Game Of Thrones: Khal Pollo (GOT)

Aboard his flagship, the Fury, Stannis Baratheon stared at the blackened silhouette of King's Landing on the horizon. The salty sea air was sharp in his lungs, a cleanser for the filth he would soon sweep from his throne. His enormous armada, more than two hundred warships strong, stretched out behind him like an endless forest of masts and sails, each one flying the banner of the Crowned Stag in flames.

"The bay is quiet," Davos Seaworth said by his side, his voice hoarse with unease. "Too quiet, Your Grace."

Stannis did not take his eyes off the city. "They are savages who ride horses," he replied, his voice as sharp as ice. "They know nothing of war on the sea. They hide behind their walls like frightened rats." He turned to his captain. "Give the signal. Advance in battle formation."

The Baratheon war horns roared, their guttural, demanding sound echoing across the water. The armada began to move forward, an inevitable wall of steel and wood, entering the mouth of the Blackwater Rush.

High in the Red Keep, Tyrion Lannister watched from the highest window in the Tower of the Hand. He saw Stannis's fleet enter the bay, a sight that sent a cold shiver of memory down his spine. He recognized the trap because he had designed it.

But something felt different. There was no royal fleet to block them. No giant chain. The docks seemed empty. Then he saw them. Small, fast boats, like water bugs, darting out from behind the wreckage of the burnt fleet. Dothraki. They weren't trying to fight. They moved between Stannis's massive ships, hurling large clay pots into the water before retreating quickly.

"Wildfire," Tyrion whispered to himself. He could smell the faint scent of the substance even from this distance. "But how will they light it?"

High above the bay, soaring in a thin layer of clouds, Daenerys gripped the saddle on Rhaegal's back. The cold wind whipped at her face. Below her, Stannis's armada looked like a child's toys. She could hear the shouts of the men on the decks, see their tiny faces looking up in terror.

She remembered the charred bodies in the streets of King's Landing. She remembered Cersei's screams. She remembered Jorah's fallen body. I will not be a monster.

Then, she remembered Pollo's words, cold and demanding on the wall. "I'm only asking you to show them why they should fear their Queen."

She made her choice.

She steered Rhaegal, not toward the dense mass of ships, but toward a single, largest, and most magnificent target: Stannis's flagship, the Fury.

"Dracarys," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the roar of the wind.

A concentrated blast of golden-green flame shot from Rhaegal's jaws. It was not a storm of fire, but a spear of liquid flame. It struck the Fury's mainmast, turning the oak-thick wood into burning splinters in an instant. The fire swept across the command deck, melting armor and immolating the knights who stood there. The attack was brutal and precise.

Aboard Acnologia, Pollo watched Daenerys's perfect strike. It was his signal. He did not swoop toward the fleet. He steered his dragon behind them, to the mouth of the bay they had now fully entered.

Now, his command was silent.

Acnologia opened his jaws. A devastating blast of black-red fire did not hit a single ship. It struck the surface of the water itself.

Aboard the crippled Fury, Stannis Baratheon, who had survived the initial attack, watched in disbelief as the sea behind his fleet exploded.

VWOOOOOOOSSSSHHH!

The pots of wildfire that the Dothraki had scattered detonated in unison. The sea itself caught fire. A towering wall of green hell erupted from the water, trapping Stannis's entire armada within the bay. The heat was so intense that the paint on the ships' hulls began to blister and sizzle.

Stannis Baratheon's last thought was not of his throne or his god. It was a terrifying realization as he saw the inevitable wall of green flame hurtling toward him, ready to consume him and all his ambitions. The Blackwater Bay had become his fiery tomb.

=====

In the Throne Room of the Red Keep, the air was heavy with the smell of dust, cleansed blood, and a lingering fear. From Daenerys's perspective, seated on a smaller chair beside the Iron Throne, the procession of Westeros's great lords looked like a funeral march.

One by one, they came forward. Mace Tyrell of Highgarden, his usually flushed face now pale with sweat, awkwardly placed his bejeweled sword at Pollo's feet. The envoy from the Vale, trembling, swore fealty on behalf of Lysa Arryn. The remaining lords of the Riverlands and Stormlands followed, each of their oaths sounding hollow in the echoing silence of the hall.

Pollo accepted each vow with a barely perceptible nod, his cold eyes assessing every man who knelt before him. To Daenerys, this was not the restoration of a dynasty; it was a total conquest, a world submitting not out of love, but out of terror.

That night, in a private council chamber, Pollo received Lord Mace Tyrell. Lord Tyrell entered, attempting a jovial smile, and began to boast about the fertile fields of the Reach and the loyalty of his house.

Pollo allowed him to speak for a moment, then calmly opened a marked page in a Black Book. He made no threats. He simply read a single sentence in a flat voice: "'Regarding the death of King Renly Baratheon at Storm's End, Maester Ballamore noted that the King died of a seizure after drinking a glass of Dornish wine, the same wine served to him by his Queen-to-be, Lady Margaery...'"

Mace Tyrell's face went ashen. His smile vanished. A cold sweat beaded on his forehead.

Pollo closed the book with a quiet, final KLAK. "Queen Daenerys seems lonely in this foreign palace," he said calmly. "I want Margaery Tyrell to come to King's Landing. As a 'friend' for the Queen. Of course, as an unmarried woman of such beauty and lineage, she will be the most honored of prisoners."

Mace Tyrell stared at Pollo, and he understood the unspoken threat perfectly. This wasn't just blackmail. Pollo was subtly offering her up as a spare Queen-to-be, a tool he could use if Daenerys became too troublesome.

"And," Pollo added, "I want half of the Reach's harvest diverted to feed my khalasar for the next two years. Not as a tax. As a gift."

