Game Of Thrones: Khal Pollo (GOT)

The Dragon Gate had fallen. The air in King's Landing, which had only smelled of fear, was now filled with the stench of blood, dust, and smoke. The Dothraki tidal wave flooded the streets, a river of steel and fury overflowing its banks, swallowing everything in its path.

Amidst the chaos, Garo moved with cold purpose. He was on foot, his arakh held low and ready, his old, sharp eyes scanning the mayhem with a hunter's precision. He and his hundred hand-picked veteran warriors ignored the screams of fleeing civilians and the sporadic looting by younger soldiers. They had a task.

At a narrow street intersection, they found their first target. A group of Gold Cloak sergeants, about twenty of them, had managed to form a desperate shield wall behind a pile of overturned carts. Their glistening spear tips were the only semblance of order left in that sea of chaos.

Garo did not order a futile frontal assault. He raised his hand and gave a series of sharp, economical signals. His men, forged by the Khal's new law, understood instantly. They fanned out, clambering over blood-slicked piles of crates and the low roofs of blacksmith shops.

The attack came from three directions simultaneously. The Dothraki dropped from above like shadow panthers, their arakhs cutting into unprotected necks. The fight was brutal, swift, and ruthlessly efficient. Garo himself faced the lead sergeant, deflecting his panicked spear thrust with a weary flick of his wrist before his curved blade sliced across the man's throat. He wiped his blade clean on the dead sergeant's cloak, his eyes already scanning for the next target on his mental list. Organized resistance had to be broken.

High above the blood-soaked streets, on a balcony in Maegor's Holdfast, Tyrion Lannister gripped the stone railing tightly. He could see the pattern in the madness. The Dothraki were not spreading out randomly as he had feared; they were flowing through the main arterial streets like a vicious river, sweeping away all resistance.

In the distance, near the Great Sept of Baelor, a flash of golden-red fire lit up the sky as Viserion reduced a massive barricade to a pile of smoldering ash. Tyrion realized with horror that the dragons were not just spreading terror; they were being used as tactical air support, clearing obstacles for the ground troops with terrifying efficiency.

A messenger covered in blood and grime staggered onto the balcony, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Hand of the King! The Dragonpit has fallen! Ser Jacelyn Bywater... he's gone."

Tyrion closed his eyes for a moment, feeling his world crumble around him. The outer defenses were gone. The battle was no longer for King's Landing. The battle was now for the Red Keep itself. He turned, his face as rigid as a stone mask.

"Barricade all gates to the castle," he commanded, his voice hoarse. "Prepare the boiling oil. Bring the pots of wildfire to the front gate. Now!"

On the Street of Steel, the main uphill road to the Red Keep, the main Dothraki force finally met with real resistance. Vekho's men were stopped by the last and largest barricade, a makeshift wall of overturned blacksmith carts, piles of raw steel, and pried-up cobblestones. Behind it, the last line of disciplined Lannister soldiers stood firm, their wall of spears gleaming under the smoky sky.

The first Dothraki charge halted, their horses neighing as they slammed into the unyielding spear points. For a moment, the tidal wave was held back. A Lannister knight in beautifully engraved lion armor roared triumphantly from atop the barricade.

Vekho roared back, a sound of pure rage and frustration. Defying every Dothraki tradition and instinct, he leaped from his horse. He landed with a heavy thump, his feet sinking into the bloody mud. He walked toward the center of the barricade, ignoring the arrows that bounced off his thick leather shoulder guards.

His sharp eyes scanned the barricade, searching for its weakest point. He found it: a cracked wheel on the heaviest cart, which was bracing two other carts.

He planted his feet firmly on the ground, using his shoulder as a living battering ram. With a bone-shaking roar, he exerted all his immense strength to push that weak point. The muscles in his arms and back tensed until his veins bulged like ship's ropes.

The Lannister soldiers opposite him stared in horror. There was a sound of groaning wood, then a deafening crack. With one final, rage-fueled shove, the cart toppled sideways with a loud clang of metal. Its collapse created a domino effect, bringing down other sections of the barricade and creating a wide enough gap.

A breach had opened, broken wood and twisted metal forming a dangerous pathway. Vekho was the first through, his huge body moving with surprising speed for his size. His massive arakh was drawn.

Behind the collapsed barricade, the knight in lion armor stood tall, his spear raised. He was no ordinary soldier; his stance showed experience and courage. Before the other Dothraki could flood the gap, he moved to block Vekho.

The spear flew fast, aimed at Vekho's heart. However, Vekho moved faster. With an explosive twist of his hips, he dodged the thrust, the spear only grazing the leather guard on his chest. At the same time, his arakh moved in a deadly arc.

