Game Of Thrones: Khal Pollo (GOT)

In the Small Council Chambers, the air hung stale with unchecked ambition. Tyrion Lannister swirled his goblet, the Dornish wine within looking dark as blood beneath the gridded morning light. Across the table, his sister Cersei's face was a porcelain mask, cracked by paranoia.

"The Tyrells are delaying grain shipments again," she hissed, her voice sharp as broken glass. "They toy with us, Tyrion. They think us weak since Father's gone."

"Perhaps they are merely shrewd merchants, Sister," Tyrion countered, a touch weary. "Waiting for the highest price before selling."

Before Cersei could unleash her next insult, the door burst open. A Gold Cloak captain entered, his face flushed with haste. "Your Grace," he said, bowing awkwardly. "A report from the fishermen at the docks. They speak of... strange clouds over the sea. Moving too fast. And winged shadows the size of ships."

Cersei snorted in disgust. "Fishermen and their drunken tales. Tell them to drink less seawater and more wine. Now leave."

The captain retreated swiftly. Tyrion felt a flicker of unease, a cold premonition in his gut. Winged shadows. Varys's reports from Essos flashed through his mind. Suddenly, he felt a very faint tremor in his wine goblet. A rumble, so low it was barely audible, felt more in the bone than the ear.

"Thunder?" Pycelle mumbled. "The sky looks clear."

Above the city walls overlooking Blackwater Bay, a guard named Meryn yawned, bored. Suddenly, his companion nudged him, pointing east. "By the seven hells... what is that?"

Meryn squinted. Three black specks in the clear blue sky. Birds? Too large. Too fast. They grew at an unnatural speed, swelling from points to monstrous shapes in seconds. Alarm bells in one of the towers began to chime, hesitant at first, then escalating into a frantic clangor that spread from tower to tower across the city.

The first dragon, black as a starless night, dove. Acnologia.

Its shadow swallowed the Lannister fleet anchored in the bay. Sailors on deck looked up, their faces contorted by pure terror. The tearing roar of wind through its scales was the last sound they heard before Pollo gave a silent command. A torrent of black-red flame, a storm of shadow and embers, erupted from Acnologia's maw. It did not merely burn; it exploded. The flagship, the Pride of King's Landing, shattered into splinters, its masts snapping like twigs, its sails turning to ash in an instant. The water around it boiled and steamed. Explosion after explosion followed as Acnologia swept through the entire fleet, turning the bay into a burning inferno.

On the walls, Meryn could only stare, mouth agape, before the second dragon, bronze-green Rhaegal, swooped towards him. Daenerys, a small silver-haired figure on its back, pointed at the monstrous scorpion beside Meryn. A more focused jet of emerald green flame struck the war machine, reducing it to a pile of burning timber and molten metal.

From a balcony in Maegor's Holdfast, Cersei watched her fleet vanish. Her disbelief curdled into freezing rage. "ARCHERS!" she shrieked at the guards around her. "SHOOT THE BEASTS!"

It was then that Acnologia turned towards the Red Keep. The dragon did not destroy it. It did something worse. With a roar that shook the castle's foundations, it tore the top off the Tower of the Hand with its claws, a deliberate insult. Stones the size of horses tumbled into the courtyard below. Then, it unleashed fire upon the main gate, melting steel and blackening and cracking the surrounding stone.

North of the city, within the silence of the Kingswood, Vekho heard the roar. He and ten thousand Dothraki warriors had been waiting. They saw thick black smoke rising from the city. It was their signal. Vekho gave no speech. He simply raised his great arakh into the air.

"CHARGE!"

An unstoppable wave of Dothraki riders burst from the forest. They did not assault the city walls. They fanned out like a giant scythe, overrunning unprepared barracks outside the walls and cutting the Kingsroad, slaughtering panicked Lannister forces attempting to form defensive lines. Within minutes, King's Landing was completely isolated.

High above the chaos, Pollo felt everything. Through the Eye of R'hllor, he saw through Acnologia's eyes as it destroyed, through Rhaegal's as it crippled, and through Viserion's as it spread fire among the barracks. He saw their fleet shattered. Their defenses crippled. Their city besieged. Terror had peaked. His objective was achieved.

Through their mental bond, he gave the order to retreat.

He flew alongside Rhaegal. He saw Daenerys's face, a mask of conflict between horror at the destruction they had just wrought and the cold satisfaction of an undeniable victory. No words needed to be spoken amidst the roar of the wind.

The dragons vanished to the east as swiftly as they had arrived.

Tyrion Lannister staggered to his feet on the ruined walls of the Red Keep, the stone beneath his feet still hot. He looked down, at his fleet now smoking skeletons of ships in the bay. Thick black smoke billowed from various parts of the city, the smell of burnt timber and something far worse filling the air.

The silence the dragons left behind was far more terrifying than their roars. He looked north, at the thousands of campfires beginning to glow along the roads, a ring of steel and fire encircling them.

He finally understood. This was not a failed conquest attempt. This was not a blind barbaric assault. This was a statement. A brutal, perfect, undeniable chess opening.

The war he thought he was fighting, the war against the Starks and Baratheons, was over. The war that had just begun would be far, far worse.

He returned to the Small Council Chambers. Part of the ceiling had collapsed, dusting the polished table. Cersei was already there, sitting rigidly in her chair. Her hysterical rage had vanished, replaced by something far more terrifying: a quiet, frozen hatred. Varys stood in the shadows, his hands trembling uncontrollably within his robes. Littlefinger stared out the cracked window, his face an unreadable mask of calculation, his cunning brain working furiously to comprehend how the chessboard he knew had been shattered.

