wooden chest, the three dragon eggs lay like jewels, their scaled surfaces seeming to absorb the dim light from the braziers.

Pollo entered the tent, sweeping aside the heavy leather flap with an easy motion. His presence immediately dominated the space, making the immense tent feel cramped. He had cleansed Drogo's blood from his skin, but the aura of battle and death still clung to him, an invisible cloak of raw violence. He was bare-chested, the muscles in his chest and abdomen appearing as if sculpted from stone under the flickering firelight.

He did not speak. He did not need to. His eyes fixed on her, a possessive, appraising gaze that made her feel like a specimen on display. He saw every detail, from her unbound silver-gold hair to the tiny tremor she could not hide in her hands.

Daenerys lifted her chin. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry or beg. She was of the old Valyrian dragon blood. She had survived her brother. She had survived her forced marriage. She would survive this. Her violet eyes met his, a burning spark of defiance amidst the sea of despair.

Pollo saw the defiance, and a faint smile touched his lips. He advanced, his movements deliberate and inexorable as the tide. Every step was an assertion of power. He stopped directly in front of her, towering over her. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the lingering scent of sweat and horse on him.

"You look at me as if you have a choice," Pollo said, his voice deep and raspy, a low vibration that seemed to make the air between them tremble.

Before Daenerys could reply, Pollo's hand shot out, clamping around her jaw. His grip was firm, unyielding, his calloused fingers pressing into her soft skin. He forced her face upwards, her eyes locked on his.

"There is no choice," Pollo whispered.

Pollo's mouth crashed down on hers. It was not a kiss. It was a conquest, a claim of ownership. Rough, demanding, and utterly devoid of tenderness. His teeth bit into Daenerys' lower lip, just hard enough to draw a tiny bead of blood that tasted salty and metallic on her tongue. She struggled, her hands pushing against his solid chest, but it was like pushing against a stone wall. A muffled moan of defiance escaped her throat, to which Pollo responded only with a grunt of satisfaction.

Pollo's other hand clamped the back of Daenerys' neck, his fingers tangling in her silver hair, pulling her head back, exposing her pale throat. Pollo's lips left Daenerys' mouth and moved downwards, leaving a trail of heat on her skin. Daenerys gasped as Pollo's hot mouth closed over Daenerys' pulse, Pollo's teeth gently scraping, a promise of restrained violence.

"Mine," Pollo growled into her skin.

With one powerful motion, Pollo lifted her from the floor as if she weighed nothing at all. Daenerys cried out in surprise as he scooped her into his arms and carried her towards the great mound of furs and silks in the center of the room, the Khal's bed. He tossed her onto it without ceremony.

Daenerys landed on the soft surface, her breath catching. She tried to scramble up, to crawl away, but Pollo was already on top of her, his heavy body pressing hers down, pinning her. She could feel every hard muscle of his body pressing into hers, his heat burning through her silk gown.

"Look at me," Pollo commanded.

Daenerys turned her face away, refusing. Pollo's grip on her jaw tightened again, forcing her to face him. His eyes burned with a primal intensity. This was not ordinary lust. This was a conqueror's hunger.

Pollo ripped her silk wedding gown from top to bottom with a single savage motion. The fabric tore with a loud ripping sound, leaving her naked and vulnerable beneath his gaze. The cool night air struck her skin, making her shiver.

"AAH!" Daenerys shrieked as Pollo's rough hand seized her breast, squeezing it with a force that was somewhere between pain and pleasure. His other fingers moved downwards, across her flat stomach, and then lower still, unhesitatingly entering the wetness between her thighs.

She bucked violently, her body arching. Her resistance began to falter, replaced by a physical response she could not control. She hated him for it. She hated herself for it.

"Please..." she whispered, the word escaping inadvertently.

"Begging?" Pollo growled, his lips against her ear. "Good."

He roughly flipped Daenerys over, pushing her face down onto the furs. He pulled her hips upwards, positioning her. Daenerys could hear the rustle of leather as Pollo unfastened his breeches. She closed her eyes, holding her breath, bracing herself.

What came next was not what she expected. It was far larger, far more forceful. She screamed as Pollo entered her from behind, a cry that was a mixture of pain, shock, and something else, something deeper. It felt as if she were being split in two. The force behind him felt unnatural, inhuman.

