Game Of Thrones: Khal Pollo (GOT)

Dawn was no longer greeted by the impatient whinnies of horses or the scent of wet grass. Dawn in Khal Pollo's new kingdom was greeted by the screech of saws tearing through timber and the arrhythmic thud of a thousand hammers. The air hung heavy, not with the dust of the steppes, but with suffocating sawdust and the pungent, sticky smell of tar that seemed to cling to the back of one's throat.

Borro, whose braids denoted twenty three battle victories, hated the smell more than rotten sheep guts. He brought his iron hammer down on the last iron spike, the muscles in his back, accustomed to the rhythm of riding, aching with this unfamiliar and demeaning labor. His hands, calloused from holding the hilt of his arakh, were now blistered from gripping a hammer. He surveyed the scene around him with disgust. Vaes Kholesh, the City of Dead Wood. That is what they called it. The skeletons of enormous warships loomed into the sky like the bleached bones of leviathans, surrounded by rickety scaffolding that looked like giant spiderwebs.

"This is no work for horsemen," he grumbled to the warrior beside him, his voice low and hoarse. "This is work for slaves."

The man, a youth named Rakho after the Khal's first challenger, merely grunted in agreement. "The Khal says we build mounts to carry us across the poisoned water. I'd rather ride a sandstorm than one of these floating coffins."

Before Borro could reply, a shadow fell over them, engulfing them in sudden silence.

Vekho stood there. The silent giant did not speak. He did not need to. He simply stared at Borro, his dark eyes devoid of emotion, a gaze that seemed to say, Is there a problem? Under that gaze, Borro's grumbling died in his throat. He felt a faint tremor in his hand, not from exhaustion, but from the memory of Aggo's fate. With a forced grunt of effort, he returned to work, slamming his hammer with a newfound vigor born of fear.

From a distance, atop a sand dune overlooking the industrial hell, Pollo observed it all. He saw the impatience in every hammer swing, the resentment in every hunched back. This was necessary. A painful lesson in discipline. He turned and walked towards the sprawling command tent. Time for the final debate.

Inside, a massive map of Westeros lay spread across the main table, but it was now surrounded by piles of ship blueprints and hastily scribbled cargo lists. Daenerys, Ser Jorah, and Garo were already waiting for him.

"The sea is an enemy you cannot intimidate, Khal Pollo," Jorah began without preamble, his voice hoarse. "Scurvy can kill more men than swords. Storms can swallow a thousand men in a single night. We need more fresh water and preserved fruits."

"A horse that dies of thirst cannot carry you to victory," Daenerys added, her voice calm yet firm. Her hand rested on a stack of provisions lists. "You think like a horseman, Pollo. I think like a queen who does not wish her army to die before seeing battle."

Pollo looked at them, then at the map. A fleeting flicker of frustration crossed his face. They were right, of course. But they saw the trees, while he saw the burning forest. Logic took over. "We will carry enough water," he said, his voice level. "But we will not sacrifice a single warship for an extra barrel of water. Speed is our weapon. We must arrive before these false kings realize what hit them."

He looked at Daenerys, and his gaze softened slightly. This was not just a logistical debate; it was about how they would rule. "We will ration strictly. We will sail fast. We will endure."

That night, as twilight painted the sky orange and purple, the entire khalasar gathered on the beach. The monstrous fleet they had built with sweat and curses floated calmly in the bay, their dark silhouettes against the setting sun. Pollo stood before them, Daenerys by his side.

At his command, a small, unfinished horse transport vessel was pushed into the shallow waters.

"DOTHRAKI!" Pollo roared, his voice echoing along the coast. "For generations, your ancestors have feared this poisoned water! That fear is the chain that binds you to this land! Tonight, we do not merely burn wood. We burn the fear itself!"

He gestured to Daenerys.

Her face calm, she looked up at the sky and uttered a single word. "Dracarys."

Drogon plummeted from the gathering darkness like a black meteor. A colossal jet of black and red fire erupted from his jaws, striking the wooden ship.

WHOOSH!

The vessel exploded into a towering pillar of flame, its roar deafening. The sight of the ferocious fire dancing on the dark water silenced tens of thousands of warriors in awe. Fire, their strength, had consumed the symbol of their fear. A sacred silence lasted for a moment, then shattered into a single, synchronized roar from eighty thousand voices, an explosion of fanatical adoration that shook the beach.

