Game Of Thrones: Khal Pollo (GOT)

Weeks had passed since Rakho's blood watered the dust. Pollo's khalasar was on the move, and the Great Grass Sea had never seen its like.

This was no longer a chaotic horde, moving like a wild herd. Under Pollo's command, the khalasar had transformed. From atop a hill, they looked like a giant steel serpent crawling across the plains. Organized columns of warriors moved with purpose. On the horizon, Qorro's swift scouts fanned out like birds of prey, their eyes and ears alert. In the center, Vekho's two thousand heavy riders formed a solid, intimidating core, their mere presence enough to make the ground tremble. The supply train behind, tightly supervised, moved with quiet efficiency. The Dothraki were still wild, but now there was a terrifying new discipline in their every movement.

Pollo stood with his Bloodriders atop a hill, staring at a rough map scratched onto a large piece of hide. Qorro had just returned, his agile horse lathered with sweat.

"Khal," Qorro reported, his voice breathless with excitement. "Just as you said. Khalasar Zekko. They raided the Lamb Men's village to the south, near the hills."

Pollo nodded, his eyes never leaving the map. The desire of a predator, hungry to test his new claws, burned within him. This was feeling. Then came logic. Zekko was the perfect target. Small enough for a decisive first victory, but well-known enough that his defeat would send a clear message throughout the Dothraki Sea. His location near Lhazar also provided a perfect opportunity for resources and, more importantly, a potential trigger for his Reward System.

"We will use the Lamb Men as bait," Pollo said, his voice calm. "Let Zekko sate his greed. We will meet him on his return, when his belly is full and his guard is dull."

Pollo's khalasar descended upon the Lhazareen village like ghosts. From the perspective of the terrified villagers, this was a different nightmare. They had seen Dothraki before, hordes that came like a storm, killing, raping, and plundering indiscriminately. But this was different. This force moved with purpose, encircling the village with trained coordination before the main horde even appeared on the horizon.

The raid was a calculated harvest. Pollo's warriors took what they needed, livestock, grain, and slaves, but with a cold efficiency that minimized unnecessary destruction.

It was amidst this controlled chaos that Pollo saw her.

A woman stood tall, tending to a wounded old man with defiant calm. Her long black hair cascaded like a dark silk shroud, contrasting with her olive skin. Her face held an exotic, sharp beauty, but her eyes: those were what held him. They showed no fear. They radiated intelligence, resilience, and a burning spark of defiance. She was not yet the vengeful witch the world would know, but there, amidst the dust and despair, Pollo saw the seeds of that power.

He rode his horse closer, his shadow engulfing the woman. She looked up, their gazes meeting.

"What is your name?" Pollo asked, his voice low.

"I am Mirri Maz Duur," she replied, her voice steady, without a tremor. "Daughter of this village's god-priest."

Pollo stared at her for a moment, his accelerated mind assessing her. She was more than just a slave. She was a source of knowledge, a potential key. And she was a reward waiting to be claimed.

Pollo extended his hand. "You are mine," he said, not as a question, but as a statement of fact. He gestured to two of his warriors. "Take her to my tent. Do not touch her."

The trap had been set. Pollo knew Khal Zekko would come after him, blinded by arrogance and rage at his territory being infringed upon. However, Pollo did not wait for him on an open plain for a traditional Dothraki showdown. He had chosen his ground, a shallow valley flanked by low hills. Vekho's heavy cavalry hid behind the hill on one side. Qorro's horse archers concealed themselves on the other.

Khalasar Zekko came as predicted, a screaming wave of riders, confident in their numbers. They saw Pollo's central force waiting for them and charged with predictable fury.

Pollo's central force met the charge, then, as commanded, began a slow retreat, drawing Zekko and his warriors deeper into the kill zone.

That's when all hell broke loose.

From the right flank, Qorro's horse archers emerged from behind the hills, raining thousands of arrows down on Zekko's unprotected flanks. Horses shrieked in pain, riders fell, and the once-orderly formation devolved into chaos.

Before they could recover, the signal was given.

From the left flank, Vekho's two thousand heavy riders thundered out of their hiding place. The sound of their hooves was like an earthquake. They slammed into the rear of Zekko's formation like a sledgehammer made of flesh and steel. CRACK! THUD! The sound of breaking bones and shattering bodies was drowned out by the deafening roar of horses.

The battle turned into a slaughter. Amidst the chaos, Pollo sought out Zekko. The older Khal fought desperately, his arakh dripping with blood. Pollo spurred his horse, his super speed making him appear as a blur. Their duel could barely be called a duel. Pollo evaded Zekko's slashes with ease, then with one powerful motion, he ripped the arakh from Zekko's grasp and with the same backswing, he cleaved the Khal's head from his shoulders.

