Game Of Thrones: Khal Pollo (GOT)

Dawn broke over the Great Grass Sea, but the rising sun seemed hesitant, as if afraid of the sight unfolding beneath it. It was no longer an empty, wild grassland. It had become the bed of a river, a vast river of men and beasts, flowing westward with inexorable purpose. Khal Pollo's khalasar was on the move.

This was a sight Essos had never witnessed. Dothraki moved like grassfire, chaotic and unpredictable, devouring everything in their path without form or formation. But this was different. This was the movement of a glacier, slow yet unstoppable, ordered with terrifying precision. From the crest of a hill, one could see the full scale of that force. It was a nomadic nation reborn as an invading army.

At the vanguard, spread for miles ahead of the main force, Qorro's scouts moved like a flock of falcons. They no longer rode in boisterous small groups. They moved in silent arrow formations, communicating with hand signals taught by Pollo, mapping the terrain, seeking water sources, and ensuring the path ahead was clear. They were the eyes and ears of the khalasar, and their new efficiency allowed the entire army to move twice as fast as any Dothraki horde in history.

Behind them, forming a solid and intimidating core, was Vekho's heavy cavalry. Ten thousand of the strongest and most disciplined warriors, riding the largest horses, moved in ordered columns. Pollo's black and blood-red banner fluttered above them, the only bright color in a grim sea of leather and steel. They were the hammer of the khalasar, and their quiet, ordered presence exuded an aura of threat far greater than any war roar.

In the very center of this massive formation, surrounded by the veterans of his original khalasar, was Pollo himself. He rode a jet-black stallion he had taken from Khal Onqo, a beast almost as tall as a Westerosi warhorse. At his side, like shadows, rode his three Bloodriders. Garo, with his scarred face and keen eyes, constantly scanned the horizon. Qorro, who would often rejoin the main ranks to deliver reports before darting off again. And Vekho, silent as a mountain, his mere presence enough to maintain discipline in the nearest ranks.

And behind them, stretching as far as the eye could see, was the rest of the khalasar. Tens of thousands of warriors, countless slaves, thousands of wagons laden with spoils of war, and vast herds of reserve horses and livestock. Even this supply train, typically the most chaotic part of a khalasar, moved with an odd regularity. Slaves were no longer whipped aimlessly; they were organized into work groups, each responsible for a specific task. This was no longer a raid. This was logistics.

Every night, as the massive force halted to rest, an ordered tent city would spring up on the grasslands. Campfires were lit in neat rows, patrols were sent to the perimeter, and the inner circle of command tents became the nerve center of the entire operation.

One evening, a week into their journey, Garo approached Pollo inside his command tent. He unrolled an old hide map on the table.

"Khal," Garo said, pointing with his thick finger. "We are approaching the Ruins of Vaes Leqsi. The traditional path would take us south of it, through the Weeping Grasslands. It is a safe path."

Pollo studied the map for a moment, his accelerated mind processing the information. He saw what Garo did not. The traditional path was safe, but also slow. It was the path anyone tracking them would predict. His eyes fell on an area north of the ruins, a stretch of land marked with skull symbols and called "The Lands of the Wind Demons" by superstitious Dothraki cartographers.

"We will go north," Pollo said.

Garo frowned. "Khal, that is bad land. The elders say the spirits of the dead wander there. Horses grow restless, and the water is brackish. No khalasar has passed that way for hundreds of years."

Pollo looked at Garo, his sharp eyes seeming to pierce into the veteran's soul. "Superstition is a luxury we cannot afford, Garo. It is a chain the dead bind upon the living. Our enemies expect us to follow the old ways because they are bound by the same chains. We will make our own path. Qorro will find us water."

Garo looked at his Khal, and he felt a familiar tremor. It was not the arrogance of a young warlord. It was an absolute certainty, as if Pollo could see the future itself. Garo bowed his head. "As you say, Khal."

