Game Of Thrones: Khal Pollo (GOT)

A year passed. Not in the silence of the plains, but in the deafening din of creation.

The first sound to greet the dawn at Khal Pollo's vast encampment was no longer the whinny of horses, but the shriek of saws rending wood and the thunder of a thousand hammers striking iron nails. The coast near Pentos, once a tranquil stretch of sand, had been transformed into a chaotic industrial inferno. The Dothraki, with profound disdain, called it Vaes Kholesh, the City of Dead Wood. The skeletons of enormous warships loomed into the sky like the bleached bones of leviathans, surrounded by rickety scaffolding. The air was heavy with the pungent smell of tar, fresh sawdust, and the sweat of tens of thousands toiling under the relentless sun.

Pollo's vision was being built, but the price was the soul of his people.

In the midst of the makeshift shipyard, a burly Dothraki warrior named Borro grunted as he and five others struggled to lift a heavy, tar-slicked teak beam. The muscles in his back, accustomed to the rhythm of riding, ached from this different, humiliating kind of labor. He hated the salty smell of the sea, he hated the stickiness of the tar on his hands, and more than anything, he hated this work.

"This is no work for horsemen," he grumbled to the man next to him. "This is work for slaves."

Before the man could reply, a shadow fell over them. Vekho stood there, silent as a mountain. He did not speak. He did not need to. He simply stared at Borro, his dark eyes devoid of emotion. Under that gaze, Borro's grumbling died in his throat. With a grunt of effort, he returned to lifting the beam. In this new empire, even complaining had consequences.

Elsewhere, in a secluded canyon miles inland, a different challenge was growing. The dragons were no longer tiny hatchlings. They were now the size of small warhorse, their sleek, scaled bodies brimming with reptilian power. Their wings were strong enough to carry them on clumsy, brief flights, and their appetites were insatiable.

Daenerys observed them from a distance, her heart a mixture of maternal pride and profound dread. She watched Drogon, the largest and blackest, carelessly blast a flock of sheep with fire, reducing them to smoking piles of ash before devouring the charred meat ravenously. Nearby, the bronze-green Rhaegal and the creamy-gold Viserion worked in terrifying concert, using their speed and agility to bring down a mountain goat. They were forces of nature, beautiful and terrifying.

And in a hidden cove, the cruelest lesson was underway. Pollo stood on a cliff, observing a group of Dothraki trying to fight on wooden rafts that swayed wildly on the waves. It was a pathetic sight. The invincible warriors of the land were clumsy children on the water. Many vomited into the sea. Some, weighed down by their pride and inability to swim, fell and drowned before they could be rescued.

"The sea is a different enemy!" Pollo roared from above, his voice carried by the wind. "It cares nothing for your braided hair or how many men you have slain! Adapt, or drown!"

The nights were spent in the command tent, now more resembling a general's office than a Khal's dwelling. Maps and ship blueprints covered every surface. One night, Pollo and Daenerys debated fiercely over a design for a horse transport ship.

"We need more space on the lower deck," Pollo argued, pointing with his finger. "The horses will panic if they are too cramped. We could lose hundreds before we even see the shores of Westeros."

"And the horses will die of thirst if we do not have enough room for water barrels," Daenerys countered. "You think like a horseman, Pollo. I think like a queen who does not want her army to die of scurvy. We must sacrifice some horses for more provisions."

After an hour of back and forth, they reached a compromise: a redesign that reduced the number of horses per ship but added better ventilation systems and more efficient water storage. Their relationship had been forged in the fire of such strategic disagreements. It was not love. It was a working partnership founded on immense shared ambition.

And then, one day, a year after they began, everything changed.

In the dragon canyon, Drogon, now the size of a small warhorse, swooped down from the sky. He snatched an ox in mid-air with his dagger-sized talons and tore it in half with a powerful wrench of his neck. He was large enough.

Pollo observed him from a distance, his keen eyes calculating. This was no longer about training. This was about testing his ultimate weapon.

He found Daenerys near Viserion, who was basking on a warm rock. "The time has come," Pollo said.

Daenerys looked at Drogon, who was ferociously devouring his kill. "Are you certain he is ready?" she asked, a genuine nervousness in her voice. "He is still so wild."

"He is a weapon," Pollo replied. "A weapon must be tested before it is brought to the battlefield. Today, we fly."

The finest craftsmen brought the two dragon saddles they had been working on for months. They were not ordinary saddles, but intricate frameworks of reinforced leather and light steel, with straps and grips designed for strength, not comfort. Word spread quickly, and thousands of Dothraki gathered at the canyon rim, their hard faces looking down with a mixture of fear and sacred awe.

Approaching the dragons was dangerous. The air around them was hot, smelling of sulfur and burnt meat.

Pollo approached Drogon first. The black dragon ceased his meal and hissed at him, a sound like grinding boulders. Fire danced in the back of his dark throat. This was a battle of wills. Pollo showed no fear. He stared directly into those molten gold reptilian eyes, projecting waves of cold dominance through their mental bond. I am your master. After a tense moment that felt like an eternity, Drogon lowered his massive head. Strapping on the saddle was a struggle that took ten men, but finally, the beast was ready.

Daenerys approached Rhaegal. There was less resistance here, more of an innate connection. But her fear was real. Her hands trembled slightly as she touched the warm, bronze-green scales, feeling the immense power thrumming beneath.

Pollo mounted Drogon first. It felt like sitting atop a living volcano. He gripped the leather handles tightly.

"FLY!" he roared, both with his voice and with a powerful command in his mind.

With a single, incredible push from his powerful hind legs and a massive beat of his giant wings that created a storm of dust and pebbles, Drogon launched into the air.

For Pollo, the sensation was a mixture of stomach-churning vertigo and pure adrenaline. The world dropped away beneath him. Then, with second and third beats of his wings, they began to ascend, faster and faster. The roar of the wind in his ears was deafening. He held on tight, his muscles straining as the dragon adjusted to his rider.

Moments later, Rhaegal joined them in the air, Daenerys clinging tightly to his back, her silver hair streaming wildly behind her.

They flew.

High above the world, they became one with the sky. The immense Dothraki encampment dwindled to a cluster of tiny dots. The endless Dothraki Sea stretched beneath them like a giant green-brown carpet. They broke through layers of cloud, emerging into blinding sunlight that made their dragon scales shimmer like living jewels.

This was power. This was freedom.

High above the world, where the sounds of the earth could not reach them, they flew side by side. Pollo on the jet-black Drogon, Daenerys on the brilliant green Rhaegal. They could not speak over the roar of the wind. They did not need to.

He turned to her, and she turned to him. In each other's eyes, they saw not a conqueror or a queen. They saw the only other person in the entire world who could comprehend this overwhelming feeling. And for the first time, a genuine, unforced smile of shared elation passed between them.

Their landing was rough and ungraceful, more a controlled crash that shook the ground. As Pollo and Daenerys dismounted, weary, trembling, but triumphant, they walked out of the canyon.

The entire khalasar knelt as one.

They were no longer merely following a fireproof Khal. They had now witnessed their gods riding their mythical mounts. Their faith was now absolute.

That night, Pollo and Daenerys stood on the bluff overlooking their shipyard. In the moonlight, the skeletons of the colossal warships looked like the bones of a coming world.

Pollo felt the new power of the flight still coursing within him. He had conquered the land. He had conquered the sky. Now only one element remained. He turned to Jorah, who stood respectfully nearby.

"Send word to your spies in Westeros," Pollo said, his voice calm yet carrying the weight of worlds to come. "Ask them... how strong are the fleets of the false kings?"