Game Of Thrones: Khal Pollo (GOT)

[POV Storyteller]

The world of the living has a new king. After the fires of conquest subsided, Khal Pollo, now sitting on the Iron Throne, was confronted with an enemy that desired not the throne, but extinction. His vision from the Eye of R'hllor had shown him a terrible truth: beyond the Wall, an eternal winter was gathering its army. The War for Westeros was over; the War for the Dawn was about to begin.

In the silent Throne Room, where the echoes of battle still lingered among the stone pillars, Pollo opened the Black Book of the Houses. He no longer sought the secrets of men. He sought older knowledge. Within the pages made of shadow hide, the Great Khal read a history the world had forgotten. He read about the first Long War, about how the Children of the Forest created the Night King from a man, and about how the creature turned against them. He read about his weaknesses: dragonfire, frozen dragonglass, and the rare Valyrian Steel. In one night, the mystery that had haunted Westeros for thousands of years became a clear tactical problem in the mind of the conqueror.

As Pollo began his planning, an unexpected figure arrived in King's Landing. From the sea that had witnessed Stannis's defeat, came Melisandre, the Red Woman, alone. She had looked into her fires and witnessed a new truth. Not Stannis, but Pollo with his dragons, fire immunity, and the power to unite the world was the true Azor Ahai.

She presented herself before the Iron Throne, not as a petitioner, but as a devout follower. "I have seen you in the fire, Champion of Light," she whispered. "I have come to serve the will of R'hllor."

Pollo, the pragmatist, saw her as another tool, a key to a greater power. An intimate and passionate "union of fire" ritual took place in a candlelit chamber. She offered herself as a sacrifice, and in the union of their fires, a gift was forged. When the climax arrived, the "Gift System" was triggered, and Pollo was granted his ultimate weapon: a Valyrian Steel Arakh, its blade dark as night and rippling with ancient magical patterns, sharp enough to cut winter itself.

With his new knowledge and weapon, Pollo issued a series of decrees that shook Westeros to its foundations. Ravens flew to every corner of the kingdom, carrying the word of the Great Khal:

To the North, Sansa Stark was named Lady of Winterfell and Wardeness of the North, a cold, strategic move to use the Stark name to ensure the North's obedience in the coming war.

To Dragonstone, the volcano was ordered to be mined day and night. Thousands of forced laborers were sent to tear out the heart of the mountain, extracting every ounce of dragonglass.

To the entire kingdom, all blacksmiths, from the lavish workshops in Lannisport to the village blacksmiths in the Riverlands, were ordered to forge only weapons. Special orders were sent to create thousands of dragonglass-coated arakhs, a deadly fusion of Dothraki tradition and the needs of a new war.

Across the Narrow Sea, a fast ship was sent to Pentos with a message for Illyrio Mopathis. The order was simple: "Buy the entire Unsullied legion from Astapor. Send them to Westeros. Failure will be met with fire."

And the world witnessed what it had never seen before. An entire continent was mobilized by the will of one man. Knights from The Vale marched alongside the dark-skinned warriors of Dorne. Giant carts carried dragonglass north. At sea, ships from the Iron Islands and the remnants of the royal fleet sailed in unison, transporting the newly arrived Unsullied legion, freed slave-warriors only to serve a new, stronger master.

On land, a massive Dothraki khalasar moved as the heart of this gigantic army. And above them all, three dragons blotted out the sun.

The entire force of the world of the living now gathered at Moat Cailin, the ancient fortress at the Neck. Under Pollo's command and Tyrion's forced logistical genius, the swamp was transformed into an impenetrable front-line fortress, a shield wall of steel, stone, and dragonglass, awaiting the arrival of the eternal winter and the true enemy.

=====

Atop the Wall, silence was the most terrifying enemy. For three days, there had been no wind, no sound of beast from the Haunted Forest, only a dead silence and an unnatural cold that seeped into the ancient ice, making bones feel brittle. Jon Snow stood beside Tormund Giantsbane, their breaths misting in the freezing air.

"Something's wrong coming, Crow," Tormund growled, his red beard crusted with ice. "I can feel it in my bones."

It was then that the watchman's horn blew. One long, mournful blast, hanging in the cold air. A ranger returning. Seconds later, a second, more urgent blast. Wildlings. And then, the sound that froze the blood of every man. A third blast. Long, quavering, and full of despair. Others.