Pollo did not join the cheering. He simply stared at his fleet, then at the dark western horizon.

Garo approached him. "Your command, Khal?"

Pollo took a deep breath, tasting the sea salt for the first time not as a threat, but as a promise. "Raise anchor," he said. "We sail."

The coastline of Essos thinned to a green and brown thread, then vanished entirely. For the first time in the lives of eighty thousand Dothraki warriors, there was no land on the horizon. There was only ocean. Endless blue below, endless blue above, separated by a perfectly sharp line. A strange, solemn silence fell over the massive fleet, the tumultuous sounds of a moving nation swallowed by the incessant hiss of the waves.

Qorro stood on the deck of the command ship, his hands gripping the wooden rail tightly. He had ridden across the immeasurable expanse of the Dothraki Sea, but this vastness felt different. It moved. It breathed. He felt his stomach churn with the constant rhythm of the ship's sway, an alien and unpleasant sensation. Around him, the faces of the world's strongest warriors were a sickly greenish hue under the sun. Some burly warriors, men who had slaughtered foes without a blink, were now wretchedly vomiting over the side of the ship.

Yet, after several days, the frightening novelty began to fade, replaced by unbearable boredom. Rare laughter finally returned as a group of warriors clumsily tried to spear fish from the deck and failed miserably. In another corner, a game of bone dice was played with fierce wagers. One afternoon, a pod of dolphins leaped alongside the fleet, and entire ships fell silent in awe at the sight of these strange creatures from the watery world.

Amidst it all, Daenerys moved tirelessly. Accompanied by Jorah and her new servants, she went from ship to ship, ensuring water rations were distributed fairly, calming frightened women, and overseeing the health of the horses whinnying anxiously in the dark, stuffy holds. She was no longer just a Queen in name; she was the heart of this survival operation.

On the seventh day, the sky began to change. Its bright blue faded to a steel gray. The wind that had been a gentle breeze now howled like a hungry wolf, tearing at banners and making rigging creak tautly. The previously calm ocean now churned, waves like small hills beginning to crash against the ships' hulls. The storm had found them.

Chaos erupted. A monstrous wave slammed into one of the smaller transport ships, snapping its main mast like a dry twig. Warriors screamed as they struggled to control torn sails. Pollo, who had been standing on the deck of his main vessel, did not hesitate. With blurring speed, he leaped across the turbulent gap between the two ships, landing heavily on the deck of the damaged vessel. Before anyone could react, he gripped the broken mast with both hands and, with a roar barely audible amidst the storm's fury, held it from crashing through the rest of the deck. His superhuman act halted the panic, replaced by stunned awe.

High above them, in the churning sky, Drogon let out a mighty roar, his fire illuminating the dark clouds for a moment. He did not fight the storm; he rode it. To the Dothraki below, their dragon flying above the chaos was a terrifying beacon, an affirmation that their god still watched.

That night, the storm reached its peak. Inside Pollo's wildly swaying cabin, Daenerys entered, drenched but her eyes shining with adrenaline. As "Stormborn," this tempest felt like coming home. She found Pollo standing by the wet window, staring out at the endless monstrous waves. For the first time, she saw a pure expression of frustration on his face.

"I can destroy an army with my bare hands," Pollo said, his voice low, barely audible above the storm's roar. "But I cannot stop this wind."

It was his first admission of vulnerability, a moment where his superhuman strength meant nothing against nature's wrath. Daenerys moved closer and placed her hand on his tensed arm. Her skin felt warm amidst the storm's chill.

"That is why you need a Queen," she said softly.

They stood there in silence for a long time, only their shoulders touching, a small anchor in the midst of a world turned upside down.

Dawn broke over a calm sea. The air was clean and fresh. The fleet was battered, ragged, and several ships had been lost forever. But they had survived. A weary, relieved silence settled over the warriors as they repaired the damage. Their fear of the sea had not vanished, but it was now mixed with a newfound respect. They had faced the wrath of the "poisoned water" and endured.

Suddenly, from the mast of the foremost ship, a hoarse voice cried out, a shout that broke the morning silence.

"LAND!"