Game Of Thrones: Khal Pollo (GOT)

The silence in Harrenhal was a living curse. The air was cold and heavy, seeping into the melted black stones and stifling every sound. In the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, Lord Tywin Lannister sat behind a giant oak table, studying a map of the Riverlands. The fire in the hearth roared, but its warmth never reached his pale, cold eyes.

The great hall door opened with a loud creak. An exhausted, mud-spattered rider stumbled in, his face pale with terror and fatigue. He was the sole survivor. He carried a parchment roll wet with sweat.

Tywin took the roll. As he read, there was no change in his expression. He did not yell. He did not curse. Instead, he became profoundly still, a silence far more terrifying than any rage.

Ser Kevan Lannister approached him anxiously. "Tywin?"

Tywin laid the parchment neatly on the table. "King's Landing has fallen," he said, his voice calm and deadly. "Joffrey is dead. Cersei and her children are hostages. A Dothraki dragon sits on the Iron Throne."

An hour later, the main Lannister commanders were gathered around a large map of Westeros. Their faces were pale and tense.

Tywin stood before them, his posture straight and unyielding. "This savage has made a fatal mistake," Tywin said, his voice cutting through the silence. "He has placed himself inside a stone cage. The Dothraki are a weapon of the open plains. In narrow streets and against walls, they are useless."

He pointed to the Kingsroad with his slender fingertip. "We will march south. The full force of the Westerlands. We will lay siege to the city. We will cut off their supplies from that damned 'Food Zone.' We will starve him out. Let his horsemen eat their horses inside the walls."

He looked at his commanders, his pale eyes gleaming. "He may have dragons, but we have numbers, discipline, and steel. We will crush him in open battle on the fields outside the city. We will show the world how a lion deals with stray dogs."

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In the Throne Room of the Red Keep, Tyrion Lannister was dragged before Khal Pollo. The chains on his wrists felt cold and heavy. Pollo sat on the Iron Throne, his powerful figure looking as if it were carved from the throne's stone itself.

"I have conquered your city," Pollo said, his voice a low rumble. "Now, you will help me defend it. Your father is marching toward us. Tell me, Dwarf. What will he do?"

Tyrion looked at his new conqueror. In his eyes, he saw not savagery, but a cold, predatory intelligence. After a long pause, Tyrion began to speak, his voice hoarse.

"He will try to starve you out," Tyrion said, laying out his father's strategy with chilling precision. "He will try to lure you out into an open battle, where he believes his heavy infantry can crush your cavalry, which he considers undisciplined. He will underestimate your dragons, seeing them as uncontrollable beasts rather than tactical weapons."

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That night, in his private chamber, Pollo sat alone, the Black Book of Houses open before him. He was not reading about Tywin. He was reading about his vassals. His finger stopped on the entry for House Marbrand, one of Tywin's primary banners. He read about their secret: Lord Marbrand's legitimate eldest son was actually an illegitimate child from his wife's affair, a fact known only to Tywin and used to ensure Marbrand's loyalty.

Pollo smiled, a cold and humorless smile. He summoned Garo.

"Send your fastest rider," Pollo commanded. "He will ride non-stop to the west. He will intercept the Lannister forces before they reach the Goldroad."

He tore off a piece of parchment and wrote a few words in black ink. "Give this to Lord Marbrand. And to him alone."

Garo took the message. In the candlelight, the writing was brief and brutal:

"Your bastard son would look handsome with a crown. Stand with me, or I will give it to him."

Pollo was not just planning to fight Tywin's army; he was planning to dismantle it from within before the battle even began.

=====

That morning, on a hill overlooking the fields outside King's Landing, Lord Tywin Lannister observed his army. It was a sight of perfect order, the embodiment of House Lannister's power. Tens of thousands of soldiers stood in immaculate formations, a sea of steel and crimson. The spearmen formed a solid core, the archers on the wings like fangs ready to bite, and the heavy cavalry waited in reserve, poised to be a crushing hammer.

