Game Of Thrones: Khal Pollo (GOT)

Full bellies are the mother of boredom, and for the Dothraki, boredom was the stepsister of violence. Khal Pollo's nomadic empire had stabilized. A steady flow of grain, meat, and wine from the newly established "Food Zones" had restored the khalasar's vigor. Their horses were fat and strong again, their hides gleaming under the Essos sun. The warriors no longer worried about their next meal. And that was where the problem began.

The energy once focused on survival now sought other outlets. Old rivalries, which had been buried under the threat of shared hunger, began to surface like bones in the desert after a sandstorm. A warrior from former Khal Zekko's khalasar would eye a slave girl belonging to a warrior from former Khal Onqo's khalasar for too long. A wager on a game of bone dice would end in accusations of cheating. Tribal pride, which had been subdued by Pollo's overwhelming might, began to whisper again in the night around the campfires.

Pollo saw it. He felt it. Small cracks were beginning to appear in the foundation of his empire. He knew that if he did not patch them with iron, they would widen and shatter all he had built.

The inciting incident occurred on a hot, dusty afternoon, in the drinking area on the outskirts of the camp. It began, as most bloodshed does, over a trifle. A respected Ko from former Khal Drogo's khalasar, a burly man named Aggo, approached a group of warriors from former Khal Onqo's khalasar. His eyes, reddened from too much fermented mare's milk, fixed on a younger Ko named Zanosh.

"The grey mare you rode this morning," Aggo growled, his voice thick. "She is mine. I won her in a game from a Lysene merchant before... before everything."

Zanosh, proud and quick to anger, rose to his feet. "You must be drunk, old man. This mare was a gift from Khal Pollo himself, taken from Onqo's herds."

"You call me a liar?" Aggo roared, his hand moving to the hilt of his arakh. "You, a whelp of a Khal who died of his own foolishness!"

The insult was too great. Zanosh drew his weapon. "And you are the remnant of a Khal who could not even keep his own wife!"

A cheering circle of warriors formed around them instantly, their faces eager at the prospect of bloodshed. It was the "Old Way." It was their entertainment. The fight was swift and brutal. Both were skilled fighters, but Aggo was larger, stronger, and driven by a burning rage. He parried Zanosh's attack, then with a single powerful slash, he cut open the younger man's belly. Zanosh fell to the ground, clutching his spilling entrails, his eyes wide with shock. Aggo stood over him, panting, then spat on his dying opponent's body.

No one thought this wrong. It was the Dothraki way. Disputes settled with steel. The victor took the horse.

But Pollo, who had been observing from a distance with Garo on their return from inspecting watch posts, saw it as an unforgivable waste. He had just lost a capable commander. He had lost an experienced warrior. And for what? A horse. His khalasar was eating itself from within, one foolish bite at a time.

A simmering rage, cold and controlled, rose within him. It was a feeling. A deep frustration at the idiocy and wastefulness of the culture he had inherited. Then came the logic. This tradition was a disease, a cancer gnawing at the strength of his army. To build a legion capable of conquering Westeros, this cancer had to be excised completely. He could not lead a self-cannibalizing horde. He needed an order.

He did not give a speech. He did not shout. He simply turned and walked towards the center of the encampment, his movements imbued with a terrible purpose that made even Garo shiver.

"Vekho!" Pollo roared, his voice echoing across the camp. "Bring me the largest iron anvil and four raw iron slabs! Summon the smiths! Stoke their forges as hot as they will go!"

The command was strange, but none dared question it. The entire khalasar gathered in bewildered silence, their normal activities grinding to a halt. They watched as sweating smiths dragged a massive iron anvil to the central square. They watched as Vekho, with his immense strength, carried four thick, crude iron slabs, each the size of a shield, and dumped them onto the ground.

Pollo ripped off his leather vest, his broad chest gleaming with sweat under the hot afternoon sun. He took the heaviest sledgehammer from a smith, its wooden handle solid in his grasp.

He did not write his laws. He forged them.

With Vekho holding the first slab on the anvil with a pair of giant tongs, Pollo began his work. He raised the sledgehammer high and brought it down on the glowing iron.

CLANG!

The sound echoed like the heartbeat of his new empire, a proclamation forged of fire and steel. Sparks flew, illuminating his focused, merciless face. He was no longer merely a Khal. He was a creator, a legislator, forging order from chaos with his bare hands. Blow after blow, he hammered simple yet unmistakable pictograms into the glowing metal.

