Game Of Thrones: Khal Pollo (GOT)

The first grey light of dawn crept over the horizon, illuminating Khal Drogo's sleeping encampment. A thick, heavy silence hung in the air, the scent of spilled wine and burnt meat from the night's revelry sour in the throat. The campfires that had roared now lay as simmering piles of embers, sending thin wisps of smoke into the pale sky. The entire khalasar, a temporary city inhabited by forty thousand warriors, was wrapped in drunken snores and deep sleep.

On the eastern perimeter, a young Dothraki guard named Zorro stood swaying. His head throbbed in rhythm with his slow heartbeat. He splashed warm water from a waterskin onto his face, trying to shake off the last vestiges of the wine haze. That was when he felt it.

Not a sound. It was a tremor.

A tremor barely perceptible in the soles of his bare feet, like the distant heartbeat of a giant, pulsing from within the very earth. He paused, frowning, looking towards the hills to the east that were just beginning to silhouette against the blood-tinged dawn. Nothing. Just grass swaying gently in the morning breeze. He shrugged, dismissing it as lingering dizziness.

Then the tremor came again, this time stronger. The horses nearby began to snort restlessly, their heads raised, their nostrils flared. Zorro felt the hairs on his arms rise. This was not dizziness. This was something else.

He squinted, looking at the hill crest again. And his heart stopped.

On that hilltop, where moments ago there had been nothing, now stood a line. A perfect black line, stretching from one end of the horizon to the other, as if the night itself had refused to yield to dawn. It was not a shadow. It was a line of riders. Thousands of them. Standing still as stone statues.

A cold, piercing dread seized Zorro. He had seen many khalasars charge. They came with roars and yells, an unruly wave of chaos. But this was different. Their silence, their order, was far more terrifying than any war cry.

He opened his mouth to shout, to raise the alarm, but the sound caught in his throat.

Because just then, the line began to move.

Khal Pollo's khalasar began to descend from the hills. Not in a wild charge, but in a controlled, inexorable wave. Their horses moved with a synchronized stride, creating a growing thunder, a natural war drum that shook the ground and vibrated in the bones. They were not charging the camp. They were enveloping it.

The left and right wings, led by Qorro, broke off from the main force, fanning out like the tips of giant scythes to cut off every escape route. They moved with deadly speed and precision, the light horse riders appearing as ghosts in the dim dawn light.

Panic finally erupted in Drogo's camp. Zorro's first scream finally escaped, high-pitched and full of terror, before he was trampled by the confused front ranks of his own forces. Warriors stumbled out of their tents, their eyes wild with drunkenness and disbelief. They saw the approaching wall of riders, silent and inevitable, and a fear they had never known seized them.

In the midst of the exploding chaos, a path opened.

Like a rock splitting a river's flow, a column of heavy troops advanced with deliberate stride, straight towards the celebration platform at the camp's center. At their head, riding a jet-black stallion that towered over the others, was Khal Pollo. He was flanked by his three Bloodriders, their faces masks of deadly calm. Pollo did not look left or right at the panicked, fleeing warriors. His eyes were fixed on one man.

On the wooden platform, Khal Drogo stood, his mighty body now fully alert. He ripped the silk robes from his shoulders, his muscles tensing beneath his copper skin. His black eyes narrowed in rage and immense disbelief. Who dared? Who dared commit such an insult?

Pollo stopped his horse a few dozen yards from the platform. He did not speak. He did not shout. He simply sat on his horse, staring at Drogo. In the Dothraki world, this act was the ultimate insult, the most fundamental challenge. It was a statement that Drogo was not worth a war roar, not worth a challenging yell. He was merely an obstacle to be removed.

A ROAR!

The sound exploded from Drogo's chest, a primal burst of fury that made even his bravest followers tremble. It was the roar of a lion, the roar of a war god. He snatched his massive arakh from its sheath, the curved blade seeming to thirst for blood. Without hesitation, he leaped from the platform, landing heavily on the dusty ground, his knees bending slightly like a predator ready to pounce.

The fight began.

Drogo charged first, his body exploding into motion. He was a terrifying whirlwind of power and speed, his legs devouring the distance between them in the blink of an eye. His arakh swung in a deadly horizontal arc, aiming to sever Pollo's head from his shoulders. The blade sliced through the air with a vicious SWISH!

Pollo leaped from his horse at the last moment, landing lightly on his feet. He moved with unnatural calmness, an efficiency of movement that seemed alien and supernatural. He did not try to match Drogo's strength. He flowed around it. As Drogo's arakh whipped towards his neck, Pollo merely tilted his head slightly. The deadly blade whistled past where his head had been milliseconds before, only cutting a few strands of his long black hair.

Drogo spun from his own momentum, a frustrated growl escaping his throat. He charged again, this time with a vertical swing aimed at splitting Pollo in two. Pollo was no longer there. He had moved aside with blurring speed, allowing Drogo's arakh to strike the ground with a loud THUD!, sending a cloud of dust into the air.

