The thick scent of wood smoke, cured leather, and a sharp, unfamiliar musk filled his lungs. Then sounds. The crackle of a nearby hearth, the distant whinny of horses, and the murmur of voices in a harsh, guttural language outside. Lastly, touch. A dull ache throughout his body, not the pain of injury, but a deep muscular exhaustion, as if he had just been through a battle of a lifetime. The surface beneath him was rough and warm, like a pile of animal furs.
Pollo opened his eyes.
The ceiling above him was not a ceiling, but thick woven fabric supported by massive wooden poles carved with images of warring horses. The walls were once-luxurious silks, now slightly soiled, hung alongside thick tapestries. An open hearth blazed in the center of the room, its flickering light dancing across animal skulls displayed as decorations. This was a tent. The tent of a barbarian king.
He raised his hand, and his breath hitched. It wasn't his hand. Its skin was copper, darker than his old skin. His palm was large and thick, calloused like a warrior's. Thin scars adorned his knuckles. He touched his face. His jaw was more defined, his nose once broken and healed slightly crooked.
He tried to sit up. His movements felt strange. Effortless. The muscles in his abdomen and back contracted with unnatural strength and speed, lifting his body to a sitting position in one silent, fluid motion. He looked down at his body. A broad chest and a hard stomach, all made of dense, powerful layers of muscle. This was the promised strength. The serum was real within his blood.
He focused on the sounds outside. The murmurs suddenly became clear, every word comprehensible as if it were his native tongue.
"...his last blood dripped in the dust. Khal Fogo is dead." "Pollo is now Khal. He took his khas and his widows."
Pollo. So that was his name now. Khal Pollo. A kingslayer, a new leader. He was alone, a stranger in this body, surrounded by thousands of warriors whose loyalty was as thin as his last victory. Physical strength alone wouldn't be enough. He needed an advantage. He needed someone he could trust completely.
He remembered his second wish. The ability to clone.
Before anyone entered, before dawn fully broke, he had to do it. With strong resolve, he pressed his right palm to his broad left chest. He closed his eyes, focusing his entire intention on one command: Create.
There was no sensation of pulling. No light. Only a new "awareness" that emerged in his mind. A mental notification, telling him that one slot in his pocket dimension was now filled. There, within his personal void, a clone had been created, waiting.
Pollo took a deep breath. Now for the second step. He opened his eyes, stared at the empty space before him, and gave a command in his mind: Emerge.
The air in front of Pollo rippled for a moment, then a figure appeared out of nowhere, already standing upright. He was fully dressed in rough leather pants and a Dothraki belt, as commanded. His body exuded the exact same aura of power as Pollo's, every muscle dense and strong. However, his appearance was completely different. This man had jet-black hair, almost black brown eyes, and a sharper facial structure. He was Dothraki, but not Pollo.
The man blinked once, his eyes instantly clear and focused. There was no emptiness there. Instead, his eyes radiated full awareness and clear purpose. He quickly surveyed the tent, a tactical assessment of the environment, before his gaze landed on Pollo. There was no confusion or fear. Only instant recognition and deep respect, as if he had known and served Pollo his entire life. He knew who he was: a warrior. And he knew who his leader was.
"Your name is Vance," Pollo said, testing their first interaction.
The man nodded, accepting the name as if it were his own. "Vance," he repeated, his voice deep and steady. "As you command, my Khal." He didn't passively wait for orders. His eyes moved towards the closed tent entrance. "Our position is vulnerable. What should we secure first?"
Pollo was slightly surprised by his initiative. This wasn't a robot. This was a general ready for work. He had the expertise and tactical mind of the Super Soldier Serum, driven by absolute loyalty.
"Good," Pollo said, a faint smile gracing his lips. His solitude lessened slightly, replaced by a new sense of confidence. "First order: guard the entrance. Let no one enter until I call you."
"Understood, my Khal." Vance turned without hesitation and walked silently to the tent entrance, taking up position as a vigilant guard. His demeanor showed an elite warrior protecting his leader, not a machine awaiting orders.