A shrill clang of metal deafened them as the arakh blade met the spear's steel. The force of the impact made the knight stagger back a step. Vekho gave him no time to recover. He advanced, his feet crunching on the debris, and launched a second, lower attack, aiming for the knight's legs.

The knight quickly lowered his spear to parry, but the arakh was an agile weapon. Vekho pulled his blade back and struck again, this time aiming for the neck, which was only partially protected by the gorget.

The knight tried to parry again, but his movements were slow from shock and the weight of his armor. The arakh blade sliced, cutting through flesh and hitting bone with a sickening crunch. Blood spurted, painting the steel of the armor a dark red.

The knight fell to his knees, his spear slipping from his hand. Vekho did not hesitate. He swung his arakh one last time, a horizontal blow that struck the knight's helmet with full force. The steel dented inward, and the body beneath it collapsed to the ground, silent.

Vekho stood for a moment over the body of the lion-armored knight, his arakh dripping with blood. His breathing was heavy, but not ragged. He stared at the remaining Lannister soldiers behind the shattered barricade. Fear was clear in their eyes.

A victorious roar erupted from the Dothraki as they flooded through the gap behind their leader. The way to the Red Keep was now wide open.

High above the chaos, on Acnologia's back, Pollo watched it all. From his vantage point, the battle in the streets looked like a river of red and brown lava flowing through the city's canyons. He saw the last barricade collapse under Vekho's overwhelming strength, a sight that gave him a wave of cold satisfaction. His general had executed the command perfectly.

Through their mental bond, he gave a command to his dragon. Descend.

Acnologia folded his great wings and dived. The wind roared past Pollo's ears. The inner courtyard of the Red Keep, which had been distant, now grew larger with dizzying speed. He could see the panicked Lannister soldiers trying to form a final line of defense, their small faces looking up in terror.

With a deafening flap of his wings that sent a storm of dust and debris across the courtyard, Acnologia landed. The ground trembled. His dagger-sized claws crushed the paving stones beneath him. For a moment, the entire battle stopped. Both Dothraki and Lannister froze, staring at the mythical creature that now stood among them, its molten-metal eyes glowing, sulfurous smoke billowing from its nostrils.

Pollo dismounted from the dragon's back in a smooth, effortless motion. His leather boots landed with a soft thump on the bloody stone. He patted Acnologia's scaly neck. Go.

Pollo's calm eyes scanned the inner courtyard of the Red Keep.

The battle erupted again with new ferocity. The wave of Dothraki led by Vekho and Garo crashed into the final line of defense. It was no longer a battle; it was a massacre. The Lannister soldiers, their morale shattered by the dragon's arrival, fought with the desperation of men who were already dead.

Pollo observed, letting his generals finish their work. He saw Vekho smash a man's shield with a single swing of his arakh, while Garo, with a veteran's efficiency, cut down three soldiers in a fluid series of movements.

Only Ser Meryn Trant remained, standing on a pile of his comrades' corpses, his back to the wall, his sword raised shakily. As Vekho was about to finish him, Pollo raised his hand. The giant stopped instantly.

Pollo walked calmly through the corpses. He did not draw his weapon. He faced Trant with bare hands. Trant, seeing what he took for arrogance, charged with a desperate scream.

Pollo dodged the sword slash with a barely perceptible movement of his head. He caught Trant's wrist, and the sharp crack of bone was clear in the sudden silence. As Trant shrieked in pain, Pollo slammed his fist into the knight's breastplate. The steel dented inward with a horrible CRACK! Trant collapsed to the ground, dead before his scream ended.

Pollo stepped over his body and pushed open the heavy door to the Throne Room.

The air inside was heavy with fear. Courtiers and ladies-in-waiting huddled along the walls, their faces pale. In the center of the room, at the foot of the stairs to the Iron Throne, Cersei Lannister stood, her green eyes burning with pure hatred. On the throne itself, Joffrey Baratheon sat, his crown slightly askew, trying to look majestic but only appearing like a terrified boy.

Pollo ignored them all. His steady footsteps echoed in the chilling silence as he walked straight. He climbed the dais stairs.

"I... I am your King!" Joffrey stammered.

Pollo did not reply. He simply grabbed the velvet fabric on Joffrey's shoulder and threw him from the throne like a rag doll. Joffrey landed with a pathetic thump at the foot of the stairs.

Pollo sat on the Iron Throne. The cold, sharp iron dug into his back. A seat made of a thousand surrendered swords, forged in dragonfire. He felt at home.

