Game Of Thrones: Khal Pollo (GOT)

The silence in the Chamber of the Painted Table was heavy and ancient after Oberyn Martell's departure. Pollo did not move. He simply stared at the carving of King's Landing on the stone table, his accelerated mind processing the offer that had just been laid before him.

The thrill of a predator surged within him, an unspoken acknowledgment of another predator of a different species. He appreciated the audacity of the offer, its efficient brutality. Poison. Sabotage. Murder in the night. This was a language he understood, the language of victory by any means necessary. Oberyn Martell was no boring politician; he was a fellow killer, only his weapons were whispers and shadows instead of arakhs and raw force.

The wave of heat from that thrill slowly receded, replaced by a cold clarity as his mind began to weigh the variables. The gain: inside intelligence, crippled enemy defenses before a battle even began, a chaos that would save thousands of his warriors' lives. It was an enormous strategic advantage, a shortcut to victory he could barely ignore. The loss: the risk of betrayal. Snakes were known to bite the hand that fed them. And more importantly, the moral cost. How could he sell this to Daenerys, who dreamed of being a Queen, not a tyrant?

He gave no answer to his Bloodriders who waited patiently. He simply said, "I will consider it."

In his lavish guest chambers within the castle, Prince Oberyn poured a glass of deep red Dornish wine. One of his most trusted guards, a man named Andrey Dalt, watched him with concern.

"My Prince," Andrey said, "is it wise to offer so much to a... barbarian?"

Oberyn gave a small laugh, a sound like silk being scraped over steel. "He is no barbarian, Andrey. He is something far more dangerous. He is a pragmatic tyrant." He sipped his wine, his dark eyes glinting. "We did not offer a sword. We offered a key. Now we see if the dragon is clever enough to use it, or merely foolish enough to burn everything down."

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That night, in their spacious bedchamber, the warmth from the great fireplace danced on their skin. After days of tension and planning, they had finally found solace in each other. Pollo came to her by the window, where Daenerys was staring out at the dark sea. He turned her to face him, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her deeply. The kiss was demanding, but not brutal. There was a question in it, a need to reaffirm their bond in this complicated new world.

Daenerys met the kiss with equal fervor, her fingers lacing into Pollo's long black hair, pulling him closer. He pushed her back slowly, step by step, until her back touched the cold fur of the bed. He pushed her onto the bed and climbed on top of her, her silver hair falling like a curtain on either side of her face.

"Tonight," she whispered, her voice husky. "You are mine."

Pollo gave a small smile, a feral glint in his eyes. "I have always been yours."

She began to move on top of him, her hips rotating in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Pollo allowed her to lead, his hands stroking her back, feeling her muscles tense beneath his touch. She was no longer a girl to be conquered; she was a Queen claiming her king. She bent down and kissed him again, her tongue dancing with his, while her body continued to move, building the heat between them.

Pollo reversed their positions with one powerful, fluid motion. Now he was on top, towering above her. He held her wrists, pinning them beside her head. He entered her with one deep, satisfying thrust.

"Ahh..." a long sigh escaped Daenerys's lips, her eyes closing.

His thrusts began, powerful and relentless. The sound of their sweat-slicked skin meeting filled the room, a wet, sticky thump-thump rhythm that blended with the crackle of the fire in the hearth. The firelight danced on Pollo's muscular back, highlighting every tensing muscle as he drove in and out. Daenerys's breath came in ragged gasps, each deep thrust drawing a small groan from her throat. "Nghh... ah... ah..."

His thick, hard cock filled her completely, each pull out making the muscles inside her clench in anticipation, each thrust in met with a louder gasp. "Pollo... ah... deeper..." she whispered, her words a plea and a surrender.

She arched her back off the bed, her hips moving up to meet him, her legs wrapping tightly around his rock-hard waist, pulling him in even deeper. "Yes... don't stop... don't stop!" she begged, her voice raw and desperate. Her nails dug into his shoulders, leaving red marks. She felt the wave building within her, hot and unstoppable, her gasps turning to a high-pitched shriek. "OH... GODS... POLLO!" She screamed his name as the climax hit her, her body convulsing violently beneath him, the muscles inside her vagina clutching and milking Pollo's manhood with pleasure. A deep, guttural roar tore from Pollo's chest as his own release came, his mighty body tensing before collapsing on top of her, both of them breathless and trembling in each other's arms, the scent of passion and woodsmoke filling the air.

