Game Of Thrones: Khal Pollo (GOT)

Garo knelt inside the spacious tent, silence hanging heavy in the air after his words. Outside, the sounds of forty thousand warriors and their followers faded to a distant murmur, as if the entire khalasar held its breath, waiting.

"News," Garo repeated, his hoarse, heavy voice clear in the quiet, "of a dragon princess... and a wedding in Pentos."

Pollo remained still, his back to the entrance. The light from the brazier in the room's center danced on his sculpted back muscles, while the faint bronze glow of the compass in his hand reflected an odd sheen on his skin. For a moment, he did not move, did not speak. He just stood there, a statue of power cloaked in shadow.

"Bring them in," Pollo finally said, his voice calm, almost a whisper, yet it cut through the silence like a knife.

Garo nodded and withdrew. Moments later, the tent flap was roughly thrown open and three men were tossed inside. They were not Dothraki warriors. They were caravan merchants, dressed in Essos linen, their bodies thin and trembling from exhaustion and fear. They fell to their knees on the rug, not daring to lift their heads. The scent of dust, fear sweat, and urine filled the air around them. They had heard the stories along the trade routes, whispers of Khal Varezho, the Ghost Khal, who swallowed other khalasars whole. Now, they were before him, and the reality was far more terrifying than any legend.

Pollo turned slowly. He approached the three men, his movements graceful and silent as a panther. He crouched before the oldest looking man, whose beard was streaked with grey and whose eyes were filled with terror. Pollo said nothing. He just stared, his sharp eyes tracing the man, assessing every tremor, every ragged breath.

"You will tell me everything," Pollo said. It was not a question. It was a statement of fact. "And if your story pleases me, you will leave here with horses and water. If not..." Pollo let the sentence hang in the air, more menacing than any promise of violence.

The man stammered, his words spilling out in a panicked rush. He told everything. About the "Beggar King," Viserys Targaryen, who had roamed the Free Cities for years, boasting of his birthright. About his desperate deal with the immensely wealthy and cunning Magister Illyrio Mopatis. And the crux of that deal, an exchange that would shake two continents.

Viserys's younger sister, Daenerys Targaryen, the last of his line, a girl said to possess haunting Valyrian beauty, would be wed to the mighty and unconquered Khal Drogo. In dowry, Viserys would receive a golden crown and the promise of ten thousand Dothraki warriors to reclaim his throne across the Narrow Sea. The wedding was to be the grandest celebration Essos had ever witnessed, to be held outside the walls of Pentos in less than a moon's turn.

As the man spoke, Pollo felt something shift inside him. It began as a deep vibration, a resonance from a word: Daenerys. The name felt like destiny. The compass in his pocket pulsed with a faint warmth, a silent confirmation. A wave of ambition so potent it was almost intoxicating swept over him, extinguishing all doubt.

This was it. The ultimate prize. The key to unlocking his full potential.

And the challenge. Khal Drogo. A living legend. The only Khal whose khalasar rivaled his own. A man who had never known defeat. The feeling was not fear. It was exhilaration, the joy of a champion seeing the finish line, the excitement of a predator finally finding a worthy prey.

This was the feeling. And then, as quickly as lightning, came the logic.

His super brain began to work, processing the information with inhuman speed. Drogo's strengths: roughly forty thousand warriors, loyal out of legend and years of victory. His weakness: limitless arrogance. He would never expect a challenge on his own doorstep, amidst his celebration. The location: Pentos, a huge advantage. Fighting near a Free City meant Drogo would be constrained by politics and logistics, while Pollo, coming from the wild, had no such limitations.

He saw it all with perfect clarity. This was not just a fight between two Khals. This was a single, perfect opportunity. One decisive strike to win everything. Defeating Drogo would not only grant him the status of the greatest Khal who ever lived. It would grant him Drogo's entire army, doubling his strength in a single stroke. It would grant him a direct link to the politics of the Free Cities through Illyrio. And most importantly, it would grant him Daenerys. It would grant him dragons.

"You may go," Pollo said to the trembling merchants. "Take horses and water. Spread the news. Tell everyone that Khal Pollo sends his regards to the great wedding."

The three men stared at him in disbelief before scrambling out of the tent, as if fearing he would change his mind. It was a deliberate psychological tactic. Let them spread the word. Let fear precede him.

Pollo stood and summoned his commanders.

The tent quickly filled with his most trusted Ko and his three Bloodriders. Garo, Qorro, and Vekho stood at his side like three pillars of strength, while the Ko knelt before him. In a dim corner, Mirri Maz Duur watched in silence, her intelligent eyes catching every detail.

Pollo delivered the news without preamble. He told them about Daenerys, about Drogo, and about the alliance that would grant Viserys an army.

