Game Of Thrones: Khal Pollo (GOT)

Night in King's Landing had its own peculiar scent, a sickening perfume of wealth and decay pressed close together. By the wharves, in the crowded district of Flea Bottom, the odor grew sharper. The pungent aroma of pepper and cloves from spice warehouses mixed with the salty, damp air of the port and the fishy reek of rotting fish tossed into the cobbled streets.

Inside a dark warehouse, among towering burlap sacks that rose like small hills, Prince Oberyn Martell waited in silence. He did not sit. He leaned against a weathered wooden pillar, his lean, fluid body almost blending into the shadows. The only light came from a single lantern hanging from a beam, its flickering glow making shadows dance like restless ghosts. The only sounds were the slow creak of the wooden structure as the sea wind buffeted it, and occasionally, the scuttling of a rat in the dark.

A shadow detached itself from the gloom near the entrance. Its movements were so quiet that even the rats did not pause in their scurrying. Tyene Sand approached, her dark robes concealing the curves of her body. She stopped a few paces from Oberyn, her eyes adjusting to the dim light.

"Father," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Oberyn did not turn his head. His eyes remained fixed on a sliver of moonlight piercing a gap in the roof, illuminating motes of spice dust dancing in the air. "The report."

"Ser Allar Deem," Tyene said, her voice flat and professional. "Captain of the East Wall. He's arrogant, greedy, and has a weakness for Arbor Gold and blonde girls."

"A tedious combination," Oberyn countered, finally pushing himself away from the pillar. He moved into the light, and a faint smile played on his lips, though it did not reach his dark eyes. He pulled a small glass vial from beneath his silk robes. Inside, a few pale purple crystals sparkled like crushed gems.

He handed it to Tyene. "A pinch in his wine," he said, his voice calm and precise. "Just enough to make his fat heart burst like an overripe plum. Ensure there are witnesses who see him drunkenly ranting moments before. We don't want a panic. Just confusion."

Tyene took the vial, her slender fingers closing around it. She nodded once, a small, knowing motion. There were no questions. No hesitation. This was not about vengeance. This was about logistics.

"Consider it done," she whispered, before disappearing back into the shadows as quickly as she had arrived.

Oberyn stood for a moment in the silence, letting the scent of cloves fill his lungs. The first bite had been delivered. Now, it was time to wait for the venom to spread.

The next morning, in the Small Council chamber, Tyrion Lannister felt a cold premonition creep up his spine. It had nothing to do with the morning breeze coming through the latticed windows. It was the atmosphere in the room. Cersei seemed more tense than usual, Littlefinger was too calm, and Varys... Varys looked like a gently smiling porcelain doll.

A Gold Cloak commander entered, his face pale. He reported the sudden death of Ser Allar Deem the night before. "Found in his chambers at the barracks, Hand of the King. His face was blue. Grand Maester Pycelle says his heart gave out from too much drink."

Cersei snorted in disgust, waving her hand. "Another Lannister pig dead of gluttony. Replace him and do not bother me with such trifles."

Tyrion frowned, twirling his goblet. He remembered Allar Deem, a crude and unpleasant man, but fit as a bull. A heart giving out? Perhaps. But the premonition gnawed at him. He glanced at Varys. The Master of Whisperers only looked back with a feigned expression of sympathy, but his eyes showed not a hint of surprise.

That night, under the cloak of darkness, a different viper struck. Nymeria Sand, her long black hair tied back neatly, slithered across the rooftops of Flea Bottom. She moved with the grace of a dancer, each step silent. Her destination: a blacksmith's workshop near the Dragon Gate.

With the help of a Dornish agent working inside, she gained access to the massive hinge mechanisms of the main gate. She did not crudely damage them. She produced a small leather pouch, and with a fine-bristled brush, she applied a thick, clear fluid to the main stress points of the iron rods. The liquid was a potent, corrosive acid, its scent disguised by rancid lard. In a few hours, it would eat away at the metal's strength from within, making it as brittle as glass.

Across town, a sleepless Tyrion walked along the city walls with Bronn. The night air was cold. "You look like you just swallowed a porcupine," Bronn said, spitting onto the street below.

"Something does not feel right," Tyrion mumbled, more to himself. He stopped by one of the massive scorpions that guarded the bay. He looked at it, an impressive killing machine. On impulse, he reached out and plucked the giant bowstring, which was as thick as his wrist. The string did not hum with a healthy twang. It made a dull, dead sound.

