Game Of Thrones: Khal Pollo (GOT)

Weeks passed beneath the endless Essos sky. The supernatural euphoria of the night of fire and dragon birth slowly faded, replaced by a harsh, undeniable reality. Magic could conquer human souls, but it could not fill their bellies. And the belly of the largest khalasar in history was an insatiable maw.

The view from the hilltop near the camp had changed. The tent city that once pulsed with the energy of victory was now shrouded in a barely perceptible veil of tension. The horses, the pride and soul of every Dothraki warrior, looked thinner, their ribs beginning to show beneath glistening hides. The smoke from the campfires no longer carried the rich scent of roasted lamb, but the meager odor of thin soups boiled from roots and scraps. The laughter that once echoed among the tents was now replaced by a lower, sharper murmur.

Hunger was a silent enemy, a wolf stalking the camp's periphery, and Pollo could feel it in the air.

On the morning of the third week, Garo requested an audience. He did not come alone. Vekho and Qorro followed him into the command tent, their stern faces showing genuine concern. They were the pillars of his power, and if they were worried, it meant the problem was real.

"Khal," Garo began, his raspy voice heavy with respect, but not concealing his urgency. "The gods have blessed us with dragons, but the earth is not so generous. The fields around Pentos have been stripped bare like gnawed bones. The rivers have been drunk almost dry. Our horses consume the grass faster than it grows back."

He paused, his old eyes meeting Pollo's. "The warriors are restless, Khal. They are Dothraki. They were born to ride and fight, not to queue for rations. An empty belly is a war drum you cannot ignore."

Several of the Ko who had been called to join the council nodded in agreement, their murmurs confirming Garo's words. One of them, a burly man named Rakhar who had once been a commander under Khal Onqo, stepped forward.

"We must ride east, Khal!" he exclaimed, voicing the sentiment of many. "Back to the Grass Sea! The lamb cities of Lhazar are full of livestock and grain. We can plunder for a year and still leave them enough to weep!"

"Or we demand more from the Magisters of Pentos!" another interjected. "They hide their wealth behind walls. Let them starve to feed their conquerors!"

It was the Dothraki solution. Simple, brutal, and ultimately, foolish.

Pollo stood before a large map of Essos, now much more detailed thanks to the tireless scouting of Qorro's men. He listened to every word, his face an unreadable mask of serenity. When they finished, silence filled the tent.

"To ride east is to retreat," he said, his voice calm yet cutting like broken glass, silencing the raiding faction instantly. "It is to admit that we cannot survive here. It is weakness. And I do not tolerate weakness."

He turned to the Ko who suggested squeezing Pentos. "And Pentos," he continued, tapping the city on the map with his finger. "Is a milk cow. You do not slaughter the cow that gives you milk. If we bleed them dry, we will all die of thirst in a few months. To demand more than they can give is folly."

His commanders fell silent, frustrated. They were fighters, masters of the killing art. They were not masters of the art of survival. They had reached the limit of their strategic thinking, and they saw no other way out.

Pollo paced before the map, his accelerated mind processing countless variables. Population, daily consumption, grassland regeneration rates, harvest yields, caravan routes. The problem was immense. He could feel the pressure of eighty thousand lives depending on him. For the first time since his rebirth, he faced an enemy he could not simply punch to death.

It was then that a calm voice broke the stalemate.

"Magister Illyrio did not grow rich by taking everything at once."

All eyes in the tent turned to the corner, where Daenerys sat, observing the council in silence. She was no longer dressed in her torn wedding silks, but in practical Dothraki garb of dyed leather, her silver-gold hair intricately braided. On her shoulder, Viserion, the golden-cream dragon, slept curled like a contented cat.

She rose and stepped into the light, her movements graceful and self-assured. The burly Ko instinctively made way for her.

"He grew rich," Daenerys continued, her eyes fixed on Pollo, "by controlling the flow. He did not own the sheep farms, but he controlled the wool markets. He did not mine the gold, but he controlled the ships that carried it from one port to another."

She arrived before the map, her slender finger tracing lines that represented roads and rivers. "It is not merely this village. But the road that connects it to the river. And the boat that carries its grain to other cities. Control the bridge here," she said, tapping a strategic point. "And you control all the villages along that river without having to burn a single one."

Pollo's first instinct, the pride of a Khal who had conquered everything with force, was to reject advice about trade.

But then his superior logic, reforged and strengthened, took over. He saw it. Not just the idea. He saw the larger picture, a conceptual leap from random predation to systematic economic dominance. It was brilliant. Simple yet profoundly insightful. It was the key to transforming his khalasar from a plague into an empire.

He looked at Daenerys with a new expression, one of genuine admiration.