In another corner of the tent, Mirri Maz Duur observed the interaction. She had been summoned to Pollo's presence, a nightly ritual that was now part of her routine. Her role had evolved from mere captive to something more complex. Pollo had never touched her again since that first night. Instead, he used her mind.

That evening, Pollo brought her a bundle of strange plants one of Qorro's scouts had found in a rocky crevice. The plant had silvery-grey leaves and small purple flowers.

"What is this?" Pollo asked, thrusting it at Mirri.

Mirri took it, her slender fingers examining the leaves and flowers with a healer's expertise. She crushed a leaf, sniffing its pungent aroma.

"It is called Mother's Mercy," she said, her voice calm. "The Lhazareen use it. Boiled, its water can cure the stomach fevers that often plague horses when they drink from stagnant pools. Its dried leaves, if burned, produce a smoke that keeps insects away."

Pollo's eyes gleamed with interest. Sickness was the silent enemy of any army, and an epidemic among his horses could cripple his khalasar.

"How much do we need?" he asked.

Mirri shrugged. "For an army this size? A field full."

"Good," Pollo said. He immediately summoned one of his Ko. "Send a hundred men back to that crevice. Do not return until you bring every stalk of this plant."

The Ko looked at him in confusion, ordered to gather weeds instead of plunder, but he departed without question. Mirri watched Pollo with a complicated expression. She hated him. She hated the man who had destroyed her village and taken her by force. But that hatred was now mingled with something else. A reluctant awe. He was not merely a barbarian. He saw value where others did not. He turned knowledge into power in a way she had never witnessed.

Yet, the khalasar's new discipline was fragile. It was a thin veneer of imposed order over a sea of primal chaos, and on the tenth night of their journey, that veneer cracked.

The friction was inevitable. The khalasar was now composed of the remnants of a dozen different tribes, many of whom had been sworn enemies for generations. Under Pollo's watchful eye, they maintained a tense peace, but under the influence of fermented mare's milk and old prides, the resentments simmered beneath the surface.

The trigger was trivial. A Lysene slave girl, taken from Zekko's khalasar, became the object of a dispute between two Ko. One was a burly warrior named Horgat, who had once ridden with Onqo. The other was a lean but deadly youth named Pono, who was one of Zekko's original warriors. Insults were traded. Shoves were exchanged. Amidst a cheering crowd of warriors, drunk on wine and the prospect of violence, the brawl escalated.

The campfires danced, illuminating a circle of savage faces. Horgat, the larger man, relied on his brute strength, trying to overpower Pono. Pono, the faster, wove in and out, his fists landing blows to Horgat's face and ribs.

"Onqo's dog!" Pono spat, blood trickling from his lip. "You are no better than your dead master!"

"And you are Zekko's lamb!" Horgat roared, charging forward. "I will wear your skin as a saddle!"

In his blind rage, Horgat stumbled. Pono saw his chance. With a triumphant yell, he drew his arakh. The curved blade gleamed for a moment under the starlight before slashing down, cleaving Horgat's neck from shoulder to chin.

Blood spurted in a horrific hot geyser, drenching the ground and nearby onlookers. Horgat's body collapsed with a wet thud.

The entire encampment fell silent. The cheering died instantly. The music ceased. Even the campfires seemed to dim. This was a defining moment. The slaying of one Ko by another. In the old khalasar, this would spark a mini-war, a bloodbath between Horgat's khas and Pono's khas that would last until dawn, weakening the entire force. All eyes turned to Khal Pollo's great tent, waiting.

The tent flap parted, and Pollo stepped out. He wore no armor, only his leather breeches, his broad chest bare in the cool night air. His face was an unreadable mask of serenity. He walked through the crowd that parted for him like a divided sea. His Bloodriders followed close behind, their hands on their weapon hilts.

