Game Of Thrones: Khal Pollo (GOT)

"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."

Garo swallowed, his throat dry. The wind from the sea carried the scent of salt and life, but from the valley below, what rose was the smell of spilled wine, burnt meat, and intoxicating arrogance. He had ridden for over forty years. He had seen the rise and fall of dozens of Khals. He had fought in countless battles. But he had never felt anything like this. The coiled silence behind him, on the hills where forty thousand warriors waited in darkness, felt heavier and more deadly than any war roar.

As the last twilight faded and night fully took over, the scene below them split into two distinct worlds. To the left, the lights of Pentos twinkled like orderly gems on black velvet, a tranquil beacon of civilization. To the right, the countless campfires of Khal Drogo's encampment stretched like a festering wound on the land. It was a temporary city built on pride, a constellation of chaos pulsating with wild energy. Drums thumped in a primal rhythm. Bursts of drunken laughter and off-key war chants pierced the night air.

Pollo stood unmoving, absorbing every detail. He was not merely seeing. He was analyzing. He was mapping his enemy's weaknesses in his mind. This was no longer a warrior's instinct. This was a strategist's cold calculation.

A swift, silent figure emerged from the darkness below them, riding a horse like a ghost. Qorro leaped from his saddle even before the beast had stopped, his breath ragged from the rapid climb up the hill. He knelt before Pollo.

"Khal," he said, his voice low and urgent. "I have been inside. This close." He held his thumb and forefinger just inches apart. "The guards on the perimeter are drunk, they did not even challenge me. They gamble with bone dice at their posts, using wineskins as stakes. Drogo's Ko are gathered in the main tent, competing to drink wine directly from the amphoras sent by the Magisters. They sing songs of victory as if the war is already over."

"And the Targaryens?" Pollo asked, his eyes never leaving the sea of fires below.

"In a large silk pavilion near the center of the camp. Separate from the rest," Qorro reported. "Heavily guarded. Not by Dothraki. By bald soldiers in armor with short spears. They do not drink. They do not speak. They just stand like stone statues."

Unsullied. Pollo nodded slowly. Illyrio was not foolish. He knew the nature of the Dothraki. He brought his own guard to protect his investment. That information was important. It meant the civilian command center of the alliance was isolated from the Dothraki military command structure. An advantage to be exploited.

"Well done, Qorro," Pollo said. "Return to your men. Ensure they remain hidden until the signal is given."

Qorro nodded, touched his chest in respect, and vanished back into the darkness as swiftly as he came.

Pollo turned from the hilltop. "Garo. Vekho. Call the Ko," he commanded. "The final war council."

Moments later, Pollo's command tent became the epicenter of the coming storm. It was a simple space, unlike the opulence one might expect from such a powerful Khal. There was only a single low table in the center, where a large map of Drogo's encampment was spread. The map, meticulously drawn by Qorro on a stretched piece of hide, was incredibly detailed. Every major tent group, every horse line, every main pathway was marked. Pollo's twenty strongest Ko knelt in a semi-circle, their hardened faces illuminated by the flickering light of a single brazier. They were predators, proven killers, but in their Khal's presence, they waited with the patience of a wolf awaiting orders from its pack leader.

Pollo stepped to the map, his gaze sweeping over each face.

"Killing Drogo is easy," he said, his voice calm, but every man in the tent leaned forward, unwilling to miss a single syllable. "He is a warrior, not a god. He will bleed and he will die."

He paused, letting the blasphemous statement sink in.

"Controlling forty thousand headless snakes afterwards," he continued, his eyes sharpening. "That is the challenge. That is what separates victory from annihilation."

He pointed to the center of the map, to a large circle marking Drogo's main tent. "I will confront Drogo here, in front of everyone. When I do, all eyes will be on us. That is when you will strike. Not as a horde. But as a blade."

He looked at Vekho, the silent giant who stood at his side like a shadow. "Vekho. When Drogo falls, you and the heavy cavalry do not charge the common warriors. Your primary targets are his three Bloodriders. Cohollo, Qotho, and Haggo. They are sworn to avenge him and die with him. Help them fulfill that oath. As quickly as possible. I want them dead before their master's body grows cold. Do not let them become martyrs."

