Game Of Thrones: Khal Pollo (GOT)

The Small Council chambers in King's Landing smelled of stale lies and decaying ambition. Tyrion Lannister could taste it the moment he entered, an aroma sharper than even the finest Arbor Gold. He settled into the highly polished table, his seat feeling too large for him, a cruel, unending joke the world played. Around him, the other players in his father's game had taken their positions.

His sister, Cersei, sat at the head of the table, in the seat that should have been the King's. She was the picture of cold, fragile beauty, her black velvet gown accentuating her shimmering golden hair. But her eyes, green as wildfire, held no warmth whatsoever. They radiated vanity, paranoia, and a grief that had festered into rage. Her mind, Tyrion knew, was in only one place: in the Riverlands, where a boy with a wolf's crown was shaming the Lannister name.

Across from her, Petyr Baelish, known as Littlefinger, leaned back in his chair with a thin smile that never quite reached his grey eyes. He was a cat living in a slaughterhouse, relishing every drop of blood and chaos. Every report of Lannister defeat only widened his smile a fraction.

Grand Maester Pycelle dozed lightly in his seat, the heavy chains of his office rattling softly with his wheezing breaths. His long white beard stained his grey robes. He was a symbol of royal wisdom that had become senile and impotent, a relic serving only the strongest master.

And then, there was Varys.

The Master of Whisperers stood silently in the shadows, as was his wont, his soft, pale hands tucked into the voluminous sleeves of his luxurious silk robes. His face was a mask of placid serenity, his smile faint and enigmatic. He seemed harmless, like a kindly uncle. But Tyrion, a lifelong observer of creatures that thrive in the shadows, saw something unusual this morning. Varys's stillness was too profound. His calm felt forced, like a thin layer of ice over a roiling lake.

"The Stark boy continues to evade our father's forces," Cersei said, her voice sharp as broken glass. "He scurries about the Riverlands like a craven wolf, while those idiotic river lords flock to his banner."

"A difficult situation, Your Grace," Littlefinger purred, his voice smooth as honey. "Perhaps if we were to offer peace..."

"Peace?" Cersei hissed, her eyes blazing. "I want his head. I want his skin flayed and hung on the walls of the Red Keep."

Tyrion swirled his goblet. "Alas, Robb Stark's head is currently firmly attached to his neck, and he seems rather adept at keeping it that way. Perhaps a more subtle approach is required, Sister."

"And what do you know of war, Dwarf?" Cersei retorted, her lip curling in disgust.

Before Tyrion could unleash an equally cutting retort, a soft voice cut through the tension.

"My Lord Hand, Your Grace the Queen," Varys said, stepping out of the shadows. "If I may interject. I bring news from across the Narrow Sea. News that is... disquieting."

Cersei scoffed. "I have no time for tales of cheese merchants and their squabbles."

Varys smiled faintly. "I fear this is rather more than cheese, Your Grace. This is of horses and dragons."

A hush fell over the table. Even Littlefinger seemed intrigued.

Varys began his report, his soft voice weaving a tale that made the hairs on Tyrion's arms prickle. He spoke of how his "little birds" in Pentos had whispered an extraordinary story.

"It appears," Varys said, his large, pale eyes gazing into the distance, "that the threat of Khal Drogo is at an end. He has perished."

A cruel, victorious smile flashed across Cersei's face. "Good. One less savage. Let them kill each other off."

"Indeed," Varys continued. "And better still, the Targaryen pretender, Viserys, has also vanished. Believed dead."

"The gods are good," mumbled Pycelle, who had awoken from his slumber.

"However," Varys said, and the word hung in the air like a falling sword. "There is a complication. Drogo's khalasar did not break as expected. It did not splinter into a dozen smaller, warring hordes. It has been... absorbed. Intact."

Tyrion leaned forward, elbows on the table, his wine forgotten. "Absorbed? By whom?"

It was here that Tyrion saw it. The flicker. For a fraction of a second, just a blink, Varys's mask cracked. Behind the eunuch's placid eyes, Tyrion saw a flash of pure panic, the fear of a chess grandmaster who had just realized his opponent had dropped a living dragon onto the board.

"By a new Khal," Varys said, his voice faltering ever so slightly before regaining its calm. "One who seemingly sprang from nowhere. His name is Pollo. In a matter of months, he has united the Dothraki into a single khalasar estimated at eighty thousand warriors. Perhaps more."

"Nonsense!" Cersei snapped. "The Dothraki do not unite! They are mad dogs fighting over scraps!"

"Indeed so, Your Grace," Pycelle piped up, nodding like a bobblehead. "History teaches us..."

"History is being rewritten, Grand Maester," Varys cut in, and there was a sharp edge to his usually soft voice. "And most concerningly, my lords... these reports, which I have confirmed from three separate sources, all say the same. They move with military discipline. They no longer merely raid at random. They are occupying and administering the lands around Pentos. They have created what my little birds call 'Food Zones'. They are controlling trade."

Littlefinger's smile vanished. His grey eyes narrowed as he processed the implications. "Controlling trade... That is a clever move. Most un-Dothraki." He glanced at Varys. "Such a force, led by an intelligent mind... is certainly concerning. Yet, there may be opportunity here, my Lord Hand. An enemy of our enemies... This new Khal could be a thorn in the side of those wealthy merchants in Tyrosh and Myr who might be funding Stannis's fleet."

Cersei waved a dismissive hand. "I am weary of these shadows and rumors! Our enemy is Robb Stark! Father is marching against him as we speak. That is all that matters!"

Tyrion finally spoke, his deep, rasping voice silencing them all. "A mad dog across the sea is one thing," he said, looking straight at his sister. "We can ignore it, hope it dies of plague or bites another mad dog. But a mad dog that is taught how to think, how to plan, and how to manage resources..."

He paused, letting them digest the image.

"That is no longer a dog. That is a dragon in a dog's skin. We are fighting a war on three fronts, against wolves, stags, and squids. And you would ignore the birth of a new empire on our doorstep simply because you do not like the way the wind blows?"

The meeting ended shortly after, on a sour note of tension. Cersei remained obstinate, but Tyrion knew the seed of doubt had been planted.

That night, Tyrion sat alone in the vast, empty office of the Hand of the King. The room felt cold and hollow without Ned Stark's grim presence. He poured himself a generous measure of thick Dornish wine and walked over to the large map of the world that hung on the wall.

He traced Essos with his finger, past the shattered Valyria, across the Free Cities, and stopped over the pale green expanse labeled the Dothraki Sea. His mind raced, connecting dots that no one else saw.

Drogo was a thunderstorm, he thought. Violent, terrifying, unpredictable, but ultimately passing and burning itself out. This man... Pollo... he was something else. He did not move like a storm. He moved like a glacier. He did not merely conquer; he built. He did not merely kill; he governed.

And Varys. Varys's reaction was key. The Spider, who wove his web across the world, looked as if an elephant had just trampled the center of his most intricate work. Whatever schemes he had concocted with Illyrio, Viserys, and Drogo were now ash. And from that ash, something far more potent and unexpected had risen.

Tyrion stared at the landmass of Westeros on the map, a continent tearing itself apart with his own family's pride and ambition. The war against the Starks. The threat of Stannis. Renly's intrigues. The endless games.

We are all busy squabbling over this damned chair, he thought bitterly, the taste of wine sour in his mouth. That we fail to notice someone is building a far larger throne across the sea.

He drained the rest of his wine in a single gulp, the heat burning his throat.

And I have a terrible feeling he'll be coming to collect it soon enough.