From the Haunted Forest, they emerged. Not as a horde, but as an endless sea of corpses moving in total silence, their eyes glowing like blue shards of ice in the pre-dawn gloom.

Then, from the front ranks, gigantic figures emerged: undead giants. Instead of trying to breach the Wall, they began the unthinkable. They grabbed the smaller wights around them, swung them like rag dolls, and hurled them over the Wall.

Jon watched in horror as a rain of corpses began to fall on top of the Wall and into the courtyard of Castle Black below.

A fierce battle erupted along the top of the Wall. Jon drew Longclaw, his Valyrian steel singing in the cold air as he cut down the first wight. All around him, utter chaos ensued. Wildlings and brothers of the Night's Watch fought side by side, their shouts mixed with the groans of the undead. The fight was brutal and claustrophobic. A man screamed as he was grabbed and thrown from the edge of the Wall, his cries lost in the blizzard that was starting to descend.

While the battle raged above, the main wight army had reached the base of the Wall, piling up in front of the magically sealed tunnel gate.

From above, Jon saw him. The Night King advanced through his army. He dismounted his undead steed and walked calmly toward the gate.

He placed his hand on the gate. It began to crack, a cold, blue light spreading from his touch, shattering the ancient magical seal. With a deafening KRAKK! that shook the entire Wall, the gate exploded inward, shattering into icy fragments. The first wave of the sea of undead began to flood the tunnel.

Jon Snow realized instantly: The Wall had been breached. They had lost.

"RETREAT!" he yelled, his voice hoarse with desperation. "RETREAT TO WINTERFELL!"

He and his survivors fought their way down the lift, beginning their desperate escape south. As they rode their remaining horses away from Castle Black, Jon looked back for the last time. He saw the Army of the Dead flooding into the world of men like an unstoppable river of death.

The old tales spoke of heroes riding alone to warn the world. Jon Snow was not alone, but he felt more isolated than anyone. Behind him, the Ice Wall that had stood for eight thousand years was now a weeping ruin. By his side, Tormund Giantsbane and a handful of battered survivors spurred their exhausted horses south, every breath a puff of steam in the unnaturally freezing air.

The storytellers would recount the horrors of their journey.

Far to the south, at the gigantic fortress of Moat Cailin, Khal Pollo felt something was wrong. The air was colder than it should be. He stood inside his main command tent, a palace of leather and silk surrounded by the largest military camp the world had ever seen. He took up the Eye of R'hllor.

He no longer just saw images. He witnessed the event as if he were a god floating above Westeros. He saw the collapsing Wall. He saw the sea of undead flooding the North. And he saw a small group of desperate riders led by Jon Snow fleeing for their lives.

He immediately called his war council. His orders were brief and unarguable. "The entire army," he said, his voice echoing in the crowded tent. "Move north. Our destination: Winterfell. Now."

In Winterfell, Sansa Stark had been working tirelessly. As the newly appointed Wardeness of the North, she carried out Pollo's orders with cold efficiency. The ancient granite walls had been reinforced with dragonglass spikes, the granaries had been filled to bursting, and the lords of the North, now obedient out of fear and respect for the Stark name, had assembled their forces.

As preparations reached their peak, the gates of Winterfell opened to receive Jon Snow and his survivors. The reunion between Jon and Sansa was a brief, emotional moment amid the war preparations. Jon brought firsthand news of the horror, confirming their worst fears, and immediately took his place, helping to organize the defenses on the walls.

Then, they came. Not the dead, but the living.

From the south, the horizon darkened with endless ranks. The Unsullied legion arrived first, tens of thousands of eunuch soldiers marching in perfect discipline, their dragonglass spears glinting in unison beneath the gray sky. Behind them, the banners of every remaining Great House fluttered reluctantly: the Rose of the Tyrells, the Falcon of the Arryns, the Sun of the Martells, tens of thousands of Westerosi soldiers forced to march north by the will of the conqueror.

And finally, the sea itself seemed to move. The entire Dothraki khalasar arrived, filling the plains around the castle, turning the snowy fields into a sea of horses and leather, their bonfires burning like new stars fallen to earth.

From atop the Winterfell walls, Jon Snow and Sansa Stark watched the impossible sight. The largest army ever assembled in human history was now camped on their doorstep. Above them, Acnologia and Rhaegal circled like a living storm, their roars a promise of the fire to come.