Vekho did not speak. He simply placed his massive fist over his heart, a nod heavier than any oath. Crushing the three deadliest warriors in Drogo's khalasar was an impossible task for anyone else. For Vekho, it was merely an order.

Pollo then turned to Qorro, who had returned and now stood beside Garo. "Qorro. You and the light horse will be the wind of death. When the chaos erupts, Drogo's Ko will do what wolves always do. They will try to rally their khas, the remnants of their strength, and flee to form their own new khalasars. Do not let that happen. I want you and your men to hunt. Your targets are the Ko. Pono, Jhaqo, and the others. Decapitate every aspiring Khal before he can gather ten followers. Burn their banners. Extinguish their hope."

Qorro bared his teeth in a savage grin. "With pleasure, Khal."

Finally, Pollo looked at Garo, his trusted veteran. "Garo. You and our core force will be the spearhead. When the duel begins, you will charge straight for the center. I do not care about the battle around you. Let others handle that. Your target is that silk pavilion." He tapped the point on the map marking the Targaryens' location. "Isolate them. Do not harm them, but let no one in or out. After that, seize Drogo's main tent. Pull down his banner and raise ours over it. Where our banner flies, there is the new seat of power. The confused warriors will see it, and they will know who their new master is."

Silence filled the tent as the Ko processed the orders. They had come expecting a plan for a glorious mass brawl. Instead, they were given a lesson in military surgery. This was no longer the Dothraki way. This was something new, something far more efficient, and far more terrifying. They looked at each other, and in each other's eyes, they saw the same understanding. They were part of something that would change their world forever.

"Go," Pollo commanded. "Prepare your men. At dawn, we ride to destiny."

The Ko withdrew in silence, their faces now filled with grim purpose and hardened resolve. The tent fell silent once more, leaving only Pollo, his three Bloodriders, and the quiet figure in the corner.

Mirri Maz Duur stepped forward into the light, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She had listened to every word, her intelligent eyes never leaving Pollo's face.

"You do not just want to defeat him," she said, her voice no longer defiant, but filled with a chilling curiosity. "You want to erase him. To erase his name, his lieutenants, his guards. As if he never existed."

Pollo turned to her, his expression unreadable in the flickering firelight. "Legends are like weeds, Mirri. If you leave the roots, they will grow back, choking the new crop. I will not let Drogo's ghost haunt my khalasar. Tomorrow, all those warriors will know there was only one Khal who ever mattered."

He paused, gazing into the fire, and for a moment, something ancient and alien flickered in his eyes. A faint accent from another world, a world of jockeys and racetracks, slipped into his voice. "In my old world," he said, almost to himself, "they say history is written by the victors. They are wrong. History is erased by the victors, then rewritten from scratch."

The words sent a shiver down Mirri's spine. Her fear of Pollo had transformed into something deeper. She was now convinced. The man before her was not merely Dothraki. He was something else. Something that had come to rewrite their world in fire and blood.

Pollo stepped out of his tent into the cool night. His entire encampment was dark and silent, a sea of shadows in stark contrast to the drunken revelry still ongoing in the valley below. His forty thousand warriors were resting with their horses, a coiled force like a gigantic steel spring pressed to its limit. The tension was a palpable hum in the air, a promise of coming violence.

Vekho approached him, his massive figure a silhouette against the stars. He did not speak, simply stood beside his Khal, his presence a silent assurance of strength.

"They sing," Pollo said softly, listening to the faint echoes from Drogo's camp. The sounds of laughter and music carried on the wind, sounding thin and fragile. "They celebrate a Queen they have never met and a victory across the sea they will never see."

He looked up at the pale crescent moon, recalling a Dothraki saying he'd heard from merchants, a saying that now felt like a prophecy. "A Dothraki wedding without at least three deaths is considered a dull affair."

A cold, savage smile touched Pollo's lips for the first time that night, a flash of white teeth in the darkness.

"Tomorrow," he whispered, more to the night itself than to Vekho, "we will give them a show that will be sung of for a thousand years."

In the valley below, a drunken warrior stumbled out of a tent, spilling his wine and roaring with laughter. On the hill, a conqueror watched, and waited for dawn. The storm was about to break.