"They did not try to take the city," Tyrion said, his voice hoarse. "This was an execution. They crippled us."

"We will rebuild the fleet," Cersei said, her voice flat. "We will build bigger scorpions. Father will crush the Starks and then..."

"Father can do nothing!" Tyrion cut in. "We are trapped. A single dragon could burn Father's entire army before they even saw it. We are not fighting a man, Cersei. We are fighting dragons."

[The Conquerors' Return]

The dragons landed on Dragonstone's black shore, their powerful legs kicking up volcanic sand. Pollo dismounted Acnologia, his face showing the cold satisfaction of a perfectly executed plan. He patted his dragon's scaly neck, feeling the pulsing heat beneath. The victory felt clean and absolute.

A few steps away, Daenerys dismounted Rhaegal. Her body trembled violently. Her beautiful face was streaked with soot and dry tears she hadn't realized had fallen. She stared at her empty hands, as if she could see the blood of thousands of innocents staining them. The smell of burning flesh from King's Landing seemed to cling to her hair.

That night, she confronted him in the cold, echoing Throne Room.

"You have made me the Queen of Ashes," she whispered, her voice hoarse with horror, not anger. "I saw their faces from above, Pollo. The faces of people running in the streets. They carried no swords. They just... burned."

Pollo showed no remorse. He looked straight into her eyes, forcing her to see the brutal truth of their choices. "I saw it too," he countered, his voice calm. "I saw a city protected by a fleet and an army that would have killed every one of our soldiers given the chance. I saw a war that could have lasted a decade and starved an entire continent. The fire today was painful, yes. But it was a fire that will shorten this war. Their fear now will make other rulers think twice before spilling more blood."

"And if they are not afraid?" Daenerys challenged. "If what you sowed today was not fear, but hatred? Hatred that will burn longer than your dragonfire?"

Pollo was silent for a moment, considering her words. "Then we will extinguish that hatred too."

[Echoes North and South]

In Riverrun's Great Hall, Greatjon Umber's booming laugh died midway as Maester Vyman read the newly arrived dispatch from King's Landing. The maester's face was ashen as paper.

"...the royal fleet utterly destroyed... the Red Keep partially ruined... the city besieged by countless Dothraki hordes... three dragons..."

A stunned silence fell over the hall. Robb Stark stared at the map before him, his recent victory over Stafford Lannister suddenly feeling hollow.

"By the gods," Rickard Karstark whispered. "The Targaryen girl..."

Greatjon Umber was the first to recover, his massive beard trembling with renewed laughter. "The girl is doing our work for us! Let her dragons roast the lions! We'll march south and pick up the pieces!"

But Roose Bolton, who had stood silently in the shadows, spoke, his soft, cold voice cutting through the mirth. "The devil you do not know," he said, "is always more dangerous than the devil you do."

That night, Robb found his mother in Riverrun's sept. Catelyn Stark knelt, but she was not praying. She simply stared at the statues of the Seven with empty eyes.

"These are not allies, Robb," she said without turning. "This is the end of all kings. They do not come to negotiate. They come to conquer. Your father died trying to stop Targaryen madness. Do not let your victory be blinded by their fire."

At Harrenhal, Tywin Lannister read a similar report in utter silence. The vast Hall of a Hundred Hearths seemed to shrink around him. He showed no anger or surprise. He simply folded the parchment neatly and placed it on the table. The air around him grew cold. He did not see this as a defeat. He saw it as a personal insult, an unforgivable miscalculation on his part for underestimating the threat from the east.

"Kevan," he said quietly, his voice slicing the silence. His brother entered instantly.

"The war has changed," Tywin said, his voice sharp as ice. "The Stark boy is no longer the primary threat. He is a mad dog we must now kennel, not chase. Halt all offensive campaigns in the Riverlands. Consolidate our forces. Hold the Trident at all costs. I want every raven from King's Landing the moment it arrives."

He paused, his pale eyes fixed on the fire. "Send word to Tyrion. Tell him to forget his little games with the council. Order the Alchemists to begin wildfire production on an unprecedented scale. I want the Blackwater Rush ready to burn."

He paused again, his mind already leaping ahead, to his other enemies. "This news will reach Storm's End," he murmured, more to himself. "A dragon queen is a more tangible threat to a usurper than a stag. Let us see how loyal those roses are to their king now."

[Dragonstone]

Daenerys stood on the gargoyle-carved stone balcony, the cold sea wind whipping at her face. She could not sleep, haunted by the phantom of a burning city. She stared at the ocean, questioning the path they had taken. Is this the Targaryen destiny? she thought, a chill running through her that had nothing to do with the night wind. Not to build, but only to burn? They will not see me as their Queen. They will see me as the Mad King's daughter, come to finish his work.

Jorah approached, standing a few paces behind her. "A conqueror's path is always hard, Khaleesi," he said softly.

"This is not the path I chose, Ser Jorah," she replied, her voice barely a whisper.

"Sometimes," Jorah answered, "the path chooses us."

As the first dawn broke over Dragonstone, Qorro was at the highest lookout. His keen eyes, accustomed to scanning endless grasslands, now swept the ocean. Suddenly, he tensed.

He saw it. A speck on the southern horizon. A single ship. It sailed boldly towards their island, showing no signs of hostility. A white flag of peace fluttered from its mainmast. And beneath it, another banner, one that had no business being in these waters.

Not a lion. Not a stag. Not a wolf.

It was a bright orange sun, pierced by a golden spear.