Their reaction was exactly as he expected. The hardened faces of the warriors showed surprise, followed by palpable doubt. Murmurs spread among them.

"Khal Drogo?" exclaimed one of the Ko, a man named Borro who had led his own khas under Khal Onqo. "He has never known defeat! His braid has never been cut!"

"To challenge him at his own wedding..." another added. "That is an insult that will be repaid with death! The entire Grass Sea will laugh at us!"

Even Qorro, his swift Bloodrider, seemed uneasy. "Khal, our warriors are many, but Drogo's men have ridden with him for years. They follow him out of legend, not just out of fear."

Only Vekho remained silent, his deep eyes fixed on Pollo, waiting.

Pollo let them speak, let their doubts spill out into the open. Then, he stepped onto his hide map.

"You think like Dothraki," he said, and it was not a compliment. "You see a legend, and you tremble. I see a man, and I see his weaknesses."

He pointed west, to the spot marking Pentos. "Drogo's first weakness is his arrogance. He goes to Pentos to take his bride. He expects no war; he expects tribute. He will be celebrating, his army will be drunk on wine and victories they have not yet earned. Their bellies will be full and their vigilance dulled."

He moved his finger back to the Grass Sea. "You fear his army. I do not. I will not fight his army. I will fight him." His eyes swept over every face in the tent. "Dothraki law is clear. A khalasar without a Khal is a snake without a head. Its body will thrash in agony for a moment, and then it will be ours for the taking. We will not fight forty thousand warriors. We will sever one head, and claim forty thousand swords."

He paused, letting the brutal logic of his words sink in.

"And the prize," he continued, his voice lowering to a passionate whisper. "Think of the prize. This is not about raiding another village for a few sacks of salt or some Lhazareen slaves. The Beggar King offered Drogo a crown. The prize is a kingdom across the sea. We... will take that prize for ourselves."

Those words changed everything. They shifted the perspective from a mere raid to an epic conquest. They ignited a fire of ambition in those warriors' hearts, a fire long extinguished by the endless cycle of violence.

Pollo looked at Vekho, the silent giant. "Vekho. You have seen me fight. You have heard the stories of Drogo. Tell them. Who is stronger?"

Vekho met his Khal's eyes, and there he saw certainty, a strength that transcended muscle and skill. After a long pause that felt like an eternity, Vekho gave a single, firm, resounding nod.

That simple gesture silenced all dissent. If Vekho, the strongest among them, believed, then the others would follow.

The war council was over. The decision had been made. The atmosphere in the tent was taut, a mix of dread for the task ahead and exhilarating ambition. The Ko departed to prepare their warriors, their minds filled with visions of conquest they had never dreamed of.

Pollo was left alone with Mirri Maz Duur.

She walked up to him from the corner where she had been observing. Her face was pale.

"You are mad," she said, her voice a calm statement of fact, not an accusation. "You will lead all these people to their deaths. Drogo is not like Zekko or Onqo."

Pollo looked at his compass, its needle still pointing steadily west. "Madness is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result," he said, the words feeling alien yet true on his tongue. "The Dothraki way of life, your way of life, is a flat circle of raiding and death, enslavement and suffering. One Khal rises, another falls. One village is burned, another rebuilt only to be burned again. I will break that circle."

Mirri looked at him, and for the first time, she did not see a barbarian. She saw something far more dangerous. A reformer. A world conqueror.

Pollo stepped out of his tent into the cool night air. He mounted an impromptu platform quickly fashioned from wagons and shields. Below him, his entire khalasar of over forty thousand warriors gathered, a sea of faces lit by thousands of campfires. They were silent, their eyes fixed on him.

He needed few words. He raised his hand, and the silence became absolute. He pointed west, into the darkness.

"TO THE WEST!" he roared, his voice amplified by his super strength, echoing across the silent sea of warriors. "A great Khal feasts! He grows fat on merchant's wine while we grow strong on the blood of our enemies!"

The crowd rumbled in agreement.

"He takes a dragon queen as his wife!" he continued, his voice rising. "He thinks this world is his for the taking!"

The roar grew louder.

"WE RIDE!" Pollo shouted, raising his fist to the star-filled sky. "WE RIDE TO PENTOS! And we will show Khal Drogo what true strength is! WE WILL TAKE HIS WOMAN, WE WILL TAKE HIS ARMY, AND WE WILL TAKE HIS LEGEND AS OUR OWN!"

A single, unified roar from forty thousand voices exploded in response, a thunderous sound that shook the ground and made the stars seem to tremble. It was no longer the shouts of a horde. It was the roar of an army.

The khalasar was no longer just a collection of conquered tribes. It was a single sword, forged in fire and blood, with one terrifying purpose.

The march to Pentos had begun.