Game Of Thrones: Khal Pollo (GOT)

The monstrous fleet crept out of the morning mist like a primordial school of sea monsters. Before them, Westeros greeted them not with promised green pastures, but with stone fangs. Dragonstone loomed from the turbulent sea, an architectural nightmare carved from a volcano. Jagged, sheer white chalk cliffs, wet with sea spray, starkly contrasted with the pitch black fortress perched atop them, its twisted, malevolent towers clawing at the grey sky.

On the decks of the countless ships, an unusual silence fell over the Dothraki warriors. They had conquered the sea, but this sight was something else. This was the land of gods or demons. The castle walls seemed to merge with the living rock, and countless dragon gargoyles stared down with empty eyes, as if petrified a thousand years ago mid-roar.

"That was not built by human hands," a warrior near Vekho whispered, his voice filled with awe mixed with fear.

Vekho did not reply. He simply gripped the hilt of his arakh, his dark eyes narrowed, assessing the strength of the walls.

The first landing ships hit the vast black sand beach. The volcanic sand shimmered wetly under the pale morning light, looking like shattered fragments of stars. Daenerys was the first to disembark, refusing Jorah's help. As her leather boots sank into the cool sand, she gasped, her breath catching in her throat. She knelt in one graceful motion and pressed her palm to the earth of her homeland. Cold. Hard. Real. Tears welled in her violet eyes, but did not fall. I am home, she thought, a whisper in her soul that echoed across generations.

Pollo stepped down beside her, his presence solid and unyielding. His eyes were not on the sand or on his queen's emotions. He looked up, following the long, winding path that ascended to the fortress. He saw the defensive positions, the natural ambush points, and the strategic strength of the island. This was an almost impregnable stronghold. Almost.

The Dothraki began to disembark, hesitantly at first, then with enforced discipline as Vekho's massive feet touched Westerosi soil. They gathered on the beach, a sea of hide and steel upon the black sand, staring upwards with a mixture of disbelief and nascent ambition.

"Vekho!" Pollo's voice cut through the air. "Take a thousand men. We take the castle."

The path was narrow and steep, flanked by sharp rocks on one side and a gaping chasm to the sea on the other. Vekho and his thousand strongest warriors moved uphill with terrifying speed, their natural ferocity now tempered by discipline. They were the spearhead of this invasion.

As they neared the final bend before the main gate, the sky above them suddenly darkened. A rain of fiery arrows shot down from the high walls, leaving smoky trails in the grey air. Some Dothraki in the front ranks fell with startled cries, their bodies impaled by the flaming projectiles. The rest roared in anger, not fear, but indignation. They were met not with an honorable challenge, but with fire from cowards hiding behind stone.

"Forward!" Vekho roared, raising a thick leather shield to deflect an arrow speeding towards him.

They charged past the final bend and arrived before the main gate. It was a monster of ancient black oak, reinforced with thick iron bars and studded with massive spikes. Their arakhs and axes bounced off its solid surface, leaving only minor scratches. From the murder holes above, more arrows rained down on them. The attacking force halted, trapped in the open space before the gate, easy targets.

Seeing his forces stalled, Pollo moved.

He surged past his own warriors, a black blur that made them seem motionless. He did not yell. He did not draw a weapon. He arrived before the gate.

He slammed his shoulder into the gate.

CRACK!

The sound of wood as thick as a man's arm cracking and splintering was heard even amidst the din of battle. The defenders on the walls stopped firing, staring in disbelief. Pollo took a step back, then slammed his fist into the center of the gate.

BOOM!

The gate exploded inwards, shattering into splinters of wood and twisted metal. The defenders' shocked silence lasted a moment before Vekho was the first to recover. With a deafening roar of triumph, he led his forces through the gaping breach.

The slaughter in the narrow inner courtyard lasted less than five minutes. The heavily armored Baratheon soldiers, though brave, were no match for the ferocity of a thousand enraged Dothraki in confined quarters. It was not a battle; it was an annihilation.