Mace Tyrell could only nod, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Daenerys, growing more alienated and horrified by Pollo's methods, sought out Tyrion in the Red Keep's library, which had now become his gilded cage.

"He doesn't rule," she said, her voice trembling. "He threatens. He doesn't build alliances. He collects hostages and secrets."

Tyrion looked at the idealistic young queen with a mix of pity and bitter realism. "Welcome to King's Landing, Your Grace," he said, pouring a glass of wine. "You said you wanted to break the wheel. He's not breaking it. He's grinding it to dust and building a completely new machine from the pieces. A much more efficient one."

The next day, Pollo gathered all the surrendered lords in the Throne Room. He issued his first decrees, a Westerosi version of the "Law of the Khal." Its contents were brutal and simple: Disputes between houses would now be settled by him, with the punishment being dragonfire. Stealing from the crown would be punished with mutilation. Refusal to obey a Dothraki commander placed in their lands would be considered treason.

Daenerys stood beside him, a silver-haired puppet forced to be the face of this tyranny. She saw the horror and fear on the faces of the lords of Westeros as they heard their thousands of years-old feudal traditions shattered in a few sentences.

=====

Inside the silk pavilion erected at the edge of the vast meadow, Daenerys stood still as her handmaidens dressed her in ceremonial attire. Her skin was delicately painted, the sheer silk felt cool against her skin, and heavy silver medals were pinned to her. Outside, the sound had already begun. Not a faint noise, but a vibration that traveled through the ground, through the carpet, and up into her chest.

DUM-DUM... DUM-DUM-DUM...

Dozens of giant horsehide drums were beaten to a deep, primal, and hypnotic rhythm. It was the heartbeat of a people preparing for worship, a call she could not ignore.

Pollo entered the pavilion, his movements silent. He was already bare-chested, his powerful muscles gleaming with oil under the torchlight. His body had been painted with ancient Dothraki symbols using a mixture of ash and blood. He said nothing, simply extending his hand. It wasn't a request, but a command. With a heavy heart, Daenerys accepted his hand and allowed herself to be led outside.

From the highest window of the Red Keep, Tyrion Lannister watched the scene with a glass of wine in hand. He saw the barbarian Khal lead the last Dragon Queen across the transformed meadow, toward a sea of bonfires and his tens of thousands of followers. "Gods help us all," he muttered into his chalice. "He's even making her participate."

Pollo and Daenerys sat on rough chairs decorated with leather and bone upon a raised earthen stage. From here, Daenerys could see the full scale of the celebration. The music grew louder, the wail of bone flutes joining the drums, and a thousand voices began a chant, a repeating, guttural mantra that made the air tremble.

"Vezh, Khal! Vezh, Pollo!"

The dancing began. Dothraki children leaped into the circle first, their wild laughter mixing with the music.

Then, as the children's wild laughter faded, the rhythm of the drums changed. The tempo slowed to a deep, heavy, and hypnotic heartbeat. The Dothraki women stepped forward from the crowd, their skin glistening with oil and sweat, reflecting the dancing light of the fires.

They began to move.

It was not a joyous celebratory dance. It was a raw, sensual ritual. Their hips began to move in slow, liquid circles, as if detached from the rest of their bodies. Their bellies rippled to the deep rhythm of the drums, every muscle controlled with surprising precision. Their hands rose into the air, their fingers curling and uncurling like strange flowers in the night.

Their long black hair, left loose, became part of the dance. As they twirled, the hair swung like whips of black silk, sometimes covering their sweaty faces before being thrown back with a sharp jerk of the head. From their throats came a low, guttural chant, a sound older than words, that merged with the beat of the drums.

From her seat, Daenerys watched with bated breath. She saw the women's shoulders and hips shake rapidly in a powerful shimmy, a burst of controlled energy that made the silver medals on their belts jingle softly. This was a dance of power, a dance of fertility, a celebration of wild and untamed life.

"Dothras chek! Shierak qiya!"

Finally, the warriors stormed in. Their dance was war. They stomped their feet on the ground, beating their chests with their fists—BUM! BUM! BUM!—a deafening human percussion. They twirled their arakhs, the gleaming blades creating a dangerous circle of death.

"GREAT KHAL! GREAT STALLION! AAAAARRRRGGHHH!"

Daenerys watched in horror as a dozen black stallions had their throats slit. She felt a splash of warm blood on her face as Pollo was ritually washed in it, but she did not dare wipe it away. She had to maintain the serene face of a Queen.

The dancing and chanting reached a frenzied climax. Pollo, now soaked in blood and sweat, stood before the main bonfire. Vekho and Garo approached the stage, carrying a rough crown forged for a war god: made from a braid of the burnt manes of the black stallions, adorned with the broken teeth of arakhs.

As the crown was placed on Pollo's head, the dancing and music stopped instantly. The entire khalasar fell to their knees as one, creating a sudden and stunning wave of silence. The only sound was the greedy crackle of the bonfires.

The silence was broken by a single, deafening roar in unison, a wave of sound that shook the Red Keep to its foundations: "POLLO! GREAT KHAL! GREAT STALLION!"

Pollo raised his blood-soaked hand and roared back, a promise of conquest that drove his followers into even greater madness.

Daenerys remained seated, frozen, a thin, forced smile plastered on her face. The roar was directed at her as much as at Pollo. She was the Queen of this barbarian god. She felt trapped, isolated in the midst of tens of thousands of fanatical worshipers.

Pollo turned and looked at her, his eyes glinting wildly under his new crown, a gaze that no longer sought her approval, but demanded her worship. Daenerys could only hold his gaze, her world shrinking to this firelit stage and the man who had become her god.