Pollo was left alone. The silence inside the tent felt different now. Before, it was the silence of isolation; now, it was a silence full of potential, protected by Vance's silent presence at the entrance. Pollo took a deep breath, the scent of leather and smoke filling his lungs as his enhanced brain began to work at full speed.
He needed to validate information. He rose from the pile of furs, his body moving with almost silent efficiency. Every step was steady and balanced. He walked to the tent entrance, not opening it, but simply standing near it. With his super hearing, he could easily filter out conversations among the warriors outside.
"...Khal Fogo was a great warrior, but he was careless when drunk." "Pollo fought him like a ghost. I didn't even see his sword move." "Look at his braid. Not very long. He's young, but he killed Fogo."
The information flowed in, cataloged and analyzed by his mind. He was a usurper, a power grabber. Respected for his strength, but unproven as a leader. This khalasar, now his, consisted of warriors loyal to strength, not to a person. One sign of weakness, and they would turn against him as quickly as they turned against Fogo.
He needed more than just strength. He needed loyalty. And to gain loyalty, he needed a plan they could understand and respect.
Pollo turned and called, "Vance."
Vance entered silently, his alert eyes immediately fixed on Pollo. "My Khal."
"I need information," Pollo said. "The command structure of this khalasar. Who are the Kos? Who are the most respected warriors? Who is most likely to challenge me?"
This was the first test. Pollo wanted to know how deep Vance's "basic Dothraki knowledge" ran.
Vance didn't hesitate for a second. His brain, possessing the same processing capabilities as Pollo's, immediately accessed his innate knowledge package. "The strongest Ko is Rakka, son of Jommo. He commands a thousand warriors on the left flank. He is pragmatic and respected," Vance said fluently. "The most ambitious is Torvo. He is large, brutal, and leads the foragers. He will be the first to challenge if you show weakness. There are also Fogo's bloodriders. They are now masterless. They are dangerous."
Pollo nodded. The information was consistent with what he expected. Vance was not just a warrior; he was an analyst. "Good. Summon Rakka and Torvo. Bring them before me. One by one."
"Understood," Vance replied, then turned to carry out the order.
Pollo sat in the rough chair that seemed to be Khal Fogo's "throne." He knew what would happen next. In Dothraki culture, a new Khal had to assert his dominance. He couldn't just inherit power; he had to seize it completely. Rakka and Torvo were key. One had to be convinced, the other had to be subdued.
This was the first step in his war plan. Not a war against external enemies, but a war to secure the foundation of his own power.
Pollo waited in calculated silence, his fingers gently tapping the rough wooden armrest of the chair. He didn't have to wait long. Heavy footsteps approached, and the tent flap was pulled aside. Vance entered, followed by a tall, powerfully built Dothraki man with a face as hard as stone and a long hair braid signifying many victories. His eyes were sharp and wary. This must be Rakka.
Rakka stopped a few paces in front of Pollo, his eyes briefly glancing at Vance who stood silently near the entrance, then returning to Pollo. He did not bow. He showed no fear, only a respect forced by circumstance.
"You called me, Khal?" Rakka's voice was hoarse and deep.
"I called you, Rakka, son of Jommo," Pollo replied, his voice calm yet filling the entire tent. He used his full name, a sign that he had done his homework, that he knew his people. "Khal Fogo is dead. I killed him. This khalasar is now mine."
"Blood demands blood. That is our way," Rakka said, an acknowledgment, not a challenge.
"True," Pollo said. "And now I need reliable Kos, not just great fighters. I saw how you led the left flank. Organized. Efficient. You don't attack blindly." His super mind had analyzed the scouts' reports and the khalasar's past battle tactics. "I want you to be my first Ko. Lead your own way, but under my command. Do you agree?"
Rakka stared at Pollo for a long time, assessing the younger man before him. He saw strength there, but he also heard something else in Pollo's tone. Not just brutality, but intelligence. This was no ordinary Khal. "I serve the khalasar. As long as you make it strong, I will serve you."
"Good," Pollo said. "You may go. Tell Vance to send Torvo in."
