Night fell swiftly over the Dothraki Sea, bringing with it a sharp, biting cold. Yet, in the center of the camp, the chill was banished by a colossal bonfire that blazed fiercely. The fire, prepared by Torvo's men, licked at the night sky, turning smoke into dancing orange sparks that looked like spirits in the heavens. Its flickering light illuminated a sea of copper-colored faces.
Rakka had done his job well. Six thousand warriors had gathered, forming a giant crescent facing a rough wooden platform erected near the fire. The sound of drums began, a deep, primal rhythm that beat in sync with the heart of the khalasar. There was excitement in the air, mixed with unspoken tension and curiosity.
Pollo's tent flap swung open.
He stepped out, and the murmur among the warriors subsided into respectful silence. Pollo wore no armor or adornments, only simple leather pants and boots. Yet, the power emanating from his body, the way he moved with quiet confidence, was enough to draw all eyes to him. Behind him, Vance walked like a menacing shadow. To his left and right, his two new bloodriders stood tall, their gazes sweeping over the crowd.
Pollo ascended the wooden platform, each step steady. He looked out at the sea of warriors before him, their eyes reflecting the firelight. He raised his hand, and the drums stopped.
"Warriors of the khalasar!" his voice boomed, no need to shout to be heard by even the farthest man. "Tonight, we are no longer the remnants of Fogo's khalasar!"
A rumble of assent rose from the crowd.
"Tonight, we are not divided by old loyalties!" he continued, his voice growing stronger. "Tonight, before the Great Stallion, we become one!"
He struck his chest with a fist. "Every warrior will lend their strength to me, and I will bestow my blessing upon you! Come forth!"
After a brief pause, a large warrior chosen by Rakka stepped forward from the front rank. He ascended the platform, his gaze both challenging and respectful. He stopped before Pollo.
"Place your hand on my shoulder," Pollo commanded.
The warrior hesitated for a moment, then placed his large, calloused palm on Pollo's shoulder. As contact was made, the warrior's eyes widened slightly. He felt a strange, warm wave of energy flow from him, as if a small part of his essence was being recognized. At the same time, Pollo felt the first mental notification: Clone created. Slot 1/6000 filled.
Pollo nodded to the warrior. "You are blessed."
The warrior retreated, looking slightly bewildered but clearly impressed. He returned to his rank, and the next warrior stepped forward.
The process began. One by one, an unending stream of warriors began to pass by the platform. Each man placed his hand on Pollo's shoulder, and each touch sent a new notification into Pollo's mind. Slot 2/6000 filled. Slot 3/6000 filled.
Pollo stood as unyielding as a rock in a river, his eyes meeting those of each approaching warrior. The drums began to beat again, their rhythm quickening. The bonfire flared even higher. The line seemed endless, disappearing into the darkness at the edge of the camp. The notifications in his mind kept accumulating, a silent countdown to the creation of the greatest secret army the world had ever seen.
Hours passed. The moon, which had hung high in the night sky, began to shift westward, its pale light bathing the grasslands in silver. The great bonfire still blazed, but the large logs had turned into a bright sea of glowing embers. The drum rhythm had slowed to a deep, steady heartbeat, a metronome for this unending ritual.
The warrior crowd was no longer boisterous. They stood in solemn silence, witnessing an extraordinary display of endurance. An ordinary human would have long since collapsed, arms numb, mind exhausted. But Pollo stood unmoving, like a statue carved from stone. Each time a new warrior placed a hand on his shoulder, he met the man's gaze, giving him a brief nod before turning to the next.
Physically, his body felt nothing. The Super Soldier Serum eradicated all fatigue. Mentally, however, this was a trial. Each touch was an echo, a digital "ping" within his consciousness. 4321... 4322... 4323... The constant stream of notifications had become a background hum in his mind, a mental pressure that required a portion of his enhanced cognition to continuously manage and ignore.
From his position, Vance observed. He was the only one who could see it. Not physical exhaustion, but the thin strain around Pollo's eyes, the focus required to process these thousands of "souls." With a nearly imperceptible hand signal, Vance motioned to the drummers to keep the rhythm steady, not letting it slow down or speed up. He managed the flow of the ritual with the efficiency of a general protecting his commander.
Finally, as the first blush of dawn began to paint the eastern horizon in shades of gray and pink, the last warrior stepped forward. He was a young man, his face tired from waiting all night, but his eyes shone with awe. He placed his hand on Pollo's shoulder.
Slot 6000/6000 filled. Storage dimension full.
The hum in Pollo's mind ceased. The sudden mental silence felt so profound after hours of constant "interference." He had done it.
Pollo allowed his arms to drop for the first time. He looked out at the sea of warriors before him. All of them had touched him, had become part of his ritual. The respect in their eyes had now turned to veneration. A Khal who stood all night, greeting every one of his warriors without showing a sign of weakness, was a Khal blessed by the gods.
He raised his now-free hands to the brightening sky.
"IT IS DONE!" his voice thundered, breaking the silence of dawn. "THE GREAT STALLION HAS UNITED US! NOW, FEAST!"
As if a dam had broken, the khalasar erupted in a deafening roar of triumph. Their shouts shook the ground. The tension of the long ritual finally broke, replaced by wild exhilaration. Warriors rushed towards the bonfires, where roasted meat and sacks of arakh had been prepared.
Pollo watched them for a moment, then turned. His eyes met Vance's.
Pollo held Vance's gaze for several seconds, a silent communication affirming success and anticipating the next step. He then turned away from the cheering crowd and gave a brief nod of his head. Vance and his two bloodriders understood. They followed him back into the quiet of the main tent, leaving the revelry of the feast behind them.