He looked at Joffrey, who was crying on the floor, then turned to Vekho, who had just entered. "Kill the boy."

Vekho stepped forward without hesitation. Cersei shrieked, a hoarse sound of pure horror. "No!" She was held back by two Dothraki soldiers. Before anyone else could do anything, Vekho's arakh slashed in a quick, silent arc. Joffrey's head rolled across the marble floor, stopping near his mother's feet.

Pollo rose from the Iron Throne. He did not waste time savoring the moment. His cold gaze was fixed on Cersei, who stood frozen, held by the two Dothraki, her eyes locked on her son's headless body.

"Take her," Pollo commanded.

Without ceremony, the soldiers dragged the Queen out of the Throne Room, ignoring the horrified stares of the remaining nobles. Pollo followed behind. He did not take her to a cell. He took her straight to her bedchamber in Maegor's Holdfast.

The heavy oak door was kicked open. Pollo shoved Cersei into the room and gestured to the soldiers to leave and guard the door.

He turned to face her. She was not crying. Her face was a porcelain mask of pure hatred. "You monster," she hissed, her voice trembling with rage, not fear.

"I am a conqueror," Pollo countered, his voice low and devoid of emotion as he approached. "And you are the spoils of war."

He lunged forward before Cersei could react. His hand grabbed the front of her blood-red silk gown. With a single, powerful tug, the fabric tore with a deafening rip, from her neck to her waist, exposing the corset and pale skin beneath.

Cersei gasped, but hatred gave her strength. She struck Pollo's chest with her clenched fist. The blow was like hitting a stone wall. Pollo did not even flinch. He caught both of her wrists with one hand, his grip like steel. With his other hand, he ripped the rest of her gown and undergarments to shreds, leaving Cersei completely naked and vulnerable before him.

He pushed her back, onto the great goose-feather bed. The bed she had once shared with King Robert. Her body sank into the softness, but there was nothing soft about the way Pollo landed on her, his heavy, muscular body pinning hers down, trapping her.

"Let me go, you beast!" she shrieked, struggling beneath him.

Pollo did not answer with words. He gripped Cersei's jaw, forcing her to look at him. Her burning green eyes met his cold, empty ones. He forced her thighs apart with his knee. Without any foreplay, without any tenderness, he positioned himself and pushed in with a single, powerful, punishing thrust.

"URRRGH!"

A scream that was half pain, half shock, escaped Cersei. Her eyes widened. It was hot, dry, and painful. Pollo did not care. He began to move, his thrusts deep, powerful, and relentless.

The sound of sweating skin slapping together filled the room, a wet, sticky thump-thump-thump rhythm. Each thrust was an assertion of ownership. Cersei's head was thrown to the side on the silk pillow, her teeth clenched, a groan of pain and humiliation escaping her throat. Her nails dug into Pollo's steel-hard back, leaving deep red scratches, but the man seemed not to feel them.

Pollo gripped Cersei's hips, lifting her slightly for a deeper angle, his thrusts becoming faster, more savage. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto Cersei's face. His mind remained focused, waiting. Soon...

He felt his release approaching. With a low, deep growl that vibrated from his chest, he pushed one last time, deep and hard, as climax hit him. He released himself inside Cersei's womb.

At that moment, an intense golden-red light enveloped Pollo for a moment.

When the light faded, Pollo pulled away. He looked at his clenched hand. When he opened it, an object lay in his palm: a small black leather-bound book, with no title, tied with a silver cord. The knowledge of its function flooded into his mind instantly: The Black Book of Houses, an artifact containing every shameful secret, every betrayal, and every weakness of all the Great Houses of Westeros.

He stared at his new artifact, then at Cersei lying shattered on the bed, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her green eyes still fixed on him with unshakeable hatred. He rose, showing no emotion. He walked to the door and opened it. The Dothraki guards outside stared straight ahead.

"She is my hostage," Pollo said, his voice back to its calm tone. "Ensure she does not harm herself. She is too valuable to die so easily."

Pollo returned to the Throne Room, holding his black book. He gave a series of quick orders that established the new order. Tyrion was dragged before him in chains.

"Your father will come for me," Pollo said, looking at the bruised dwarf. "I need someone who understands how he thinks. You will be my advisor, or you will join your nephew."

He announced that Cersei, Tommen, and Myrcella were valuable hostages to be used against Tywin. Sansa Stark was separated and declared a "guest" under his protection.

Pollo sat alone on the cold Iron Throne, turning the first page of his Black Book. Outside, in the distance, the Dothraki war drums began to beat again, not in celebration, but as a call to prepare for the storm to come.