They were no longer alone. Jon looked out to the northern horizon, where the true blizzard was beginning to appear, an impenetrable white wall. The final battle was about to begin.

=====

Jon Snow stood on the walls of Winterfell, his breath misting in the unnaturally freezing air. Below him, on the lightly snow-dusted fields, the army of the living waited. The disciplined Unsullied stood shoulder to shoulder with the heavily bearded Northern soldiers, while in the distance, the restless sea of the Dothraki khalasar waited like a storm about to break. The total silence before the battle was the most terrifying thing of all.

Then, they came in a dreadful silence, an endless tidal wave of corpses appearing on the horizon, their eyes glowing like blue shards of ice in the pre-dawn gloom.

Vekho, on his huge warhorse, felt the ground tremble as the sea of the undead approached. On Pollo's command delivered by a courier, he raised his dragonglass-coated arakh.

"ARCHERS!" he roared, his voice thundering across the snowy plains. "READY!"

As one, the tens of thousands of Dothraki warriors behind him drew their great bows.

"DRAW!"

TWANGGGGG! The sound of tens of thousands of bowstrings being drawn simultaneously sounded like a great beast's deep breath. On each bowstring, an arrow tipped with a deadly glittering black dragonglass was notched.

"FIRE!"

A moment's silence was followed by a ripping sound in the air—SSSHHHIIIIIIIRRRRR!—as a black cloud of arrows shot into the gray dawn sky, blotting out the sun for a moment before raining down on the front ranks of the army of the dead. There were no screams of pain, only the sound of brittle bones cracking and falling corpses, crushed by thousands of volcanic projectiles.

Before the enemy could recover, Vekho roared again. "FIRE!"

The Dothraki warriors moved with trained speed. They took a second arrow, its tip wrapped in oil-soaked cloth, and lit it on prepared torches. In an instant, the field in front of Winterfell became a sea of thousands of dancing pinpricks of fire.

"FIRE!"

The second wave shot out, a fiery meteor shower. The arrows were not aimed at the army of the undead, but at the trenches in front of them that had been filled with wildfire.

As the first flaming arrow touched the sticky green surface, there was a moment of silence.

Then...

VWOOOOOOOSH!

The ground exploded upwards. A towering wall of green and orange fire, as high as the Winterfell walls, erupted from the earth with a deafening roar. The heat wave was so intense that the Dothraki in the front ranks had to calm their neighing, terrified horses. The fire devoured thousands of wights in the front ranks, burning the enemy in a purgatorial hell, creating a blazing barrier between the world of the living and the sea of the dead.

From atop Rhaegal, Daenerys saw the hell below her. She and Pollo on Acnologia were fire gods, flying across the dark, cloudy sky like two comets of vengeance.

"Dracarys!" she yelled, her voice barely audible amidst the rushing wind.

A devastating blast of golden-green fire swept through the front ranks of the army of the dead, turning thousands of wights into silently screaming torches. On the other side, Acnologia's black-red fire cleaved the sea of the undead, leaving a trail of ash and blackened bones. For a moment, they were an unstoppable force.

On the ground, the clash happened.

The solid shield wall of the Unsullied held back the first wave. KRAKK! KRAKK! KRAKK! The sound of their dragonglass-coated spears piercing and shattering the frozen corpses was like the cracking of ice in winter. They fought in disciplined silence, every movement economical and deadly.

On the flanks, the Dothraki khalasar was the opposite. They were a storm of fury and chaos. Led by Vekho, they charged into the ranks of the undead, their dragonglass arakhs slicing off rotting limbs and decapitating heads. "AAAAARRRGGGHHH!" their roars mixed with the inhuman groans of their enemies, creating a hellish symphony of steel meeting bone.

However, the sea of the undead seemed endless. For every wight that fell, two more seemed to rise from the frozen ground to take its place. The army of the living, despite fighting bravely, began to be pushed back by the sheer pressure of countless numbers.

From atop the walls, Jon Snow saw the enemy's tactics change. The wights stopped trying to breach the gate. Instead, they began to do something more horrifying. They started climbing on top of each other.