First, the image of two Dothraki warriors with their arakhs broken above them.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

Second, the image of a severed hand.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

Third, the image of a Ko with chains around his neck.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

And finally, on the fourth slab, he did not forge a man-made image. He called Drogon down from the sky. The black dragon landed beside him, hissing at the recoiling crowd. "Dracarys," Pollo commanded. A concentrated burst of flame struck the last slab, melting its surface and leaving an unmistakable charred imprint: the silhouette of a fire-breathing dragon.

When he was finished, the four smoking pillars of law were erected in the center of the camp. Pollo raised his still hot hammer.

"THE OLD WAY IS DEAD!" he roared, his voice hoarse from effort. "THIS IS THE KHAL'S LAW! THIS IS THE ONLY LAW!"

He pointed to the first slab. "Dothraki blood will not be shed by Dothraki! All disputes are settled by me!" He pointed to the second. "To steal from a fellow bloodrider is to steal from me! The punishment is a hand!" He pointed to the third. "A commander's order is my order! Refusal is slavery!"

He paused, then pointed to the final, charred slab. "And this law is fire! To break it is death by fire!"

The entire khalasar held its breath. The law had been proclaimed. Now, what of Aggo, the killer?

Aggo was dragged before Pollo by two guards. He showed no remorse, only angry confusion. "He insulted Khal Drogo!" he cried, trying to justify his actions with the now-dead tradition. "It was my right! It was the Old Way!"

Pollo looked at him with eyes that felt like chips of ice. "Khal Drogo is ash. His honor matters less than the unity of this khalasar. You have spilled Dothraki blood for your pride. You have weakened us all."

He looked to the sky, where Drogon circled. "DROGON!"

The black dragon, now the size of a large wolfhound, plummeted from the sky with an air-splitting shriek. He landed heavily beside Pollo, his bat-like wings stirring up clouds of dust.

Pollo looked at Aggo, whose face was now chalk white with pure terror. "Dracarys," Pollo commanded calmly.

Drogon opened his jaws. A concentrated blast of black-red flame shot out, engulfing Aggo. The man's scream was cut short instantly as he was reduced to a smoking, blackened pile of ash before the eyes of eighty thousand witnesses. It lasted less than five seconds.

A complete and utter silence fell over the grasslands. The message had been delivered. Pollo's law was not just a man's rule. It was a divine mandate, enforced by dragonfire.

That night, in the privacy of their tent, the atmosphere was tense. The smaller dragons slept curled near the warm brazier, oblivious to the terror their largest sibling had just unleashed.

Daenerys, who had witnessed the execution from the tent entrance, finally spoke. She had sat in silence for an hour, processing what she had seen.

"It was... monstrous," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. "The man was burned alive."

Pollo, who was cleaning his arakh with an oiled rag, did not look up. "He broke the law. He received the prescribed punishment."

"Is that justice?" Daenerys asked, and there was a new strength in her voice. "Or is it merely terror to keep them obedient?"

Pollo stopped cleaning his weapon. He put the arakh down and looked at her. "Justice is terror to those who would create chaos," he said, his voice calm and reasoned. "Order is not born of polite requests, Daenerys. Order is enforced with hammer and fire. These people, our people, understand only strength. Today, they learned that the strength of my law is greater than their foolish pride."

"But people cannot live in fear forever," Daenerys countered, stepping closer. "They must follow you because they believe in you, because they believe in your vision, not just because they fear your dragons."

This was their first philosophical conflict, their first debate as King and Queen.

Pollo looked at her, and for a fleeting moment, the Khal's unyielding mask cracked slightly. He saw the fire in her eyes, the burning conviction that reminded him why she was so special.

"Perhaps," he said, his voice softening. "But first, they must learn not to kill each other. Belief can come later. Survival comes first."

He rose and walked towards her. He reached out and gently touched her cheek, his thumb caressing her soft skin. The gesture, so tender and in stark contrast to the violence he had just enacted, silenced Daenerys. He heard her words. He valued her opinion, even if he did not agree.

Daenerys pondered Pollo's words long after he had fallen asleep that night. She abhorred his brutal methods, but she could not deny the results. Outside the tent, for the first time since the khalasar had united, there was true peace. No brawls, no drunken shouts. Only the quiet sounds of an army at rest.

She understood why Pollo felt the need to forge the Dothraki this way, to burn out the disease of their culture. But a unsettling question formed in her mind, one that would haunt her for a long time.

If this was the kind of order he forged for his own people, what kind of order would he impose on Westeros?

She looked at Pollo in his sleep, his harsh face appearing younger. Then she looked at the sprawling map of Essos, her eyes fixed on Volantis. He had forged order from chaos. Now, he was ready to continue his conquest.