"Look, Kevan," Tywin said, his voice cold and confident. "Order. Discipline. This is what will break that savage horde."

From the shattered gates of King's Landing, a sea of Dothraki began to spill into the fields. From atop the hill, Tywin Lannister watched. It was not the chaotic mob he had expected. These were silent ranks of horsemen, moving with a terrible purpose, their curved arakhs catching the morning light like a thousand steel fangs. He snorted softly, dismissing it as a poor imitation of true discipline.

A single, deep, heavy drumbeat began to sound from the Lannister ranks—DUM... DUM... DUM—like the heartbeat of a giant made of iron and conviction. Followed by the sound of thousands of steel boots hitting the ground in unison, his mighty army began to advance like an inevitable machine. The ground trembled under their methodical steps.

Across the field, the Dothraki stopped. A tense silence fell over the battlefield, broken only by the methodical Lannister drumbeats—DUM... DUM... DUM—and the gentle whistling of the wind over the grass. The ranks of horsemen were silent as stone statues carved from fury, their still arakhs reflecting the morning sun.

Then, the silence broke.

Not by trumpets or written orders. A Ko in the front rank raised his curved arakh high into the air. He opened his mouth, and from his throat came a single, primal roar of hate.

"YAAAAAAHHHH!"

A split second later, tens of thousands of other throats answered.

"AAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!"

It was more than a shout. It was a living wall of sound, a sonic shockwave that hit the Lannister ranks like a physical blow. The roar swallowed the drumbeats, tore through the air, and vibrated inside the chest of every soldier, making their bones rattle. At the same time, the once-silent wave of Dothraki exploded into motion.

The ground that had only been shaking from footsteps now shook violently. The thunder started as a low rumble—G-DUM, G-DUM, G-DUM—then rapidly increased to a deafening gallop as tens of thousands of horses charged forward—GADUM-GADUM-GADUM-GADUM—an unstoppable avalanche of hooves and fury.

From behind the Lannister shield wall, a young soldier named Willem gripped his spear until his knuckles turned white. He could feel the vibration traveling up through the soles of his boots, into his shins, making his teeth chatter. The roar was the sound of his worst nightmare. The approaching wave of horsemen was no longer an army; it was an avalanche of flesh and steel that would swallow everything.

"HOLD THE LINE!" his commander screamed.

Willem planted his spear butt into the ground, aiming its sharp tip forward, his shoulder pressed against the shield next to him. He could see the Dothraki faces now, masks of savage rage, their mouths open in a scream.

Then they hit.

The sound of the impact was not a clash of steel, but the sound of the world breaking. Thousands of pounds of horse flesh and bone slammed into the wall of steel and wood with immense force. Willem was thrown backward, the air knocked from his lungs. The sound of snapping spear shafts was like cracks of thunder. Next to him, a man screamed as a speared horse collapsed on top of him, crushing him under its weight. Hot blood sprayed onto Willem's face.

For one terrifying moment, the line wavered. The dead and dying horses created a grotesque barricade of writhing flesh, but the Dothraki behind them leaped over the obstacle, their arakhs slashing from above, searching for gaps between the shields. A curved blade hit a helmet near Willem, a wet CRACK! sounding as the steel dented and killed the man inside.

However, Lannister discipline held. Soldiers in the second rank stepped forward to fill the gaps, their spears thrusting into horses' bellies and riders' thighs. The Dothraki's victorious roars turned into screams of pain. The wave had hit a reef. For one bloody, brutal moment, the charge was held.

On his command hill, Tywin Lannister raised his hand. The signal had been given.

TRUUUMP! TRUUUMP! TRUUUMP!

The Lannister war horns roared, their hoarse, demanding sound slicing through the din of battle, a clear and undeniable order to unleash the cavalry hammer.

On the left flank, Lord Marbrand heard the horns. He felt the burning parchment inside the leather pouch beneath his armor, Khal Pollo's words searing in his mind: "Your bastard son would look handsome with a crown."