With a complete disregard for their own survival, the corpses in the front ranks allowed themselves to be trampled, their bodies forming a quivering ramp. Hundreds, then thousands, of wights crawled over the backs of their fellows, creating a horrifying living "corpse ladder" that slowly ascended to the top of the Winterfell walls.

"By the gods..." Jon whispered.

Daenerys, from above, saw it too. She directed Rhaegal to burn the climbing pile of corpses. Her fire devoured hundreds of wights on the surface, but those below continued to push upwards, protected by the burning bodies on top of them. Their fire was not enough. The enemy's numbers were too great. Their defenses would soon be breached.

In the midst of the chaos, Daenerys saw him. The Night King, on his dead horse, emerged from the blizzard. With unnatural speed, he hurled an ice spear. Daenerys saw it shoot toward Viserion, who was flying riderless as fire support. The spear pierced the cream-colored dragon's neck. Viserion's heartbreaking scream was the sound of shattering glass, tearing the sky as he fell and crashed into the frozen lake outside the Winterfell walls.

Pollo felt a surge of rage. He directed Acnologia to attack, but the Night King raised his hand, and a blinding blizzard raged, blocking the attack. Through a gap in the storm, they saw a horrifying sight. The Night King stood at the edge of the cracked lake. He raised his hand. From beneath the ice, Viserion rose again. His cream-colored scales were now pale and bluish, and his eyes glowed with the same dead blue light as his new master's. The Night King mounted his Ice Dragon.

The real aerial battle began.

"SKREEEEEEEONNNK!"

Acnologia's roar was the sound of splitting mountains, a sonic blast that made the soldiers below cover their ears in pain. He dived, black-red fire beginning to gather in the back of his throat like a solar storm about to erupt. By his side, Rhaegal let out a sharper, more melodious, but no less deadly shriek.

The Ice Dragon Viserion made no sound. He simply opened his jaws, and from within came a silent but devastating blast of blue ice.

VWOOOOOSH!

Acnologia's black-red fire blast met Viserion's ice breath in the middle of the sky. It was not just a clash of elements; it was an explosion that tore reality. The air hissed and exploded in a massive cloud of steam, raining boiling water and dagger-sharp ice shards down on the battlefield below.

Rhaegal, seeing an opening, attacked from the side. His golden-green fire hit Viserion's glass-like wing.

KRAKK!

The ice cracked but did not break. Viserion spun in the air with unnatural speed, his sword-sharp tail lashing out, scratching Acnologia's side.

"GRAAAAWWR!"

A roar of pure pain and anger came from Acnologia. For the first time, his hot black blood dripped from the sky. The fight turned into a brutal close-quarters battle. Acnologia lunged, his huge jaws trying to crush Viserion's neck. His obsidian teeth met the magic-reinforced ice with a sickening KRUNCH! sound, sending a tremor through his entire body.

Viserion retaliated, his icy claws tearing at Rhaegal's belly, leaving deep scratches that froze the blood on contact. Rhaegal shrieked, twisting his body and spewing fire directly into Viserion's face. The ice around Viserion's blue eyes melted and vaporized instantly, but the undead dragon seemed to feel no pain.

The sky above Winterfell became the stage for a dragon duel. Three gigantic shadows ripped, clawed, and burned each other in the middle of a blizzard. Their roars shook the foundations of the castle.

In a desperate move, Acnologia managed to grab Viserion with his claws and jaws. Rhaegal, seeing his chance, crashed into both of them, trying to help his living brother. The three dragons were now locked in a death embrace, a gigantic ball of scales, claws, fire, and ice.

They fell from the sky in an uncontrolled spiral, crashing into Winterfell's courtyard and walls in a rain of stones, ice, and dragon scales.

Jon Snow coughed, pushing a chunk of stone off his chest. All around him, Winterfell's courtyard was a hell of fire and ice. The Unsullied held the line with inhuman discipline, their dragonglass spears moving in unison, while the Dothraki and Northern soldiers fought in desperate groups against the endless waves of the undead.

In the midst of the chaos, Jon saw him.

The Night King walked calmly through the slaughter. He was not in a hurry. He did not fight. The rampaging wights parted before him like water around a stone. His goal was clear: the Godswood, the ancient heart of the North.

A cold deeper than winter itself gripped Jon. "NO!" he yelled, his voice hoarse. He rose to his feet, Longclaw in his hand. "STOP HIM!"