Some time later, Daenerys walked through the quiet courtyard, the bodies of defenders bearing the crowned stag sigil lying among the blood-wet stones. She entered the dark, imposing throne room. Massive, leaning stone pillars supported the high ceiling, and the pale light filtering in from the great windows behind the throne illuminated the uneven hexagonal stone floor. The throne itself was a sharp, menacing stone carving, as if hewn from dragon teeth. She approached and touched it. Cold. Hard. A seat made for a conqueror.

"Aegon sat here," Jorah whispered behind her, his voice filled with reverence. "From here he planned his conquest."

But Pollo was not there. He had found the true heart of the fortress.

When Daenerys entered the Chamber of the Painted Table, she found him standing in the center of a natural, perfected cave. A colossal, magnificent dragon carving dominated the stone wall behind him, and a large circular chandelier illuminated the map table crafted from a single giant slab of stone. Pollo stood atop the table, his boots defiling the ancient carvings of The Reach and Dorne. He did not see history; he saw a battlefield.

"We must send ravens from here," Daenerys said, her voice echoing in the cave's silence. "To Dorne. To the North. We show them that a Targaryen has returned to unite the realm against the Lannisters."

Pollo did not turn. His eyes were fixed on the stone map. "Their fleet is shattered. Their armies scattered. Their capital vulnerable."

He jumped down from the table, landing lightly on the stone floor. He walked to the eastern edge of the table, raising his dagger. With a sharp, deliberate movement, he plunged its tip into the carving of King's Landing. The scrape of steel on stone was loud and final in the cave's silence.

"Ravens are too slow. Dragons are faster." He finally raised his head and looked directly at her, his eyes burning under the torchlight. "We strike at dawn."

The sound of Pollo's dagger being pulled from the stone map echoed in the cave's silence, a sharp scrape that seemed to tear the veil of destiny. In the torchlit Chamber of the Painted Table, no one moved. Daenerys stared at him, her pale face illuminated by the flickering chandelier light. Her violet eyes, which a moment ago had shone with the emotion of her homecoming, now widened with disbelief and a creeping horror. By her side, Ser Jorah looked as though he had been struck, his mouth slightly agape. Even the usually impassive Bloodriders, Garo, Qorro, and Vekho, seemed to tense, their absolute loyalty now confronted with such a swift and devastating command. The silence itself was an argument, a vacuum filled with unspoken questions.

Pollo stared back at Daenerys, his dark eyes daring her to refute him. He saw the storm gathering within his queen, and a part of him welcomed it.

Daenerys turned without a word, her cloak swirling around her, and walked with rapid strides out of the cave. Pollo followed her, his long, deliberate strides easily matching her furious pace. They crossed the quiet courtyard, past bowing warriors, and into the cold, grand throne room.

She stopped before the sharp, menacing stone throne, then turned to face him, the true fire of anger finally lighting in her eyes.

"You wish me to be a Queen of Ashes?" Her voice trembled, not with fear, but with fury. "To rule over the bones of innocent children who do not even know our names? This is not liberation, this is terror!"

"This is war," Pollo retorted, his voice calm and deadly. "And wars are won by destroying your enemies, not by hoping they will like you."

"I have seen how you rule the khalasar," Daenerys continued, her voice rising. "You forge them with fear, with dragonfire. That works on the Dothraki, who only respect strength. Do you think the same methods will work on the people of Westeros? They will despise us! They will see us not as liberators, but as foreign savages come to burn their homes!"

"Allies?" Pollo gave a short, humorless laugh. "The lords of Westeros are wolves, Dany. They will sniff, figure out who is strongest, and then they will side with the victor. They do not care for justice. They care for power. We will show them true power, on their doorstep, and they will kneel."

The feeling, the desire for swift and total victory, burned within him. His logic quickly formed justifications. "We will cut off the serpent's head now," he said, stepping closer. "End this war in days, not years. Think of it. One decisive strike. How many lives will we save in the long run by not letting this war drag on?"