After a while, in the comfortable silence, Pollo stroked Daenerys's silver hair, which was splayed across the pillows. He knew he had to tell her.

"Oberyn made a real offer," he said, his voice low in the darkness. "His Sand Snakes will infiltrate the city. They will poison commanders and sabotage defenses from the inside. They will pave the way for us."

Daenerys stiffened in his arms. The warmth between them suddenly felt cold. She pulled away slightly, just enough to look at his face in the dim firelight.

"With poison?" she whispered, her voice hoarse with horror. "With murder in the night? Pollo... those are the methods of cowards. Those are the methods of tyrants."

Pollo sighed. He tried to make her see. "This is a weapon, Dany. Just like Acnologia. A weapon that will save the lives of our warriors. Why should I send a thousand Dothraki to die taking a fortress, if one Dornish man can open the gates from within?"

"Because how we win matters!" Daenerys shot back, sitting up, pulling the silk sheet to cover herself. This was no longer a plea; it was a statement of belief. "If we win using the same methods as the tyrants we mean to replace, then what is the difference between us? I will not be the Queen of a kingdom built on whispers and shadows. I do not want to be like... my father."

The mention of the Mad King hung in the air between them, a ghost they could not banish. A sudden distance settled over that bed, a philosophical chasm that physical intimacy could not bridge. Pollo could not comprehend her rejection of such efficient logic. Daenerys was horrified by his ease in accepting such cruel tactics.

The next day, Daenerys found Jorah in Dragonstone's ancient library, where brittle parchment scrolls smelled of dust and time. She recounted Oberyn's offer and her moral dilemma.

Jorah looked profoundly troubled, his grim face creasing even more. "This is how the game is played in Westeros, Khaleesi," he said heavily. "Especially when dealing with Tywin Lannister. He would not hesitate to use such methods." He paused, looking at a stack of books. "But... you are right. Poison is a coward's weapon. It would stain your name forever in the eyes of the people you wish to lead."

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Pollo stood alone at the foot of Dragonmont. The heat radiating from the volcanic vents was a comfort on his skin. Nearby, Acnologia slept, thin wisps of smoke escaping his nostrils with every breath. Pollo did not care about the "justice" of Dorne. He only saw a transaction. Capturing one man, Gregor Clegane, was a small price to pay for such a massive strategic advantage. He weighed the value of the Martell sabotage against the cost of Daenerys's disappointment. The instinct to win, to crush his enemies in the most efficient way, warred with the logic that told him he needed Daenerys by his side, not against him.

He made his decision. Victory was more important than method, but the way that victory was presented to the world also mattered.

He summoned them all to the Throne Room: Daenerys, Jorah, and his Bloodriders.

"I have made a decision," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "We will accept Prince Oberyn's offer."

He saw the flicker of disappointment in Daenerys's eyes, but he continued before she could speak. "We will use their snakes to weaken the lions. But justice for Gregor Clegane will be ours. It will be done publicly, under my banners. Not a murder in the night, but the execution of a monster. The world will see that we bring justice, not just vengeance."

It was his compromise. A way to reframe cruelty as public justice. Daenerys remained silent, her face an unreadable mask of conflict.

Oberyn Martell was summoned back to the Chamber of the Painted Table. Pollo delivered his decision, including the condition about the public execution.

Oberyn smiled, a smile that showed he understood the game perfectly. He was dealing with a pragmatic tyrant, not a naive hero. "A wise choice, Khal Pollo," he said. "Justice, no matter how it is served, is still justice."

They sealed the deal, not with a handshake, but with a nod of mutual understanding between two predators.

At dawn the next day, Oberyn and his guards boarded their ship. He gave a final nod to Pollo, then a mysterious smile to Daenerys who stood silently in the distance, watching him from the castle balcony.

As his ship disappeared over the horizon, Pollo turned to face his commanders who had gathered on the beach.

"Qorro," Pollo said, his dark eyes glinting in the morning light. "You will lead this mission. Take five hundred of your fastest riders. While we burn King's Landing, all of Tywin Lannister's eyes will be to the south. That is your chance. You will cross into the Riverlands. I do not care how many villages you must bypass or how many Stark soldiers you must avoid. Your task is to find and capture Gregor Clegane. Bring him back to me. Alive."