The Law of Iron and Blood

The stench was the first thing that greeted him.

It was a thick, layered aroma. The sharp tang of old sweat clinging to skin, the gamey smell of sun-cured animal hides, the pungent scent of horse dung, and the sour smoke of campfires. All blended into an olfactory assault that churned his stomach.

Thomas Vance, or whatever he was now, opened his eyes.

The cruel Essos sun seared his retinas, forcing him to squint. As his vision slowly focused, he didn't see the familiar stable ceiling or Amelia's anxious face. He saw a sea of rough, copper-skinned faces, long black braids adorned with tiny, softly jingling bronze bells, and dark eyes staring at him impassively. They formed a tight circle around him, a living wall of men.

A throbbing ache at the back of his skull was a faint echo of that fatal kick. A searing heat was on his skin. The coarse fabric of leather trousers and a sleeveless vest felt alien and heavy on his body. He could feel the dry texture of dust on his lips. All around him, a low murmur in a guttural language could be heard. Strangely, every harsh word was instantly translated into clear meaning within his mind, an instinctive knowledge that felt foreign yet utterly comprehensible.

Amelia?

His last memory: a white flash, the horrific sound of cracking bones. Panic began to creep up his throat, cold and suffocating. He tried to feel his own body. This was not his body. The muscles in his arms and chest felt solid as steel, larger and stronger than he'd ever been as a jockey.

Yet, beneath the wave of panic, there was something else. A clear, potent surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins, sharpening every one of his senses to an unnatural degree.

The murmuring suddenly ceased.

The crowd before him parted with forced deference. A giant Dothraki stepped into the center of the circle. He was nearly seven feet tall, his chest broad as a shield, and his arms thick as tree trunks. His greasy black braid hung to his waist, adorned with dozens of bronze bells signifying many battle victories. His face was a mask of brutality, with a broken nose and a deep scar crossing one eye. He was the embodiment of raw Dothraki power.

The giant spat onto the dusty ground in front of Pollo. With one fluid motion, he drew a massive arakh from his waist, the deadly curved blade catching the dazzling sunlight. He roared in Dothraki, and the words echoed in Pollo's mind: "I AM RAKHO, SON OF RHAKO! YOU ARE NO KHAL! YOUR BLOOD WILL WATER THIS EARTH!"

He struck his own chest with his massive fist. The message was clear: You are not the leader. I am.

Pollo's confusion evaporated, replaced by a pure, clear wave of rage. This direct threat erased all questions of where he was or who he was. Only one reality mattered now: this man wanted to kill him.

The adrenaline sharpened his mind to a razor's edge. He glimpsed the other warriors behind Rakho, the lieutenants. Their eyes were full of savage anticipation. They weren't just watching a duel; they were waiting to devour the loser and claim his remnants. This wasn't just a fight. This was an audition for survival. He had to win. And he had to win in such a convincing manner that no one else would dare challenge him again.

Pollo rose to his feet. His movements were unhurried, but every muscle in his new body felt connected, pulsing with latent power, ready for action. He did not reach for a weapon. He didn't need one.

Rakho charged forward with a deafening war cry. His arakh swung in a wide, powerful horizontal arc, designed to sever Pollo's head from his shoulders.

For Pollo, time seemed to slow to a crawl.

Thanks to the boon from Tom the Blue Cat, Rakho's swift swing appeared to move through thick honey. Pollo could see the dust dancing around the curved blade, every tensed muscle in Rakho's shoulders and arms, even the flecks of spittle flying from his roaring mouth.

With no visible effort, Pollo simply dipped his head slightly.

SWISH!

The deadly arakh blade whistled past where his neck had been milliseconds before, cutting only empty air with a fierce whooshing sound.

Rakho, expecting an easy victory with a single swipe, stumbled on his own momentum. Disbelief flashed in his eyes, immediately replaced by greater fury. He spun, swinging his weapon again, this time with a vertical strike aimed to cleave Pollo in two.

Pollo was no longer there.

