Game Of Thrones: Khal Pollo (GOT)

Khal Pollo's return with his five thousand warriors to the main encampment was not an arrival, but an event. News of their journey had preceded them, carried by terrified merchants and trembling spies. The stories, whispered around the campfires, sounded like myths: of how the Ghost Khal had made the world's greatest city, Volantis, bow its head without shedding a drop of blood.

As Pollo's orderly column appeared on the horizon, a thunderous roar erupted from the seventy-five thousand waiting warriors. It was no longer the wild, chaotic cheer of victory. It was an organized salute, a disciplined roar of homage to their returning war god. They were not just celebrating his triumph; they were celebrating their own power reflected in him.

Pollo rode his horse through the sea of adoring faces, his gaze fixed straight ahead, towards the main tent that was now his palace. He dismounted, handing the reins to a guard, and stepped inside.

Daenerys awaited him there.

She stood near the map table, her two dragons perched on her shoulders and arm like exotic living jewels. She had grown in his absence, not in height, but in bearing. There was the stillness of a queen in the way she stood, an authority she had not possessed mere months ago.

Their reunion was silent, charged with unspoken tension. She did not ask if he had succeeded. She already knew the answer from the roar outside. Instead, as he approached, she posed the question that had been burning in her heart.

"Who was she?" she asked, her voice calm, but with a sharp edge beneath it. "The woman in red robes."

Pollo stopped before her. He could see the tiny storm in her violet eyes, a mixture of curiosity, suspicion, and something very much akin to jealousy. A part of him, the remnants of Thomas Vance, found it amusing. The Khal part of him saw it as an affirmation of his possession.

Rather than becoming defensive, he offered a faint smile. "She was a key," he said. He pulled the Eye of R'hllor from a leather pouch on his belt. The ruby the size of a bird's heart pulsed with a soft internal glow in his large palm. "And this is the door it opened."

He held the stone out to her. Daenerys hesitated, then gently touched it. It felt warm and alive beneath her fingers.

"Think of Drogon," Pollo whispered.

Daenerys closed her eyes. For a moment nothing happened. Then, she gasped, her breath catching. Her mind suddenly soared, lifted high above the camp. She saw the world through different eyes, keen reptilian eyes. She saw the ocean of tents below, the horses looking like insects, and in the distance, the glimmer of the Narrow Sea. She felt the wind roaring past black scales, and an overwhelming urge to fly towards the sun.

She opened her eyes, gasping, her mind snapping back into her own body. She stared at Pollo in awe. "How...?"

"A gift from the Lord of Light," Pollo stated. "A tool. For us."

His emphasis on the word "us" did not escape her. Her jealousy subsided, replaced by a deeper understanding. This man was not taking pleasure for himself. He was accruing power for their empire.

It was then that Ser Jorah Mormont entered the tent. He had observed everything from afar, his once divided loyalty now hardened into an unwavering certainty. He had seen Pollo achieve in months what Viserys could not in a lifetime, what Khal Drogo had never even dreamed of. He saw the strength, the vision, and the only possible path for his queen to reclaim her throne.

He walked to the center of the room, knelt on one knee, and laid his worn longsword on the rug between them.

"I swore an oath of fealty to House Targaryen," he said, his earnest eyes fixed on Daenerys. Then he turned to Pollo, his head still bowed. "And I swear to serve the power that will seat her back upon her throne. My knowledge of Westeros, my sword, and my life are yours to command, Khal Pollo."

Pollo looked down at the older man. He saw a loyalty that had been tested by the fires of exile and disappointment. He saw a seasoned warrior and a wise counsel.

"Rise, Ser Jorah," Pollo said. "I accept you as my chief advisor for the coming war. You will sit on my war council."

Days later, the war council was held.

The worn map of Essos had been rolled up and put away. On the massive table in the center of the tent, lay a vast, detailed new map of Westeros, painstakingly drawn by Jorah from memory and from old maps he had acquired. Pollo, Daenerys, and Jorah stood on one side. On the other, stood the three Bloodriders, Garo, Vekho, and Qorro. Their presence there was a statement. They were no longer merely bodyguards. They were the generals of an entirely new kind of war.

"Westeros is eating itself," Jorah began, his voice rough with emotion as he gazed at his lost homeland. He used the tip of his dagger to point to various locations on the map. "The War of Five Kings, they call it."