Rakka nodded once, then turned and exited. A moment later, the tent door opened again, and this time, the figure who entered was much larger. Torvo was a giant, his muscles bulging, and his face adorned with scars. His eyes radiated unconcealed aggression and ambition. He stopped in the middle of the tent, his hand not far from the hilt of his arakh.
"You killed Fogo," Torvo growled, his voice like grinding stone. It wasn't a question.
"True," Pollo replied calmly, not moving from his seat.
"That makes you strong," Torvo continued, "but it doesn't make you my Khal." He took one step forward. "Strength must be proven, not just once, but every day."
Pollo could feel the adrenaline beginning to flow, the serum in his body responding to the challenge. He smiled faintly. "You are right, Torvo. So, prove your strength. Challenge me."
That was what Torvo had been waiting for. With a savage roar, he drew his arakh and lunged forward. His movements were fast for his large body, his sword swinging in a deadly arc, aimed at Pollo's neck.
To Pollo, the swing seemed slow.
In the fraction of a second before the sword arrived, Pollo had already moved. He didn't rise from his seat. He simply twisted his body sideways with impossible speed. Torvo's arakh cut through empty air where his neck had been milliseconds ago, its momentum causing Torvo to lose his balance slightly.
That opening was more than enough.
Pollo kicked from his seated position. The tip of his boot struck Torvo's knee with focused power. There was a loud, sickening crack of bone.
Torvo screamed in pain and rage, his massive body collapsing to one knee, his arakh clattering to the ground.
Before Torvo could react, Pollo was already standing over him. His hand gripped Torvo's neck, lifting the giant effortlessly until his feet left the ground. Pollo's grip was so strong that Torvo couldn't breathe, his face beginning to turn blue.
"Strength," Pollo hissed, his eyes staring intensely into Torvo's frightened eyes. "Has been proven."
He slammed Torvo to the ground. The giant coughed, trying to gasp for air while clutching his shattered knee.
"You will lead the foragers, as before," Pollo said, his voice calm again. "But now, you do it for me. Or your other bones will follow."
Torvo, gasping for breath and in immense pain, could only nod in submission. Dominance had been established.
Torvo coughed in pain, his eyes no longer radiating ambition, only fear and resignation. Pollo stared at him for a moment, his gaze cold and emotionless. Power had been shown, now it was time to show control.
"Vance," Pollo called without turning.
Vance entered the tent, his steps silent. He saw Torvo on the floor and his shattered knee without showing any expression.
"Call the maester," Pollo commanded. "Make sure he can walk again. I need him to lead the foragers, not crawl on the ground like a worm." He then looked at Torvo. "Get out."
With difficulty, aided by Vance, Torvo dragged himself out of the tent, leaving a trail of dust and shame. After he left, Pollo returned to his seat. He had tamed the two strongest wolves in his pack. Now, it was time to face the ghosts of the previous Khal.
"Vance," Pollo said again. "Bring Khal Fogo's bloodriders before me. All of them."
Vance nodded and left. Pollo waited. He knew this was a dangerous move. According to Dothraki custom, the bloodriders of a fallen Khal had one duty: avenge their master, and if they failed, follow him into death. They were men bound by blood oath to kill him.
The tent flap opened again. Three Dothraki men stepped inside. They did not have the arrogance of Rakka or the aggression of Torvo. They moved with grim solemnity, their faces like masks of sorrow and hatred. They were shadows of a dead man, and they had come to confront his killer.
The three stopped in front of Pollo. They did not draw their weapons, but their hands were ready.
"I am Khal Pollo," Pollo said, breaking the silence. "I killed your master."
"We know," replied the bloodrider standing in the middle. His eyes were dark. "Our oath demands us to avenge his death."
"And you have failed," Pollo retorted flatly. "I am still here. Fogo is in the night lands. Your oath of vengeance is over."
"Our oath is not over," said another bloodrider. "We will follow him."
Pollo leaned forward. "To what end? So your souls can ride shadow horses beside him? This khalasar is still alive. The women and children still need protection. The grasslands still need to be conquered. Fogo is dead, but his people still breathe. Serving the dead is futility."
The three men fell silent, Pollo's unconventional words surprising them.