The fight became a horrific dance of death. Drogo was a storm, every movement an explosion of raw power. He charged, slashed, spun, his arakh a blurred circle of steel. Pollo was the rock in the eye of that storm. He dodged, wove, pivoted, every movement minimal and calculated. Drogo's face was red with fury and exertion, veins bulging in his neck and forehead. Pollo's face remained serene, focused, his keen eyes never leaving his enemy's, calculating every move, analyzing every pattern.

CLANG!

For the first time, Pollo did not evade. He raised his own arakh and parried Drogo's blow. The clash of steel on steel was like lightning, sending sparks that illuminated both fighters' faces. The shockwave of the impact vibrated through Drogo's arm. He stared at Pollo in shock. The force behind that parry felt solid, unyielding, like hitting a mountain wall.

After evading another series of savage blows, Pollo saw his first opening, a tiny flaw created by Drogo's rage. As Drogo swung his weapon too wide, leaving his side exposed for a fraction of a second, Pollo moved.

He did not use his weapon. He dropped his arakh to the ground.

The act was so unexpected, so insulting, that Drogo paused for a microsecond, bewildered. That fraction of a second was more than enough. Pollo shot forward, not like a fighter, but like a bullet. He drove his clenched fist into Drogo's ribs.

CRUNCH!

The sound was wet, dull, and terribly loud in the sudden silence. Ribs beneath Drogo's skin shattered like dry twigs. Drogo staggered backward, his breath leaving him in a pained hiss. His eyes widened in shock. He looked at Pollo, then down at his side, as if unable to believe what had just happened. He coughed, and a trickle of bright red blood appeared on his lips.

Blood.

The legend bled.

Seeing his own blood seemed to break something in Drogo. The pain drove him insane. All technique, all skill, vanished, replaced by pure berserker fury. He roared, the sound of a wounded animal, and charged with desperate ferocity, swinging his arakh wildly.

This was the mistake Pollo had been waiting for.

In his final, blind charge, Drogo raised his arakh high over his head, putting all his might into one ultimate, crushing blow.

Time slowed.

To Pollo, the world became a series of distinct, clear images. He saw the tensed muscles in Drogo's shoulders and back. He saw the beads of sweat flying from his forehead. He saw the flash of desperation and bewilderment in his black eyes.

He moved in, under the arc of the descending sword swing.

With one hand, he caught Drogo's weapon arm by the wrist.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

A sickening, rapid series of snapping sounds echoed as the bones in Drogo's wrist and forearm shattered under Pollo's superhuman grip.

Drogo screamed. It was not a war roar. It was a high-pitched shriek of pure agony. His precious arakh fell from his crippled grasp, landing in the dust with a pathetic clang.

With his other hand, Pollo seized Drogo by the throat. With one fluid, horrifying motion, he lifted the mighty Khal off the ground. Drogo's muscular legs kicked helplessly inches above the ground he had dominated. Drogo's eyes bulged, his face turning purple.

CRACK!

That final sound was sharp, final, and reverberated across the entire field. Pollo broke his neck.

He released his grip. The limp body of Khal Drogo, the unconquered legend, crumpled to the ground like a broken sack of grain, his head lolling at an unnatural angle.

For a few seconds that felt like an eternity, no one moved. Eighty thousand Dothraki stared in utter silence, their breath caught in their throats. Their god had been slain. Their legend had been shattered before their eyes.

Pollo raised his head from his fallen opponent. His eyes met Vekho's across the field. He gave a brief nod.

That was the signal.

Vekho roared, a sound that broke the spellbound silence, and charged towards Drogo's three Bloodriders, who had just recovered from their shock and drawn their weapons. On the periphery of the camp, Qorro's riders began to move, hunting down the panicked Ko attempting to flee. And from the main ranks, Garo and his force advanced with steady discipline, straight towards the Targaryen silk pavilion. The plan had been unleashed.

Pollo ignored the chaos erupting around him. He bent down and picked up Drogo's arakh from the ground, its heavy blade feeling balanced in his hand. It was the symbol of ultimate authority. He walked calmly through the battle that was beginning to rage, towards the wooden platform.

Viserys Targaryen, who had witnessed it all with a deathly pale face, recoiled in terror as Pollo approached, stumbling over his own silk robes. Pollo did not even glance at him. His eyes were fixed on only one person.

Daenerys Targaryen stood motionless, her wedding robes fluttering softly in the morning breeze. She was pale, but she did not tremble. She stood tall, her chin raised. Her violet eyes met his, and in their depths, Pollo saw a mixture of horror, shock, and something else. Something he could not yet identify. Something that felt like recognition.

He stopped before her, towering over her, his body sweating and smeared with Drogo's blood. He extended his free hand, not to harm her, but as if offering the world or claiming it for his own.

"Your name is Daenerys," he said, his voice deep and authoritative, cutting through the din of the ongoing battle. "You will no longer be the bride of a Khal. You will be the Queen of the greatest Khal."

He paused, his eyes locking with hers.

"You are mine."