He moved sideways with a blurring speed that made the Dothraki spectators gasp in shock. He evaded every one of Rakho's wild slashes with minimal movement and terrifying efficiency, letting the giant expend his energy in a futile dance of death. Each failed arakh swing was followed by a frustrated growl from Rakho.

Rakho, now panting and blinded by rage, made one fatal mistake. He overextended his final swing, a downward chop so powerful it left his chest completely exposed for a split second.

It was more than enough.

Pollo shot forward.

His right fist clenched, moving with a speed almost invisible to the naked eye. There was a brief whistling sound as his fist cleaved the air.

CRACK!

The sound was wet, sickening, and utterly distinct. Pollo's knuckles slammed into Rakho's ribs with the force of a sledgehammer. The bones shattered inward, splintering into sharp shards that instantly pierced the giant's heart and lungs from within.

Rakho's eyes widened in shock. Not from pain, but from utter confusion. He looked down at his now unnaturally concave chest, then back at Pollo. Pink blood frothed from his lips. He tried to speak, but only a wet gurgle escaped.

He fell to his knees, his arakh falling from his weakening grasp with a soft clatter on the ground. Then, his massive body toppled forward with a heavy THUD!, dead before his face touched the dust.

A deafening silence fell over the ten thousand warriors. The only sound was the rustle of the wind carrying dust across the grass sea.

They had all witnessed the slaughter. They saw their giant, a warrior who had won dozens of battles, destroyed unarmed, by a single blow.

Pollo stood over Rakho's corpse, his breathing calm and steady. He slowly raised his hand, dipping it into the pool of Rakho's thick red blood before deliberately smearing it across his own face, a primal and savage marking of ownership.

He stared intently at the other, previously hopeful, Ko, his eyes challenging each of them. One by one, they lowered their heads, avoiding his gaze as if it were fire. Doubt had been crushed. Hopes of seizing power had been extinguished. All that remained was sacred fear.

He spoke his first words in this world. His voice was calm, yet it resonated with undeniable authority in the silence. The words came instinctively from his lips in perfect Dothraki.

"Anyone else?"

The silence that followed Pollo's question was heavy and absolute. The breeze sweeping across the grass sea seemed to hold its breath. Ten thousand pairs of eyes were fixed on the figure standing calmly over the corpse of his challenger, his face smeared with drying blood.

The remaining Ko, the lieutenants whose eyes had glittered with savage ambition moments ago, now stood rigid as stone statues. Their jaws were clenched. Their hands, which had instinctively been near the hilt of their arakhs, now hung limply at their sides. The wild hope in their eyes had been extinguished, replaced by something far more fundamental: a cold, calculating fear. They had witnessed a power beyond their comprehension, a brutal efficiency that did not belong to their world.

Pollo did not wait for an answer to his question. He already knew the answer. He gestured to Rakho's corpse with his chin, his gaze sweeping over the nearest warriors.

"Burn his body," he commanded, his voice calm yet cutting through the silence like a knife. "His horse too. He died a warrior, albeit a foolish one."

There was a moment of hesitation, a split second where the old order still fought against the new. Then, obedience came like a tidal wave. Several warriors moved without hesitation, almost tripping over each other to carry out their new Khal's command. The tense silence broke, replaced by the sound of hurried footsteps and low murmurs as they began to prepare the funeral pyre. The activity was driven by newly born fear and respect.

Pollo ignored them. The instincts of his new body, the knowledge flowing in his blood, told him the next crucial step. A Khal was a warlord; a Khal with Bloodriders was a king. He had to choose them now, while the blood was still fresh on his hands and his power absolute.

He would not ask for volunteers. He would choose.

His sharp gaze swept over the remaining Ko. With his super cognition, he didn't just see their faces; he saw the hesitation, the hidden ambition, and the raw power behind their eyes. He analyzed them in seconds.

"Garo," he called.

An older veteran stepped forward. His face was a map of battle scars, and his long, slightly greying braid almost touched his waist. During the duel, he was the only one who showed no greed, but rather a calm tactical appreciation. He was stability.

"Qorro."

