Game Of Thrones: Khal Pollo (GOT)

Pollo's unburnt hand reached out between them, an invitation hanging in the trembling air within the tent. "Together."

Daenerys looked at the hand, then into Pollo's eyes. In their depths, she saw no master's command, but the absolute certainty of a man who was remaking the world to his will. She had seen him slay a legend. She had witnessed his agonizing transformation. She had seen him prove his immunity to fire. Each impossible event had chipped away at the layers of fear and doubt within her, replacing them with something far more potent: a sense of inescapable destiny.

She was of the dragon's blood. And before her stood fire made flesh. The invitation was not a choice between yes or no. It was an affirmation of what she already felt deep in her soul.

Slowly, with a graceful, steady movement, Daenerys placed her hand over Pollo's. Their skin met, a deep, natural warmth flowing between them. It was a covenant. A vow made without words.

The sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange, purple, and blood-red. On the vast grasslands outside Pentos, an unprecedented spectacle was unfolding. Eighty thousand Dothraki warriors, the largest khalasar in history, had been called to assemble. They formed a silent sea of humanity, their horses snorting restlessly behind them. There was confusion and tension among them. Their new Khal, the war god who had united them, was not moving them for battle, but for a mysterious convocation.

In the center of that sea of warriors, a dark monument loomed against the twilight sky. A funeral pyre. It was no ordinary, hastily constructed pyre. It was a meticulously built pyramid, fashioned from the wood of broken ships, traded hardwoods, and all the wooden furnishings of Drogo's encampment. At its apex, three men high, Khal Drogo's body lay in state, wrapped in the finest stallion hides, his arakh resting on his chest.

Pollo, with Daenerys walking gracefully at his side, stepped forward to the front of the pyre. Their presence hushed the last murmurs of the crowd. Pollo's voice, amplified by his new strength, boomed across the grasslands, every word clear to even the farthest warrior.

"DOTHRAKI!" he roared, and the word itself sounded like thunder. "You follow strength! You have seen me crush your enemies! You have seen me shatter old legends and unite you into the greatest khalasar the world has ever seen!"

A rumble of affirmation rippled through the crowd.

"But there is a strength older than steel!" he continued, his voice rising. "Stronger than horses! A strength that flows in your Queen's blood! The strength of fire and blood!"

He gestured dramatically to the funeral pyre. "Tonight, we do not merely burn a dead Khal! We burn the old world! We burn your fear of the poisoned water that has kept you trapped in this land for generations! We burn the traditions that keep you divided and killing each other for foolish pride!"

He paused, letting his blasphemous words sink in. "Tonight, my Queen and I will show you what true power is! We will show you the rebirth of a dynasty!"

With those words, he and Daenerys walked together towards the pyre. Their movements were synchronized, a dance of power and grace. Before everyone's eyes, Pollo took the jet-black dragon egg from its silk chest. He climbed the first few steps of the pyre and reverently placed the egg near Drogo's heart. Then, he descended and made way for Daenerys.

Daenerys stepped forward. She took the bronze-green and golden-cream eggs. With regal composure, she too ascended the pyre and placed both eggs by Drogo's sides, completing the triptych of dormant life upon the bed of death. The act of sacrificing such priceless wealth caused murmurs of disbelief among the Dothraki.

It was then that Mirri Maz Duur was dragged forward by two burly warriors. She did not struggle. She walked with her head held high, her dark eyes burning with pure, unyielding hatred as she stared at Pollo.

Pollo approached her, his face not showing anger, but the calm of a judge delivering an inescapable sentence.

"Witch of Lhazar," he said. "You used blood magic to trade death for life, and you created only silence. You took a warrior and left me an empty shell." He paused. "Tonight, we use fire to trade death for true life. Your fate is to be fuel for a magic far greater and older than yours."

Mirri Maz Duur laughed, a raspy, hateful sound. "You are a fool if you think you can control fire, horseman! Fire cleanses! Fire devours! You have united a nation only to lead them to destruction! You and your dragon whore will burn with the rest of the world!"

Pollo did not reply. He merely gestured. The warriors bound her securely to a stake at the base of the pyre.

Then, Pollo took a flaming torch from a guard. He did not light the pyre himself. He turned and offered it to Daenerys. This was her choice. This was her past to burn. This was her future to be born.

Daenerys took the torch. Her hand was steady. She looked at the pyre, at Drogo's body. Then she looked at Pollo, who nodded at her once, a wordless affirmation. With a definitive, unhesitating motion, Daenerys touched the torch to the oil-soaked wood.