He turned to face his commanders, who were still staring at Daenerys in bewildered silence.

"The Queen speaks wisely," Pollo stated, his voice authoritative, leaving no room for debate. "From this day forward, we are no longer merely raiders. We will be harvesters. We will be gatekeepers. We will be masters of this land, not merely its scourge."

Orders poured from his mouth with astonishing speed and precision, translating Daenerys' concept into actionable military strategy.

"Qorro!" he roared. "I want you and all your scouts to spread out like a net. I do not want you looking for enemies. I want you looking for resources! Map every farm, every granary, every village, every caravan route within a hundred miles of here. I want to know where every sack of grain and every flock of sheep is!"

"Vekho!" he continued. "Take your heavy cavalry. You will not raid. You will occupy. I want our banner flying over every key bridge, every major crossroads, and every river port. Build watch posts. Control the arteries of this land. Nothing moves without our leave!"

"Garo!" he finally addressed his veteran. "You and your men will be the tax collectors. You will visit every village and every landholder. You will explain the new 'Khal's Tax'. One-fifth of all they produce. Grain, livestock, goods. They will pay it gladly, for the alternative is fire and blood. Make sure they understand that."

His commanders, previously bewildered, now had a new purpose. This was a strange and alien type of warfare, but it was an order from their fire-walking god. They rushed out of the tent, shouting commands, and within hours, the previously dormant khalasar transformed into an efficient machine of occupation.

It was a profound culture shock for the Dothraki warriors. They, who prided themselves on "sowing no seed", were now ordered to guard granaries. They, who lived to plunder, were now ordered to manage the flow of trade. There were murmurs. There was confusion. But none dared to defy. The memory of Khal Pono's fate was still fresh in their minds. And above all, there was the constant reminder flying overhead.

The dragons were growing at an unnatural rate. They were no longer the size of hatchlings. They were now the size of large wolfhounds, with powerful wings that could carry them soaring high above the camp. And their appetites were insatiable.

In a cleared open field, before Pollo, Daenerys, and the inner circle of commanders, a demonstration was held. A flock of sheep was released into the field.

Drogon, the largest and most aggressive, with scales as black as night, crept forward on the ground, his movements an eerie blend of feline and reptilian. His molten metal eyes fixed on the terrified, bleating sheep.

Daenerys stood near him. She had practiced, repeating the word over and over. "Dracarys," she said, her voice clear in High Valyrian.

Drogon hesitated for a moment, his head tilted, as if trying to comprehend.

Pollo, standing on the other side, felt the dragon's hesitation through their mental bond. He did not speak. He merely sent a powerful surge of encouragement through the connection, a wordless command composed of images and feelings: Burn. Eat.

It was as if that mental command was the spark he needed. Drogon opened his jaws and unleashed a gout of flame. It was not the focused blast it would later become, but more like an erratic yet intensely hot explosion of black-red fire. The flame washed over one of the sheep, turning its wool to ash in an instant. The flesh sizzled and blackened, filling the air with the terrible odor of cooked meat. The dragon then lunged forward and devoured its cooked meal with reptilian ferocity.

The spectacle sent a wave of fear and awe through the watching Dothraki. They had seen magic. They had seen a power that could turn flesh to ash. They began to understand.

After the dragon finished eating, Pollo approached him. Drogon hissed at him for a moment, his predatory instincts still high. Then he paused, recognizing his master's presence. He rubbed his scaled head against Pollo's outstretched hand, his scales feeling warm and smooth. Pollo felt the dragon's primal hunger, an echo of his own boundless ambition, but now tempered by the newfound burden of responsibility.

The plan worked brilliantly. Within weeks, a steady flow of food, livestock, and supplies began to flow into the huge camp from the newly established "Food Zones". The hunger crisis had been averted. The khalasar was stabilized. The nomadic empire had been fed.

As dusk fell sometime later, Pollo and Daenerys stood together on the same hilltop where the crisis council had been held. Below them, their encampment was no longer tense, but pulsed with an ordered, powerful energy. Their dragons, now the size of colts, flew in graceful circles in the sky above, their growing shadows sweeping across the land that was now undeniably theirs.

Daenerys looked at Pollo, her violet eyes no longer showing fear or doubt, but an equal, respectful partnership.

"You have given them food and order," she said. "Now they will expect you to give them the world."

Pollo watched Drogon swoop sharply towards the setting sun, his black silhouette against the orange fireball.

"The world is the main course," he replied, his voice calm. "But first, we need more tools. And I know where to find them."

He no longer needed to look at his compass. He could feel it. The faint but persistent tug of the object, now pulsing in his pocket, pointed him southeast. Towards Volantis.