Pollo gave her no time to adjust. He began to move, his thrusts powerful, deep, and relentless. Each impact sent shockwaves through Daenerys' entire body, causing her breath to escape in ragged gasps. The pile of furs beneath them creaked in time with the brutal rhythm.

"Open your eyes," Pollo commanded. Daenerys opened her eyes, seeing the blurred weave of silk before her. Pollo's hands gripped her hips, his fingertips leaving red marks on her pale skin.

"Ah... ah... ah..." The sounds escaped her unbidden, small, uncontrolled moans as her body began to betray her mind. The sensation was too intense, too overwhelming. The initial pain faded, replaced by a burning, abrasive friction.

Pollo pulled back abruptly, leaving Daenerys gasping and trembling. He flipped her over again, pushing her onto her back. He loomed over her, sweat glistening on his body, his eyes burning. He seized both her wrists and pinned them above her head with one hand, fully immobilizing her. With his other hand, he caressed her face, his thumb tracing the bite mark on her lip.

"You were made for this," Pollo whispered. "Made for me."

He entered her again, this time from the front. Daenerys moaned, her legs instinctively wrapping around Pollo's waist, attempting to control the onslaught, trying to find some purchase amidst the storm. Their rhythm grew faster, more savage. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh, wet and hard, filled the tent.

"Pollo..." she gasped, his name a cry, a surrender.

A low, deep growl tore from Pollo's chest. She could feel it vibrating through her entire body. She felt the muscles in his back and arms tense like steel.

He felt something building within him, something hot and unstoppable. He felt the climax approaching, not as a gentle release, but as an explosion.

As the overwhelming wave of pleasure hit him, making his body convulse and his back arch from the furs, Pollo let out a roar. It was not a roar of triumph or pleasure. It was a roar of pure agony.

That was when the transformation began.

For Pollo, it began as fire. A searing, burning sensation coursed through every vein, as if his very blood had ignited. It felt like molten lava being pumped through his heart. His muscles spasmed violently, locking into painful convulsions. He roared again, this time his voice cracking with torment as his body began to be reforged from within. He could feel his bones creaking, elongating, and fusing back together, becoming denser and stronger. His skin felt as if it were burning from the inside out.

For Daenerys, it was a sight from a nightmare. The man on top of her, who moments ago was the embodiment of primal power, now convulsed in unimaginable agony. A dim, reddish-gold light began to emanate from beneath his skin, illuminating his tensed muscles with an unnatural glow. The faint scars on his chest, remnants of the cat god ritual she knew nothing of, now glowed like living embers. The air within the tent grew hot and charged, smelling of ozone after a lightning strike.

She struggled to free herself, but Pollo's grip on her wrists, even in his torment, was steel.

As Pollo's transformation reached its painful climax, the three dragon eggs on the chest began to react.

They trembled gently at first, then more violently, as if something alive within them was awakening. The golden streaks on the cream-colored egg began to shimmer with a soft, golden light. The bronze flecks on the green egg flickered like embers. And the blood-red swirls on the jet-black egg pulsed with a deep crimson glow, in sync with her own pounding heartbeat.

The transformation ceased as abruptly as it began.

The light faded. The convulsions stopped. Pollo's roar subsided into a deep groan. He collapsed, his mighty body utterly drained. His breathing was heavy and ragged. He fell to his side, releasing Daenerys, and lay unconscious on the furs, completely helpless for the first time.

Daenerys was left alone in the sudden silence, her breath escaping in trembling sobs. She stared at the unconscious man beside her. She was no longer just a captive of a powerful Khal. She was now bound to something else. Something supernatural. Something terrifying and powerful beyond her comprehension.

With hesitant movements, she crawled away. She did not flee the tent. Something held her. Instead, she moved towards the chest where the eggs lay. The trembling had stopped, but there was something different about them now. A faint aura of life.

She reached out a trembling hand, not towards Pollo, but towards the darkest, most terrifying black egg. As her fingers brushed its scaled surface, she gasped.

It was warm. Terribly warm, like a stone that had baked in the sun all day.

And from within, she felt, or perhaps only imagined, a faint answering thrum, a sleeping life responding to the magic that had just been unleashed within the room.

A new dawn had arrived, not only for Khal Pollo, but for the Mother of Dragons as well.