WHOOSH!

The pyre erupted into a colossal pillar of fire. Its roar was deafening, devouring the darkness and sending out waves of heat so intense that the thousands of Dothraki in the front ranks staggered backward, shielding their faces. The flames towered into the night sky, a blazing inferno that turned night into a terrible day. They stared in horror and awe, mouths agape, as the fire consumed everything, including Mirri Maz Duur's last, hateful screams.

In their astonishment, Pollo did the unthinkable.

He turned to face his awestruck khalasar. With a single motion, he ripped off his leather vest, casting it aside. His broad chest and sculpted abdomen were bare beneath the dancing firelight. Then, with unnatural serenity, with steady, deliberate steps, he turned and walked straight into the wall of burning fire.

A wave of shock and horrified shouts swept through the crowd. They had just witnessed their unconquered Khal walk into his own fiery demise. Garo, Vekho, and Qorro stepped forward instinctively, their faces pale with disbelief, but they halted, bound by the unspoken command of their lord.

Daenerys stood alone at the edge of the flames. The heat should have incinerated her skin, but instead, it felt like a warm embrace. She felt a calling from within the inferno, a silent song that drew her soul. It was the song of the unborn dragons. This was the last moment of her doubt. She was not commanded. She chose.

She began to walk forward. Her thin silk gown began to smoke, then burst into ash in a flash. She stepped through the curtain of fire, her naked body gleaming like a pearl in the heart of the inferno, and disappeared from view.

To the Dothraki, their god and goddess had stepped into the fire to die.

To Pollo and Daenerys, it was not pain. It was immense pressure, blinding light, and the roar of a purifying conflagration. The fire danced around them, licking at their skin but not burning it. They stood together in the heart of the firestorm, the world outside them vanished. They watched Drogo's body turn to ash in an instant. They watched the dragon eggs begin to violently tremble amidst the embers.

The stone-hard shells began to crack. Brilliant light shone from the fissures. They heard the first cracking sounds, loud as thunder, followed by the first piercing shriek of new life struggling to emerge from its stone prison.

Throughout the rest of the night, the khalasar waited in sacred silence. No one slept. No one spoke. They simply stood or knelt, eighty thousand pairs of eyes fixed on the pyre that slowly burned down to a monstrous, pulsing mountain of embers.

As the first pale light of dawn touched the ashes, the smoke began to thin. The air felt clean and new. And in the morning silence, there was movement in the center of the still fiercely hot embers.

A figure rose from the ashes.

Pollo stepped out of the remnants of the pyre. His skin was coated in black soot, making him appear like an ancient god carved from obsidian. But he was utterly unburnt. His mighty figure, illuminated by the first light of dawn, seemed larger than life.

At his sight, an unspoken wave of adoration swept through the khalasar. Eighty thousand Dothraki warriors fell to their knees as one, pressing their faces to the cold ground in utter subservience.

Then, Daenerys emerged from the fire, walking gracefully to stand by his side. Her long, silver-gold hair, the only clean thing about her, was a sharp contrast to the grey ash that covered her body. She too was unblemished, her skin glowing in the morning light.

And upon them, there was new life.

Clinging to Pollo's broad shoulder, its sharp, tiny claws gripping his trapezius muscle, was a dragon. Its scales were as black as a starless night, with streaks of blood-red on its horns and wing bones. It unfurled its bat-like wings, already as wide as a man's arm, and let out a piercing shriek that cut through the dawn silence. It was the sound of reborn magic, a challenge to the world. Drogon.

Upon Daenerys' slender shoulders, balancing themselves with reptilian grace, were the other two dragons. One was bronze-green, its eyes glowing like molten bronze. Rhaegal. The other was pale cream with golden highlights, its horns and claws shimmering like pure gold. Viserion.

Pollo and Daenerys stood together, naked, unburnt, and crowned by living dragons. The Dothraki warriors did not dare to raise their heads. They no longer followed a powerful Khal. They now worshipped living gods and goddesses of fire.

Pollo felt Drogon's hungry mind through their new bond, a connection deeper than words. It was a hunger for the sky, for burnt flesh, for conquest. It was a perfect reflection of his own hunger. He looked out at the kneeling sea of his followers, an empire forged in a single night of fire.

"Now," he said, and his voice carried a new, undeniable authority, a promise of coming war and glory. "The real work begins."