Zekko's head flew through the air before falling to the ground with a wet thud.

The battle ended as quickly as it began. Pollo offered the survivors a simple choice: die, or kneel and join him. In the face of such overwhelming power, they chose to live. In a single afternoon, Pollo's khalasar had doubled in size.

Night fell. Inside Pollo's large tent, the air was hot and thick. The sounds of wild celebration from his now nearly twenty-thousand-strong army drifted from outside, muffled by the thick hide of the tent.

Mirri Maz Duur was pushed inside. Two Dothraki warriors tossed her onto a pile of furs and cushions before retreating, leaving the two of them alone.

She rose gracefully, her healer's robes slightly torn, but her eyes still burned with defiant fire.

Pollo watched her from where he sat, unlacing his leather bracers. He said nothing. He simply stared, his sharp eyes stripping her, layer by layer, until only the defiant soul remained.

Pollo stepped towards her. Mirri did not flinch.

Pollo's hand moved swiftly, gripping the front of Mirri's robe and tearing it open with one powerful motion. The fabric ripped with a loud tearing sound, exposing her olive skin and the slender yet strong curves beneath.

Mirri gasped.

Pollo pushed her backward, onto the pile of furs. Her body sank into the softness, but there was nothing soft about the way Pollo landed on top of her. The weight of his muscular body pressed down, trapping her.

"Ah!" Mirri gasped.

Pollo's rough hand gripped her jaw, forcing her face to look at him. Mirri could smell horse and victory on him, a primal, intoxicating scent. Pollo's lips crashed onto hers, not a kiss, but a conquest. His teeth bit into Mirri's lower lip, hard enough to draw a bead of blood.

Mirri struggled beneath him. Her hands beat against Pollo's rock-hard chest, but it was futile. Her legs tried to kick, but Pollo easily pinned them with his weight.

A frustrated groan escaped Mirri's throat.

Pollo's free hand moved downward, tearing away the remaining fabric that obstructed him, then gripped the soft flesh of Mirri's thighs. His fingers pressed, forcing her legs open.

"No...!" Mirri whispered, her breath ragged.

Pollo did not answer with words. He answered with action.

His hips slammed into her.

"URRRGH!"

A cry half pain, half shock burst from Mirri. Her eyes widened, her body stiffened like a board. Pollo pushed in, deep and hard, filling her completely.

Pollo's movements began. slow at first, then faster, stronger. Each thrust was a statement of dominance, each push an assertion of ownership.

"Hhh... ahh... ah...!"

Gasps escaped Mirri's lips, uncontrolled. Her resistance began to waver, replaced by the raw sensation flooding her body. Her hands stopped beating and instead clutched Pollo's shoulders, her nails digging into his skin.

The sounds inside the tent became a primitive symphony. The wet, slapping sound of skin against skin, rhythmic with Pollo's accelerating thrusts. The heavy, ragged sounds of their breathing. Pollo's deep, husky groans mixed with Mirri's increasingly high-pitched, keening gasps.

"Ahh... Keep going... Ahh!" Mirri whimpered.

Her back arched off the cushions, her hips moving to meet Pollo's every thrust, her body betraying her mind. Pollo roughly flipped her over. Mirri was now on her hands and knees, her head bowed, her long hair sweeping the furs.

Pollo entered from behind, his grip on Mirri's hips strong, bruising. His thrusts were deeper, more savage.

"AAAAHHH!"

Mirri screamed as the first wave hit her, her body trembling violently. She could feel the muscles inside her clenching and pulsing around Pollo's manhood.

"MORE...!" Pollo roared, his voice guttural.

He gave her no time to recover. His thrusts became a frenzy, pushing Mirri to her absolute limit. She felt a second orgasm beginning to build, stronger than the first. Mirri clutched the furs beneath her, her knuckles white.

"GOD... OH, GOD...!"

Mirri's cries were muffled as her climax ripped through her. At the same instant, she felt a deep, vibrating roar from Pollo's chest. She felt a hot, copious pulsation flood her womb, again and again.

Her body collapsed, trembling and gasping.

As the storm within her subsided, a subtle, faint glow briefly enveloped Pollo, unseen by the limp Mirri. As the light faded, a cold, heavy object appeared in his palm.

It was a simple bronze compass.

Pollo lifted it. Its needle did not point north. It trembled wildly for a moment, then slowly settled, pointing southwest. He felt a strange connection to it, a faint tug of destiny.

Pollo glanced from the mysterious compass to the broken yet still breathing woman beside him, then out towards the dark horizon where his new, larger army celebrated his victory.

The real game had begun.