A younger, slender warrior, known for his speed, stepped forward. He seemed the most frightened during the duel, but he did not flee. Pollo saw potential in that controlled fear. He was speed.

"Vekho."

A quiet giant, almost as tall as Rakho but with denser, more defined muscles, stepped forward. He never took his eyes off Pollo during the fight, his dark eyes trying to comprehend, analyzing every impossible movement. He was thinking strength.

The three stood before him, uncertainty evident in their posture. Pollo bent down and picked up Rakho's large arakh from the ground. He felt its weight in his hand. Then, with the sharp tip of the blade, he sliced his own palm without hesitation.

Thick red blood flowed, dripping onto the dust.

He extended his bleeding hand to the three men. "Qoy Qoyi," he said, his voice heavy and resonating like an ancient oath. "Blood of my blood."

Garo stepped forward first. With a solemn nod of respect, he took the arakh and sliced his own palm, then gripped Pollo's hand firmly.

Qorro next. His hand trembled slightly, but his gaze was steady as he did the same. His grip was tight, a promise made under duress.

Vekho last. He took the arakh, looked at Pollo for a moment, then sliced his own palm deeper than the others. Blood flowed freely as he gripped Pollo's hand, his hold as strong as steel. It was a sign of total commitment.

The sound of skin being sliced, the firm grip of their hands, and the sensation of warm blood mixing together sealed the bond. Now, they were no longer mere warriors. They were his shadows.

With his three new Bloodriders standing silently behind him, Pollo's authority was now indisputable. He immediately set to work.

"You," he said, pointing to the most agitated-looking Ko. "What is your name?"

"Jhaqo, Khal."

"Jhaqo. Your khas is disbanded. Your warriors will be divided among the others."

Jhaqo's eyes widened, but he bowed his head in obedience.

One by one, Pollo called out the Ko. With his eidetic memory, he remembered every face and every action they had taken during the duel. He disbanded units led by Rakho's allies, breaking old loyalties and instilling fear.

Then he began to rebuild. He formed new khas with specialized functions that had never existed in Dothraki history.

"Qorro," he said to his new Bloodrider. "Choose a thousand of the lightest riders with the fastest horses. You will lead them. You are my eyes and my ears. You will patrol ahead of us, always out of sight, and report all that you see."

He turned to Vekho. "Choose two thousand of the toughest fighters. You will lead them. You are my fist. When we battle, you will break the enemy lines."

Finally, he pointed to an older, seemingly methodical Ko. "You will assemble a khas of slaves and weaker warriors. Your task is to manage supplies, water, and spoils. Any warrior who loses his horse due to negligence will join your unit until he acquires a new horse."

This was a revolution. The Dothraki were accustomed to organized chaos around individual strength. Pollo introduced concepts of efficiency, specialization, and military logistics.

As he gave orders, Pollo felt the strangeness of the situation. The knowledge of Dothraki culture, of the importance of Bloodriders and khas structure, felt instinctive, as if it were his own memory. But the strategy to overhaul this entire military-social structure? That was pure Thomas Vance, a jockey obsessed with peak performance, now enhanced with the mind of a genius.

The sun set, painting the sky in blood orange and purple hues. The khalasar was now different. Campfires burned, but the atmosphere was no longer wild celebration, but tense, anticipatory discipline.

Pollo stood with Garo, Qorro, and Vekho, looking out at his newly formed army. Garo, the veteran, finally spoke, his voice hoarse. "You fight not like a Dothraki, Khal Pollo."

Pollo turned to him, a faint smile touching his lips. "I fight to win, Garo. And we have only just begun."

He then pointed east with his chin, into the endless expanse of the darkening Grass Sea. "The grass there is greener, and the khals there are weaker. We will ride, and we will take all they have."

Garo, Qorro, and Vekho nodded in unison, new conviction burning in their eyes.

As they gazed at the horizon, Pollo's thoughts drifted further. And after we take their horses and their women, he thought, picturing the map of Essos unfolding in his mind, we will seek the rewards promised by that mad cat god.