With a soldier's clarity, Jorah laid out the political and military landscape of the Seven Kingdoms. He spoke of King Robert's death and Ned Stark's execution. He spoke of the cruel, mad King Joffrey in King's Landing, a Lannister puppet. He spoke of Tywin Lannister, the cunning old lion, leading the largest army in the south.

He pointed north. "Here, Robb Stark, Ned's son, has been crowned King in the North. He is young, but he is a devil on the battlefield. He has not lost a battle. He has shattered Lannister armies and taken Jaime, the Kingslayer, captive."

He moved his dagger south. "Here, in the Stormlands, Renly Baratheon, Robert's younger brother, has also crowned himself king. He has charm and the backing of the immensely wealthy and powerful House Tyrell. Together, they command the largest army in Westeros."

Finally, he pointed to a rocky island off the coast. "And here, on Dragonstone, Stannis Baratheon, Robert's elder brother, also claims the throne. His forces are smaller, but he is the most seasoned and ruthless commander of them all. And he has a red sorceress at his side."

The Bloodriders listened in silence, their hardened faces showing confusion. This war, with its kings and houses, its alliances and betrayals, was utterly alien to them.

After Jorah finished, Daenerys spoke first. There was a new fire in her eyes, the fire of a queen finally seeing a path home.

"We must land at Dragonstone," she proposed, her finger landing on the same island Jorah had pointed to. "It is my ancestral seat, my birthplace. From there, we can send ravens, seek allies. House Martell in Dorne hates the Lannisters for what they did to Elia and her children. Perhaps even the Young Wolf in the North, fighting the same enemy, could be reasoned with. We must show the people of Westeros that I return to free them from Lannister tyranny, not to bring fire and blood."

Jorah nodded in agreement. "The backing of one of the Great Houses would lend legitimacy to Her Grace's claim. It would show this is a restoration, not a foreign invasion."

Pollo listened patiently, his dark eyes sweeping over the map, absorbing every detail, every name, every strength and weakness. When they finished, he spoke, and his calm voice cut through all their hopeful arguments.

"Alliances are fragile," he said. "Built on the shifting sands of old grievances that can wash away with the first tide of Lannister gold. The lords of Westeros will not side with justice. They will side with whoever they think will win."

He looked directly at Daenerys. "And the hearts of the people? The hearts of the people follow the winning banner. They will love you when you give them bread and peace, and they will curse you when war burns their fields."

"They will never love us, Dany," he continued, his voice softening slightly, but his message remaining hard. "We bring eighty thousand Dothraki horsemen and three dragons. They will fear us. And fear is a stronger foundation than love that shifts like the wind."

He stepped up to the map, his large hand sweeping across the entire continent. "Your strategy is to knock on their doors one by one, hoping someone will open. My strategy is to knock down the entire house."

"We will ignore the petty lords and their pathetic wars. We will sail straight for Blackwater Bay. Our dragons will burn their fleet from the sky before they can even raise anchor. And we will land our entire khalasar at the gates of King's Landing. We will take the snake's head, and the body will die."

A tense silence filled the tent. The two strategies were vastly different, representing two opposing philosophies of governance. Daenerys looked at him, her violet eyes flashing with hurt and frustration. This was their first true ideological conflict.

Pollo, as the ultimate authority, would make the final decision. But he looked at Daenerys, and he saw more than just a naive girl. He saw a queen, his partner. She had proven her worth.

"We will land at Dragonstone first, as you suggested, my Queen," he said, a concession that surprised everyone in the room. "It is a symbol. It is your birthright. We will reclaim it for you."

Daenerys's face softened. It was a small victory, but it felt immense.

Pollo paused, then his eyes sharpened again, the conqueror's fire reigniting. "But from there, we will not wait for invitations or send ravens with peace offerings. From there, we will fly."

He turned away from the map of Westeros, his focus shifting to the most pressing, most tangible problem.

"All of this is just words and wind without ships to take us there," he said, his voice returning to the tone of a commander. He looked at Jorah, his gaze demanding.

"You know this world better than anyone, Ser Jorah. Where can we acquire a fleet? A fleet capable of carrying a dragon and eighty thousand horses across the sea?"