"And how many lives will be lost at dawn?" Daenerys countered.

Their argument peaked. Pollo gripped her arm, his hold firm but not painful. "I am its sword, and you are its crown. Let me do what a sword must do."

Daenerys pulled her arm away with force. "A crown means nothing if the kingdom is a graveyard!"

With those last words, she turned and left him alone before the empty throne.

Pollo did not follow her this time. He stood for a moment in the echoing silence, then turned and walked out into the inner courtyard. His generals were already waiting for him. Under the dancing torchlight, Vekho, Qorro, and Garo squatted on the dusty ground. They did not need a fancy stone map. They drew the outlines of King's Landing in the dirt with the tips of their daggers.

"The plan is simple," Pollo said, his voice returning to that of a commander. He pointed to a circle representing the city. "We will not try to take it. We will cripple it."

He outlined the three pronged attack. Acnologia and Rhaegal, the largest and fastest, would attack from the sea, burning the Royal Fleet in Blackwater Bay and demolishing the walls of the Red Keep. Viserion, smaller and more agile, would strike from the land, targeting the Gold Cloaks' barracks at the Dragon Gate. Meanwhile, Vekho would lead ten thousand warriors across under cover of darkness, landing north of the bay and cutting off the Kingsroad, ensuring nothing could enter or leave.

The Bloodriders did not question the wisdom of the command. They did not ask "why." They only asked "how."

"How many ships will we need to transport ten thousand men undetected?" Garo asked.

"How will we deal with any Scorpions that might be on the walls?" Qorro asked.

They discussed the technical details for an hour, their sharp minds focused on execution, not morality. It was a stark contrast to the emotional storm that had just taken place in the throne room.

Far from the war council, Daenerys stood on a stone balcony carved with menacing gargoyles, gazing at the black waves breaking on the rocks below. The cold sea wind whipped at her face, but could not cool the turmoil within her.

"Khaleesi?"

She turned and saw Ser Jorah approaching, keeping a respectful distance.

"Am I wrong, Ser Jorah?" she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper above the roar of the waves. "Is this the only way?"

Jorah stared at the sea for a long moment before replying. He seemed torn, his loyalty warring with his experience. "Militarily... it is a perfect plan, Khaleesi. Swift, decisive, brutal. Tywin Lannister himself would admire its audacity." He paused, letting out a heavy sigh. "But as a Queen... you are right. The people will remember the fire, not the purpose. They will remember the terror, not the liberation."

Daenerys could not sleep that night. She left her cold chambers and walked aimlessly, her steps taking her out of the castle, towards the foot of the Dragonmont. There, near the source of volcanic heat that made the air shimmer, her dragons rested. They were restless, sensing their master's tension.

She approached Rhaegal, who raised his bronze head as she drew near. She placed her hand on his warm scales, feeling the low rumble in his throat. "Lykirī, ñuha riña," she whispered in Valyrian. Calm, my child.

From a distance, atop a higher cliff, she saw Pollo's silhouette. He stood with Acnologia. There was no tenderness between them. Only two predators who understood each other, staring west in shared silence, hungry for conquest.

The first light of dawn began to paint the clouds in shades of pink and grey when Pollo found her on the same balcony. He stood beside her, not touching her, simply looking out at the sea with her.

There were no more arguments. The battle of wills had ended, leaving a tense ceasefire.

"Will you fly with me?" Pollo asked. It was not a question of participation, but of unity.

Daenerys looked at him, her inner conflict evident in her violet eyes. She had argued, she had pleaded, but she also knew that this war machine, once set in motion, could not be stopped. She could only try to steer it.

"I will fly," she replied, her voice stronger than she expected. "For my people."

It was a subtle statement, a promise that her purpose was different, though their path was the same for now.

Pollo nodded once, accepting her answer.

At that moment, from the beach below, the sound began. A single Dothraki war drum, struck with a deep, slow, inevitable rhythm. DUM... DUM... DUM... Like the heartbeat of a world waiting for war.

The time had come.