He drew his dagger and carefully cut a single small strand from the string. The entire section of rope unraveled like a rotten thread, leaving a dry powder in his hand.

The chill that had been a premonition was now ice in his veins. He immediately ordered an inspection of every scorpion on the East Wall. The same report came back from three different locations: bowstrings that had been subtly weakened, crank mechanisms that had been sabotaged with fine sand.

Tyrion stood on the cold rampart, looking east, towards the dark sea where Dragonstone hid. This was not negligence. This was not an accident. This was sabotage. Coordinated. Intelligent. Deadly.

They were already inside.

Just then, the city bells began to toll, signaling curfew. But to Tyrion, each toll sounded like a death knell announcing the coming dawn.

Dawn over King's Landing broke not with light, but with a vibration. A tremor that crawled up from the ground, rising through the soles of boots and into shin bones, a low rumble that felt in the teeth. On the northern hills, in the last moment of darkness before sunrise, ten thousand Dothraki warriors waited. The air was heavy with the smell of horse, oiled leather, and the cold sweat of tense anticipation.

Vekho stood at the front, his gigantic figure still as a mountain on his black warhorse. His eyes were fixed on the dark silhouette of the sleeping city. He gave no speech. The new discipline that had been forged into this khalasar with fire and blood no longer needed it. They waited for the signal.

In the distance to the south, a brief flash of pale green fire tore across the pre-dawn sky. Viserion had begun his attack. It was the signal.

Vekho did not hesitate. He raised his massive arakh, its curved blade catching the first faint light. A single word erupted from his chest, a roar more felt than heard: "RIDE!"

The ground exploded. The once-still sea of Dothraki became a living tidal wave, a thunder of tens of thousands of hooves hitting the ground, pouring down the hills towards the city.

On top of the Dragon Wall, Captain Ilyn screamed hoarsely, his voice barely audible over the panicked clanging of alarm bells. The Hand of the King's report of sabotage had proven true. Half the scorpions along his rampart were useless, their bowstrings brittle as rotten thread. He saw a massive dust cloud approaching from the north. "Gods..." he whispered.

Before he could command his archers to fire, a shadow fell over them. It was so big and fast that it swallowed an entire section of the wall in a moment of darkness. The air suddenly grew intensely hot, as if the door to hell's furnace had opened above them.

He looked up. Above him, against a blood-red sky, was the pitch-black silhouette of Acnologia. He could see the figure of Khal Pollo on its back, pointing down like a god passing judgment.

Pollo gave a silent command.

A ferocious blast of black-red fire shot from the dragon's jaws. The flame did not strike the wall, but arced over it, wiping out the lines of archers and soldiers along the rampart in a silent wave of annihilation. Captain Ilyn's last thought was a blinding flash of heat.

Inside Maegor's Holdfast, panicked reports flooded the Small Council chamber.

"The Dragon Gate is under attack! Tens of thousands of Dothraki!" a breathless messenger shouted.

"The East Wall is on fire! A black dragon!" another shrieked, his eyes wild with terror.

Tyrion tried to give logical orders, his voice sharp and urgent. "Ready the archers at the gate! Fire the scorpions at the creature!"

The answers he received were full of despair. "Hand of the King, the scorpions are useless! The archers on the wall... they are gone!"

It was then that the final report arrived, delivered by a guard shaking so violently he could barely stand. "The fleet... Your Grace, our fleet... it's on fire in the bay. All of it."

Tyrion looked at his sister's ashen face, then at Varys, who stood still in the shadows. He finally saw the full picture. Sabotage, a ground assault, and an aerial attack. All part of one perfectly coordinated lightning strike. This was not a battle. This was a massacre.

In front of the Dragon Gate, Vekho and the Dothraki vanguard arrived amidst a rain of ash and embers. The air smelled of ozone and scorched flesh. A giant, crudely made battering ram, driven by twenty of the strongest warriors, smashed into the wooden gate.

CRACK!

On the third strike, the weakened wood exploded inwards. The acid-corroded hinges tore away from the stone with a metallic shriek. The portcullis chains, which had been sawed, snapped under their own weight. The iron gate fell with a deafening roar, but only halfway before jamming, caught by the damage.

It was more than enough.

Vekho did not wait. With a savage roar, he was the first to leap from his horse and burst through the jagged gap under the portcullis. His massive arakh sliced in a deadly arc, cleaving a Gold Cloak sergeant from shoulder to breastbone.

The unstoppable tide of Dothraki flooded through the gap behind him, spilling into the streets of King's Landing like an angry river of blood and steel. The city's defenses had collapsed.