"I offer you a choice," Pollo continued. "A choice no other Khal has ever given. Forget the oath of death. Make an oath of life. Fogo's blood has been spilled. Now, spill your blood for me, not in death, but in victory. Be my bloodriders."
The offer hung in the air, both a blasphemy against tradition and an unexpected way out.
The first bloodrider, the oldest, slowly shook his head. "I lived with Fogo. I will die with him." Before anyone could stop him, he drew a dagger from his waist and slit his own throat. Blood spurted, and his body fell silently to the ground.
The two remaining bloodriders stared at their friend's corpse, then at Pollo. They saw undeniable strength. They heard a cruel but true logic in his words.
The man in the middle stepped forward. He drew his dagger, but did not point it at his own throat. He walked to Pollo's side and, with a swift movement, cut his own palm until blood dripped. He looked at Pollo, waiting.
Pollo understood. He took his own small dagger and did the same, cutting his palm. He pressed his bleeding palm to the man's palm.
"Qoy Qoyi," the man said, uttering the oath. Blood of my blood.
The last bloodrider did the same.
A new blood bond had been sealed. Pollo now had two experienced bloodriders, bound by the most sacred oath. The foundation of his power was solid.
The drying blood on their palms felt warm, a seal binding the fates of three men in the dim tent. Pollo looked at his two new bloodriders. They were formidable warriors, their faces a map of countless battles. Their loyalty, once belonging to the dead, was now his.
Pollo shifted his gaze to the corpse on the floor. "Take him out," he commanded, his voice calm yet firm. "Burn his body with respect. He died holding true to his oath to Fogo. We honor that."
The two bloodriders exchanged glances for a moment, surprised by the order that showed respect for the tradition they had just abandoned. Without a word, they lifted their friend's body and carried him out of the tent.
"Vance," Pollo called.
Vance appeared from his guard post. "My Khal."
"Summon Rakka and Torvo back here. Now."
Hours later, Pollo's inner circle had formed for the first time. Rakka stood with his pragmatic demeanor, Torvo leaned awkwardly on one leg, his face still contorted in pain, and the two new bloodriders stood behind Pollo's chair like statues. Vance stood to the side, his presence silent yet the most menacing of all.
Pollo looked at them one by one, his super brain analyzing every expression, every posture. These were his generals, his lieutenants. This was his foundation.
"Tonight, when the moon reaches its peak," Pollo began, his voice resonating with new authority. "We will begin a new tradition. A ritual to unite this khalasar as never before."
He paused for a moment, letting his words sink in.
"I want every warrior in this khalasar to come before me. One by one. They will lay their hands on me, and I will know their strength. The Great Stallion has whispered to me. He does not want a khalasar divided by loyalty to Kos or to memories of the past. He wants one body, one mind, one invincible fist."
Rakka frowned slightly, trying to understand the logic behind this strange ritual, but he did not object. The two bloodriders looked awestruck, fully believing that their new Khal indeed spoke with the gods. Torvo merely grunted in agreement, in no position to question anything.
"Rakka," Pollo said, pointing to his first Ko. "You will organize the khas. Make sure they line up in order when the time comes."
Rakka nodded. "I will do so, my Khal."
"Torvo," Pollo continued, his gaze shifting to the injured giant. "You and your foragers will prepare the largest bonfire this camp has ever seen. Prepare meat and drink. This is a celebration of our new strength."
Torvo struck his chest with his fist in response.
"You two," Pollo said to his two bloodriders. "Will stand by my side."
They nodded in unison.
"And you, Vance," Pollo said, his gaze meeting the dark brown eyes of his clone. "You will oversee everything. Make sure this ritual is undisturbed."
"No one will dare, my Khal," Vance replied with absolute conviction.
"Good," Pollo said, leaning back in his chair. "Now go. Prepare everything."
His leaders bowed and left the tent to carry out their orders. As the tent flap closed, Pollo could hear the commotion outside beginning to change. News of a sacred ritual and a great celebration spread by word of mouth like wildfire across the dry grasslands. The sun began to set on the horizon, painting the sky with oranges and purples. Tonight, he would not only secure his army. He would multiply it.