Game Of Thrones: Khal Pollo (GOT)

Consciousness returned not as waking from sleep. It was a coming tide.

At first, there was only sensation. A deep, constant warmth that pulsed in every vein, as if controlled liquid fire now coursed where blood once had. The tearing agony of the transformation was gone, replaced by a feeling of calm, immense strength, an energy that vibrated at the core of every cell. His body felt the same, yet fundamentally different, like a piece of steel that had been forged, quenched, and hammered again until it was harder, lighter, and infinitely more deadly.

Then came the sound.

Not the chaotic murmur of the outside world, but a symphony of clear, distinct details. He could hear the rapid, rhythmic beat of a heart across the room, a nervous yet steady cadence. Daenerys. He could hear the low hiss of the fire in the bronze brazier, each tiny pop of wood sounding like the snap of a twig. Outside the tent, he could hear the murmur of his guards, their whispered words clear as if they stood beside him. He could even hear the restless snorts of horses a hundred yards away, and the creak of saddle leather as a guard shifted his weight. His world, already sharp, had become exquisitely clear.

Then came the smell. No longer an overwhelming mixture of odors, but layers of scent he could separate and identify. The sharp tang of distant Narrow Sea salt. The faint aroma of ozone, a residue of magical discharge. The sweet scent of spilled wine on the rugs. And beneath it all, the strangest, most captivating smell. The scent of sun-heated stone, of sulfur, and of something as ancient as the earth itself. It emanated from the three dragon eggs.

And finally, the new sense awoke.

It was not sound or sight. It was a presence within his mind. Three dormant points of consciousness, three sparks of life pulsing in a deep, dreamless darkness. He did not see them. He felt them. He could perceive their faint dreams of endless skies and scorched prey. He knew, with a primal, undeniable certainty, that he was connected to them. They were a part of him now, and he a part of them.

Pollo opened his eyes.

Daenerys gasped. She had been standing near the carved chest, her hand hovering over the black egg, ever since the man had collapsed. She had watched him through the remainder of the night, observing his deep, regular breathing, seeing the reddish-gold glow beneath his skin slowly fade back to normal coloration. Her fear had receded, replaced by a terrifying awe and boundless curiosity.

As Pollo's eyes opened, Daenerys saw the difference immediately. They were still the same dark color, but there was a flicker within them, like embers burning in dark depths.

Pollo sat up in one fluid motion, without dizziness or weakness. He rolled his neck, feeling the satisfying crackle as his newly forged muscles stretched. The exhaustion of the transformation had completely vanished. He felt as if he could run a hundred miles or fight a hundred battles.

He looked at Daenerys. She was no longer cowering in a corner, nor was she staring at him with burning defiance. She stood tall, her violet eyes wide with unasked questions. And in her hand, she held a clay cup of water.

Without a word, Daenerys walked over and offered it to him. It was a small gesture, but in the silence of the tent, it felt like an earthquake. Their dynamic had shifted.

Pollo took the cup, his fingers brushing hers for a brief moment. Her skin felt strangely warm. He drank the water in a single gulp, the cool liquid feeling odd in his throat which felt as though it had just swallowed fire.

"What..." Daenerys began, her voice a slight tremble, but not of fear. "What happened to you?"

Pollo looked at his own hands, clenching them into fists and then unclenching them. He could feel the new power pulsing within them, a strength that felt infinitely greater than before. "I was reforged," he said, his voice deep and resonant.

"The fire..." Daenerys whispered. "I saw it. Inside you."

"I felt it," Pollo replied. His gaze shifted to the three eggs on the chest. "Just as I feel them."

Daenerys' eyes widened. "You can too?" She took a step closer, her sudden excitement overriding her caution. "I thought I was just imagining it. A warmth. A tremor. Ever since... ever since whatever happened to you. They feel more alive."

"They are alive," Pollo stated. It was not a guess. It was a fact. "They are waiting."

This was their first real conversation. Not a Khal's command to his captive, not a conqueror's threat to the conquered. It was an exchange between two people who had witnessed something impossible together. It was their shared secret, a foundation beginning to form on ashes.

Pollo rose. He needed to know. He felt the immunity to heat coursing in his new blood, but his human consciousness, the remnants of Thomas Vance, demanded proof. He walked to the brazier in the center of the tent. A few charcoal embers from the night's fire still glowed bright red, emitting waves of heat that would make an ordinary man recoil.

"What are you doing?" Daenerys asked, her tone anxious.

Pollo did not reply. Before Daenerys' wide, horrified eyes, he calmly reached into the embers. He picked up a handful of glowing coals, black and red pieces that shimmered with intense heat, and held them in his bare palm.

Daenerys gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth to stifle a scream. She expected the hiss of burning flesh, the terrible smell of charring.

Nothing.

Pollo's skin did not blister. It did not even redden. The coals simply lay in his palm as if they were ordinary river stones warmed by the sun. Their intense heat had no effect on him whatsoever. He stared at them with a deep, confirming gaze, then slowly opened his hand and let them fall back into the brazier with a soft clink.

He held up his unblemished hand and showed it to Daenerys. No scars. No marks.