Pollo did not stop by the panting Pono, who still stood over his victim, his arakh dripping blood. He did not even glance at him. Instead, he walked past the killer and stopped before the warriors of Pono's khas, who had begun to cheer in celebration of their champion's victory.

"My law is clear," Pollo said, his voice calm yet resonating with terrifying power in the night's silence. "Dothraki blood will not be spilled by Dothraki within this khalasar. Our blood is for our enemies. Not for foolish pride and squabbles over a slave."

He paused, letting his words sink in. Then he turned, not to Pono, but to Vekho.

"Vekho," Pollo commanded. "Break their khas. Kill every warrior standing there. Let their women and children join the other slaves. Do it now."

A collective gasp caught in the crowd's throat. Pono stared at Pollo in disbelief, his face ashen. This was beyond his comprehension. He had won. He had proven himself stronger. By Dothraki law, he was in the right.

"But, Khal..." Pono began, his voice trembling. "I..."

Vekho gave him no chance to finish his sentence. With one terrifying motion, Vekho's great arakh slashed, and Pono's head flew from his shoulders in a high arterial spray.

What followed was not a battle. It was an execution. Vekho and his heavy cavalry, who had gathered in silence at an unseen signal, moved forward. They surrounded the two hundred warriors of Pono's khas, who were still frozen in shock and horror. There was no rage in the attack. Only cold efficiency. Vekho's warriors moved with the discipline Pollo had instilled in them, methodically slaughtering the stunned warriors.

Pollo stood and watched it all, his face devoid of emotion. He did not revel in the slaughter. Nor did he abhor it. It was necessary. It was a surgical operation. He was cutting the cancer of tribal rivalry from the heart of his army. The message was absolute, delivered in the universal language of blood and death: Loyalty was no longer to the khas. Loyalty was no longer to the old Khal. Loyalty was only to Khal Pollo. Internal strife ended that night.

Afterward, their journey continued in a tense, respectful silence. There were no more fights. No more disputes. Only the inevitable rumble of the march.

After weeks of relentless riding, the landscape began to change. The endless expanse of grass began to give way to rolling hills and more rocky terrain. The air shifted, carrying a strange, unfamiliar salty scent that made the horses snort uneasily. For most Dothraki, who had never left the Grass Sea, it was the smell of another world.

From the crest of a high hill, they saw it for the first time.

It was a sight that silenced forty thousand nomadic warriors in awe and primal fear. Below them, stretched the endless grey-blue shimmer of the Narrow Sea, the "poison water" of their legends. And on its edge, like a white jewel on a green cloth, lay the great city of Pentos.

Yet it was not the city that held their gaze. It was the sight beyond it. The fertile fields around Pentos had vanished, replaced by another immense tent city. A chaotic sea of hides and campfires, Khal Drogo's khalasar.

Just then, Qorro arrived, his horse frothing with sweat, his eyes gleaming with urgency. He leaped down before his mount had fully stopped.

"Khal Pollo," he said, his breath ragged with excitement and exhaustion. "Drogo's encampment. It is not a camp, it is a city. Surrounding the fields outside Pentos. The celebration has already begun. The Magisters send rivers of wine and wagons of food daily."

Pollo stood at the hilltop, the wind from the sea whipping his long, dark hair. He gazed down at the scene before him. On one side, the ordered lights and solid walls of civilization. On the other, the vast, chaotic sea of campfires that was the primal force of the Dothraki. The faint sounds of drums and singing carried on the wind, a defiant invitation.

He pulled the bronze compass from his pocket. In the fading twilight, its needle glowed with a strong light, pointing straight into the heart of that sea of fires, to the largest tent in the very center of it all.

Garo stepped to his side, his old eyes gazing at the sight with awe and trepidation. "By the Great Stallion," he whispered. "They are as many as the stars in the sky."

Pollo did not avert his gaze from his target.

"Drogo thinks he is celebrating a wedding," Pollo said, his voice a low rumble that promised a coming storm. "We will give him a funeral."