He raised his heavy sword, its blade gleaming in the sun. His armored arm felt as heavy as lead. He opened his mouth to shout the command he had practiced hundreds of times. "CHARGE!"

But what came out was a hoarse, hesitant sound. "Left flank... advance... slowly!"

The contradictory order spread among the knights behind him. They tensed, ready to charge, but the word "slowly" confused them. The spirited warhorses jostled each other, snorting in frustration. The momentum that had been painstakingly built was gone in an instant. Instead of a crushing tidal wave of steel, Marbrand's cavalry moved forward with an awkward and uncertain gait.

The Lannister left flank faltered.

From the center of the Dothraki assault, Vekho's sharp eyes caught it. The hesitation. A momentary wobble in the enemy's left flank, a crack in the once-perfect shield wall. He did not know why, but he recognized the opening his Khal's plan had created.

He did not hesitate. He raised his massive arakh and let out a deafening roar from deep within his chest.

"YAAAAAAARRRRGGGHHH!"

The roar was a command. His heavy cavalry, ten thousand of the strongest warriors, responded as one. They turned sharply, a tidal wave of steel and fury turning away from the spear wall in front of them and heading straight for the open gap on the left flank.

The Dothraki charge hit the side and rear of the Lannister infantry line.

It was no longer a clash of formations. It was the sound of a sledgehammer shattering a pane of glass.

CRACK!

The sound of a thousand wooden shields breaking like dry twigs.

SKREEE!

The sound of arakhs tearing through plate steel, sending sparks and a painful screech of metal.

The Lannister soldiers, who had been standing firm, now turned in a panic, their long spears useless in close quarters. Their triumphant roars turned into shrieks of terror.

"Aaargh!" a soldier screamed as a Dothraki warhorse slammed into him, crushing his ribs with a wet crack.

Horses neighed in a horrible high-pitched tone as they trampled the fallen, their hooves crushing helmets and faces indiscriminately. The disciplined formation instantly broke down into total chaos. The neat ranks of red and gold collapsed into a panicked individual slaughter, a blood-soaked hell where everyone fought for their own life.

On his command hill, Tywin Lannister watched in horror and disbelief as his left flank collapsed like a sand wall hit by a wave. His perfect formation was now a bloody vortex of chaos.

"RESERVES!" he roared, his voice hoarse with rage, echoing over the din of the battle below. "CHARGE! CLOSE THE GAP! NOW!"

The heavily armored reserve knights began to move, their golden lion banners fluttering proudly. But it was too late.

That was when he heard it.

Not the sound of battle. Not the screams of men. It was a tearing sound in the air, a sharp, unnatural SSSHHHHIIIIIIIIIRRRRRR!, as if the sky itself was being ripped.

Tywin looked up. Three shadows fell from the clouds like living meteors. Acnologia, Rhaegal, and Viserion.

Pollo, on Acnologia, dived straight for Tywin's reserve cavalry. The black dragon opened its jaws, and what came out was not just fire. It was a liquid roar—VWOOOOOSH!—a devastating blast of black-red flame that consumed an entire regiment of knights.

There were no screams. There was only a horrible hiss as steel melted and flesh turned to ash in an instant. Horse and rider vanished in a firestorm.

On the other side, Daenerys, on Rhaegal, directed her dragon at Tywin's command tent. A blast of golden-green fire—FWOOOSSSHH!—hit the silk and wood, turning the Lannister army's nerve center into a pile of embers in a matter of seconds. The panicked generals and strategists ran out, their robes on fire.

Tywin sat on his horse, frozen, surrounded by a handful of his trembling personal guards. Below him, his mighty army, the pride and legacy of House Lannister, was a burning hell. His perfect plan had been reduced to ashes in a matter of minutes.

He did not scream. He did not curse. He just stood there, staring at the total destruction of his legacy, the silence of his absolute defeat the only sound in his head.