He led the remnants of the Northern soldiers in a final desperate charge, lunging through the sea of the undead. They slashed and stabbed, but every wight that fell seemed meaningless. Several White Walker lieutenants moved to intercept them, their thin ice swords glittering with a deadly blue light. Regular steel shattered into pieces on contact with their ice. Tormund roared as an ice sword grazed his arm, his flesh blackening and freezing instantly.

They would not make it. They would die for nothing.

It was then, from the pile of rubble of a destroyed tower from the dragons' fall, a rumbling sound was heard.

KRRRRRUUUMMMMBLE... KRAKK!

Stones the size of horses were thrown into the air as if by an explosion from below. A shadowy figure emerged from the dust and smoke, his body smeared with black dragon blood and stone dust, but he moved with unnatural speed.

Pollo, driven by his super adrenaline, landed heavily on the frozen ground. With one smooth and swift motion, he drew his glittering Valyrian Steel Arakh, its dark blade seemingly swallowing the light around it.

He moved across the battlefield in the blink of an eye, a blur that cleaved through the chaos.

The Night King was almost at the entrance to the Godswood. Jon, cornered by two White Walkers, could only watch in despair.

Just at that moment, Pollo arrived. He did not attack from behind. He shot past him and stopped right in his path, his back to the Weirwood Tree. He plunged the tip of his arakh into the frozen ground, blocking the path of the King of Death.

For the first time, the Night King stopped.

A strange and unnatural silence fell around them. The sounds of battle seemed to fade. Two absolute forces, one of fire and fury, the other of ice and silence, faced each other. The Night King's burning blue eyes stared at Pollo, and for the first time, perhaps in ten thousand years, the creature showed something vaguely resembling surprise.

The Night King attacked first, his movement silent and as fast as an avalanche. His thin ice sword sliced through the air, leaving a trail of frozen vapor. Pollo, with his super speed, moved like a shadow, his arakh parrying the attack.

KRAAAAAANG!

The sound of Valyrian steel meeting supernatural ice was not a clang of metal; it was a high-pitched scream that set teeth on edge. Blue sparks flew. Pollo felt a stabbing cold run up his arm from the point of impact, making him pull his arakh back quickly.

He retaliated, his arakh spinning in a series of blurry horizontal slashes, aiming to decapitate the Night King. But the creature matched his speed, his ice sword dancing, parrying every attack with cold precision.

Pollo, frustrated that he couldn't break through his defense, roared and switched to his raw strength. He lunged forward, ignoring the ice sword, and tried to grab the Night King with his free left hand.

That was the mistake the Night King had been waiting for.

The creature did not try to dodge. He dropped his sword and with an equally swift movement, caught Pollo's left wrist.

It was not just a touch. It was a negation of life.

An incredible cold, colder than the ice of the Wall, colder than the void between the stars, ran up Pollo's arm. He watched in horror as blue ice began to creep across his skin, his veins blackening underneath. His flesh and muscles froze solid in seconds.

KRAKKK!

With a terrible cracking sound like a giant oak tree snapping in the dead of winter, his frozen arm shattered from the elbow down, falling to the ground as shards of ice and blackened bone.

"AAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGHHHHHH!"

An inhuman roar of pure pain and rage erupted from Pollo's throat. Driven by unimaginable pain and his super adrenaline, he did not retreat. He attacked.

Using all his remaining strength in one final, desperate move, he plunged the Valyrian Steel Arakh in his right hand straight into the Night King's chest.

For a moment, the Night King seemed surprised, his blue eyes staring at the dark blade embedded in his chest.

Then, cracks began to appear from the point of the stab, spreading throughout his body like shattering glass. A blinding blue light shone from within the cracks. With a silent, soul-shaking scream, the Night King exploded into a thousand sharp ice shards, which then dissolved into vapor in the air that suddenly felt a little warmer.

With the death of the Night King, the entire Army of the Dead collapsed into piles of bones and dust. The sudden silence was deafening.

The sun rose over a battlefield filled with the corpses of the living and the dead. There were no cheers of victory, only a quiet relief. Daenerys, also injured from the fall, rushed to Pollo's side in the silent Godswood. She saw his shattered arm and bruised body. They had won, but the price was immense.

She looked at him, and he looked at her. The world now truly belonged to them, a kingdom built on ash and ice.