Inside, the atmosphere immediately turned serious. Pollo did not sit. He stood in the center of the room, allowing his leaders to gather.
"Listen closely," Pollo said, his voice low but weighted. "The ritual just now was more than a celebration. It was a summons. The Great Stallion has heard us, and he has answered."
The two bloodriders looked at him with pious awe, fully accepting the divine explanation.
"Tomorrow at dawn," Pollo continued, "the gift will arrive. Another khalasar, warriors who have lost their way, will come to swear fealty to us. They will come from the east, from beyond those hills."
He paused, letting them comprehend the scale of what he was saying. The addition of a new khalasar was a momentous event.
"Vance and I will ride to greet them at dawn. Alone," Pollo said. He then looked at one of his bloodriders. "You, convey my message to Rakka. Prepare the khalasar to welcome our new brothers, but no one is to move from camp until I give the signal. I want this to be orderly."
The bloodrider nodded firmly. "Understood, my Khal."
The plan was neat. It gave him the perfect excuse to go out alone with Vance, far from curious eyes.
The night passed quickly. Before the first light touched the sky, Pollo and Vance had mounted their horses, moving silently away from the main camp, most of whose occupants were still asleep or drunk from the feast. They rode through a series of low hills, until they arrived at a wide, hidden plain. The place was empty and silent, only the dawn wind rustling across the grass.
"Here," Pollo said, stopping his horse.
He dismounted, as did Vance. Pollo closed his eyes. He didn't need to concentrate on each individual. He just needed to open the gate of his pocket dimension and issue one powerful mental command: Emerge. All of them.
At first, there was nothing. Then, the air across the entire plain before them began to ripple, like a mirage in the desert heat. The ripples grew stronger, distorting the view of the distant hills. There was no sound, no light, just an unnatural, strange distortion.
Then, in the blink of an eye, they appeared.
One second the plain was empty, the next it was full. Six thousand Dothraki warriors stood in complete silence, their ranks formed with terrifying precision. Each dressed in basic leather, each with a different face, each holding a weapon in their hands. They did not move. They did not speak. They simply stood there, a phantom army born from nothingness, their eyes all fixed on one point: on Khal Pollo.
Vance stepped forward, taking his position as the general of this new army. "FORM BATTLE LINES!" he roared.
With one perfectly synchronized movement, the six thousand warriors moved, forming deep, organized ranks. The sound of thousands of boots hitting the ground simultaneously was the only sound that broke the dawn's silence.
Pollo looked at his army, his silent wave. The sun began to rise behind them, the first rays of sunlight reflecting off thousands of spear tips, creating a dazzling forest of light on the previously empty plain. Pollo took a deep breath, feeling the power of the sight before him. He turned to Vance and gave him a brief nod.
Vance understood. He raised a horn trumpet that hung at his side and blew it. One long, strong, clear note echoed across the hills, a signal that could not possibly be misheard by the main camp.
"Time to introduce them," Pollo said, more to himself than to Vance.
Both mounted their horses again. Vance took position at the front of the clone army. "ADVANCE!" he commanded.
With synchronized footsteps, the six thousand warriors began to move. It was an odd and terrifying sight for anyone who knew the Dothraki. They did not ride wildly or shout. They marched in orderly formation, their steps creating a heavy, inevitable rhythm. They were a wave of steel and muscle moving with a single purpose.
Pollo rode in front of them, leading the procession through a pass in the hills. As his main camp came into view, he could see that Rakka had carried out his orders. Six thousand of his original khalasar's warriors had gathered on the plain in front of the camp, their horses restless, their voices boisterous.
As Pollo's new army emerged from behind the hill, the clamor slowly died. The original Dothraki warriors stared with slightly open mouths. They had seen large khalasars before, but they had never seen anything like this. It was not just their size that silenced them, but their discipline. That silent, orderly power felt more menacing than any war cry.
Pollo spurred his horse forward, stopping in the empty space between the two armies. On one side, his six thousand old warriors, a chaotic sea of individuals. On the other side, his six thousand new warriors, a silent wall of shields and spears. Rakka and Torvo rode to meet him, their faces showing unconcealed awe.
"My Khal..." Rakka whispered, unable to tear his gaze from the new army.
Pollo did not look at him. He looked at all his warriors. "RAKKA!" he shouted, his voice amplified by the power of his serum. "THIS IS A GIFT FROM THE GREAT STALLION! THESE WARRIORS HAVE ANSWERED MY CALL! FROM THIS DAY FORWARD, THEY ARE YOUR BROTHERS!"
He raised his hand. "OUR KHALASAR IS NOW TWICE AS STRONG!"
He then gave the command that would seal the unification. "VANCE! RAKKA! JOIN YOUR RANKS! LET THE WARRIORS MEET!"
For a moment, there was hesitation. Then, the original warriors, spurred by cheers and adrenaline, began to move forward. The clone army, under Vance's command, also stepped forward to meet them.
What followed was a strange blend of chaos and order. The original warriors slapped the backs of the newcomers, shouted, and challenged them to brief arm wrestling matches, trying to gauge their strength. The clones, with their innate Dothraki knowledge, responded accordingly. They snarled back, matched strength, and displayed the same tough demeanor.
However, there was a subtle difference. The clones never initiated petty squabbles. Their gaze never strayed far from Pollo. Their programmed loyalty made them uninterested in the internal politics or ego rivalries that characterized the Dothraki. They were an anchor of stability in the storm.
Pollo, Vance, Rakka, and Torvo stood together, watching the two forces become one. The camp was now packed with twelve thousand warriors, a force capable of challenging even the largest khalasar. The foundation of Pollo's power was no longer just solid; it was a fortress.