For Daenerys, this was a moment of revelation. She had heard the stories of her ancestors, the dragonriders of ancient Valyria. The blood of the dragon. Immune to heat. She had always dismissed it as legend, a metaphor for their fiery temperaments. But this was real. This man, this barbaric Khal, had proven the legend true. He was not just a powerful Khal. He was fire made flesh. He was her kin, not by lineage, but by magic. Her fear began to dissolve, replaced by an overwhelming, terrifying sense of destiny.

It was then that a guard outside the tent announced the arrival of Magister Illyrio Mopatis.

Illyrio bustled into the tent, his fat face sweating from exertion. He wore the same unctuous smile he always did, the air of a puppet master come to check on his dolls. Behind him, several slaves carried chests of silks and jewels, and behind them, two young girls stood with bowed heads.

"Congratulations on your magnificent victory, Khal Pollo!" Illyrio boomed, his oily voice filling the tent. "News of Drogo's demise has already spread throughout Pentos! Now, as to our plans for Viserys' army..."

Pollo cut him off. Not with a shout, but with a deadly calm voice that made Illyrio halt mid-sentence.

"Viserys is already wolf meat," Pollo stated. "Your plans died with him."

Pollo took a step towards Illyrio, towering over the portly man. Illyrio took a nervous step back, his smile faltering as he felt the cold intensity radiating from the Khal.

"Listen well, Magister," Pollo continued, his voice low. "There is no 'our plans'. There is only my plan. This khalasar is mine. This Queen," he said, gesturing to Daenerys with his chin, "is mine. And the dragons that will soon be born are also mine."

Illyrio's eyes darted towards the eggs, then back to Pollo, confusion and fear warring on his face.

"You are no longer an ally," Pollo stated, each word delivered with heavy emphasis. "You are my quartermaster. You will use your vast wealth to help me build the greatest fleet the world has ever seen. You will feed my army, and you will pay the shipwrights. In return," Pollo paused, leaning in slightly so his face was inches from Illyrio's. "I will not turn Pentos into a pile of ashes."

Illyrio's face went chalk white. His smile vanished completely. He looked into Pollo's eyes and did not see a barbarian who could be bought with gifts. He saw a tyrant with supernatural power at his back, a conqueror who spoke of fleets and empires, not just plunder. He saw the end of his game.

Illyrio bowed deeply, his large belly making the gesture awkward. "As you command... my lord."

After Illyrio scurried away, abandoning his gifts, Pollo looked at the two girls left behind. One was a young Dothraki girl with wary eyes. The other was a Lysene woman with honey-blonde hair and pale skin, her beauty appearing fragile amongst the Dothraki.

Something in Thomas Vance's faint memory whispered to him. He felt a tug, a premonition.

"What is your name?" he asked the Dothraki girl.

"Irri, Khal," she replied, her voice trembling.

"You will serve the Khaleesi," Pollo said. Then he turned to the Lysene woman. "And you?"

"Doreah, my lord," she said, her voice soft as silk.

"You," Pollo said, "stay."

That night, after Daenerys had retreated to her private section of the vast tent with her new handmaiden, Pollo summoned Doreah. The scene was a stark contrast to the previous night. This was not about passion or domination. This was an experiment.

Doreah, trained in the arts of pleasure in the brothels of Lys, approached him without fear. She performed her duties with the skill of a craftswoman, her body a perfectly honed instrument. Pollo received her with cold detachment. He was a scientist testing a hypothesis. His mind was not on pleasure, but on the trigger, on the system the cat god had described.

The scene was swift and efficient, devoid of emotion. As the climax approached, Pollo felt a different sensation. Not the painful transformation, but a brief, cool flash of energy coursing through him.

When it was over, Doreah lay still, awaiting further instruction. Pollo paid her no mind. He stared at his palm. There, nestled a small, cool object that had not been there before.

It was a tiny silver coin, no larger than his thumbnail. On one side, it was etched with a split tongue. On the other, an ear. He understood its function instantly, a knowledge implanted directly into his mind. A Coin of Persuasion. If shown to someone during a negotiation, it would make them far more agreeable to his point of view. It could only be used once.

He dismissed Doreah. Moments later, Daenerys emerged from behind the curtain, her face unreadable.

"What was that?" she asked, her voice calm, gesturing towards the entrance where Doreah had just disappeared. Her eyes showed no jealousy, but rather the keen curiosity of a chess player trying to understand her opponent's move.

Pollo looked from the coin in his hand to Daenerys. "Acquiring a tool," he replied succinctly, slipping the coin into a leather pouch on his belt. He had no intention of elaborating further, maintaining his aura of mystery.

He then softened his gaze. He saw Daenerys, not as a captive, not as a Queen, but as the only other person in the world who could comprehend what was about to happen next.

"Tools are useful," he stated. "But the real power..." his eyes shifted to the three dragon eggs that seemed to pulse with faint life in the brazier light, "...is with us."

Pollo extended his hand, his unburnt palm facing upwards. It was not a conqueror's command. It was an invitation.

"The Dothraki follow strength. They have seen my strength. Now, they must see our strength. They must witness the return of dragons to this world. Together."