Game Of Thrones: Khal Pollo (GOT)

Days after the first dragon flight, the air around the vast encampment felt different. The fear and adoration the Dothraki had once held had hardened into something new: fanatic faith. They no longer merely followed a powerful Khal; they served a living war god, and his every command was divine writ. They waited, not with impatience, but with the patience of a storm gathering strength, ready to be unleashed.

Then, the ravens came to roost.

Not the feathered kind that carried messages, but emissaries from the Free Cities. They arrived in small groups, approaching the gigantic encampment cautiously, their silk banners looking tiny and fragile against the sea of hide and steel. Envoys from Volantis came in lavish robes, from Qarth with noses held high, and from Myr with cunning eyes. They came to demand, to negotiate, to understand the new power that had choked their trade arteries.

They were not received with ceremony. They were herded like cattle through lines of silent, menacing Dothraki warriors, their cold gazes promising violence. The lords and wealthy merchants, accustomed to the comfort of carpets and chilled wine, were forced to stand under the blazing sun, waiting outside the main tent.

When they were finally called inside, they found a scene designed for intimidation. Pollo sat on a crude chair fashioned from broken ship timber and adorned with the skulls of stallions, serving as his throne. By his side, Daenerys sat with the stillness of a queen, her silver-gold hair a stark contrast to the dark hides around her. And near the fire in the center of the tent, three young dragons hissed and nipped at each other in play, occasionally casting intelligent reptilian glances at the newcomers.

The envoy from Volantis, an elderly Triarch named Nyessos, stepped forward, attempting to retain some semblance of his dignity. "Khal Pollo," he said, his voice trembling slightly despite his best efforts to conceal it. "The Free Cities demand to know your intentions. Your 'Food Zones' have choked trade. Your vast host is a threat to the peace we have enjoyed for centuries."

Pollo merely stared at him for a moment, then he laughed. It was not a joyous laugh. It was a deep, humorless sound, the grinding of boulders in a riverbed.

"Peace?" he said, the word tasting like an insult on his tongue. "Your peace is built on the backs of slaves and gold stolen from weaker nations. I have no interest in your peace."

He rose from his throne, his powerful frame instantly dominating the space. "You wish to know my intentions? Good. I am tired of whispering in tents." He turned to Vekho. "Assemble the entire khalasar. Our guests will witness the birth of a new age."

The vast natural bowl-shaped valley a few miles from the encampment had been carefully chosen. It formed a perfect amphitheater. Eighty thousand Dothraki warriors stood in disciplined silence, their neat ranks filling the hillsides, a sea of humanity stretching as far as the eye could see. In the center of the valley, a large, naturally formed stone platform served as a stage.

Pollo stood there. By his side, Daenerys stood tall, dressed in the finest Dothraki leather, her intricately braided silver hair gleaming under the afternoon sun. She was no longer an accessory or a captive. She was his partner, her presence a powerful statement. The envoys from the Free Cities were forced to stand at the foot of the platform, surrounded by the Bloodriders, looking small and insignificant.

As Pollo raised his hand to speak, three sky-splitting shrieks rent the air from above. Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion plunged down from the heavens like living meteors. They did not land among the crowd. With powerful beats of their wings that sent gusts of wind across the valley, they landed on the high cliffs behind the platform. They positioned themselves like three colossal gargoyles carved from night and fire, their dark shadows falling over the trembling envoys, whose faces were now sickly pale with pure terror.

Pollo waited until silence returned, a silence now filled with sacred awe.

"DOTHRAKI!" he roared, and his supernaturally amplified voice resonated across the valley, bouncing off the rocks. "For generations, you have been wolves of the plains! You raided! You burned! You fought each other for scraps and empty pride!"

He paused, letting his words sink into their hearts.

"BEHOLD YOURSELVES NOW!" he bellowed, sweeping his hand across the sea of warriors. "You are no longer a pack of wolves! You are a gathered storm! You are an earthquake waiting to shake the world!"

A murmur of assent began to build from the crowd, but Pollo raised his hand again, demanding silence.

"These men of the stone cities," he said, pointing with disdain at the trembling envoys. "They came to me and spoke of 'peace.' They asked me my purpose. Today, I will tell them. Today, I will tell all of you!"

He turned and placed a hand gently on Daenerys's shoulder, a gesture of both possession and partnership. "By my side stands Queen Daenerys Stormborn, of the old Valyrian dragon's blood! Her birthright was stolen by liars and usurpers across the sea!"

He turned back to the crowd, his eyes blazing. "They call themselves lions, stags, and wolves! They fight over a cold iron chair while the real world waits to be taken!"

He raised his fist to the sky. "I am no longer merely a Khal! I am KHAL POLLO, KING OF THE GRASS SEA, AND THE COMING CONQUEROR! And I declare that Essos shall pay us tribute! Their gold will build our ships! Their grain will feed our warriors! And their slaves will be freed to forge our steel!"

He paused, taking a deep breath, his voice dropping to a deadly growl. "Our fleet is almost ready. The war across the sea has begun without us. They have forgotten what true fear is."

He pointed straight west, towards the setting sun that was beginning to paint the clouds orange and red.

"WE WILL CROSS THE POISONED WATERS... AND WE WILL TEACH THEM!"

As his final, swearing words were uttered, as if on command, the three dragons behind him raised their heads to the sky. They let out a simultaneous roar. It was not the shriek of young beasts. It was a deep, resonating, terrifying bellow, a blast of sound so powerful it shook the ground and sent small stones tumbling from the cliffs.

The envoys dropped to their knees, covering their ears, their faces distorted with terror.

The dragons' roar shattered the enchanted silence, and eighty thousand Dothraki erupted in one voice. They did not merely cheer. They roared. They beat their chests, brandished their arakhs at the sky, a wave of fanatic, terrifying adoration that merged with the dragons' roars into a single symphony of chaos and war.

In the midst of the pandemonium, Pollo and Daenerys looked at each other. There was no smile. Only a cold, hard understanding in their eyes. The declaration had been made. There was no turning back.

Nyessos looked up, at the man on the platform, at the woman by his side, and at the three mythical beasts whose shadows consumed him. He did not see a barbarian. He saw the end of his world. He saw a war god with dragons on his back, leading a fanatic army to drown the world in fire and blood.

The invasion had begun.