The next morning changed everything.
By sunrise, the great Khalasar of Khal Rhazdar no longer truly existed. It had not fallen apart in one dramatic moment, nor had a single new leader risen to unite the riders beneath one banner.
Instead, the Khalasar shattered slowly.
Like a wounded beast tearing itself apart from the inside.
Throughout the night, riders abandoned camps under darkness while blood riders gathered followers around themselves. Challenges erupted beside campfires. Duels broke out in the grasslands. Horses vanished. Entire groups disappeared before dawn without warning anyone.
By morning, the once-unified sea of tents had fractured into scattered camps spread across the plains.
Some still held thousands of riders.
Others barely held hundreds.
And all of them watched one another with growing suspicion.
Bodies already lay abandoned near dead fires. Several wagons had been looted during the night. More than hundred rider had his throat slit while sleeping beside former allies.
Because the Dothraki understood one brutal truth better than most people in the world.
A lone rider never survived long in the Dothraki Sea.
Without a Khalasar, you became prey. Other Khalasars would hunt you. Slave traders would chain you. Villages you once raided would eventually gather enough courage to kill you.
Strength meant nothing without numbers.
So fear spread faster than loyalty.
The smaller groups desperately tried gathering more followers. Some promised glory. Others promised wealth. Many simply promised survival itself.
Then the dragon appeared.
At first, only the shadow crossed over the plains.
Huge.
Thousands of Dothraki looked skyward at once.
Then panic spread through the camps.
"Dragon!"
Winter descended from the clouds like a living storm. His enormous wings shook the air while sunlight reflected against his white scales like silver frozen beneath ice.
Horses panicked immediately. Several riders were thrown from their saddles as the dragon roared overhead.
Harry Gryffindor stood calmly atop Winter's back as the dragon circled once above the fractured Khalasar. From the sky, every rider below looked tiny and insignificant against the endless grasslands.
Harry could feel their fear clearly.
The kind of fear that broke pride itself.
Winter eventually landed atop a nearby rise overlooking the camps. Dust exploded outward beneath the dragon's massive weight, and when Harry climbed down from his back, the reaction this time felt completely different from the day before.
Yesterday many riders bowed reluctantly.
Today warriors dropped to both knees instantly.
Foreheads pressed into the dirt.
Because now they understood something important.
The foreign king was not merely a mage.
He was a dragon rider.
And among the Dothraki, dragonlords belonged to ancient legends.
Harry walked slowly through the camps while Winter remained behind him like a mountain of white death. Not a single rider dared reach for a weapon now. Even the proudest warriors lowered their eyes when he passed.
Eventually Harry stopped near the center of the fractured camps. Thousands watched him silently while the wind rolled softly across the plains.
Then Harry spoke in fluent Dothraki.
"I did not come here to enslave you."
That alone caused immediate confusion among the gathered riders. Conquest usually meant chains. Submission meant ownership.
Harry continued calmly.
"I know many of you fear me."
Several riders lowered their heads instantly.
"You fear the dragon. You fear my magic."
His eyes moved slowly across the crowd.
"But I will not force chains onto people who do not wish to stay."
One rider finally shouted cautiously from deeper within the crowd.
"You would let us leave?"
"Yes."
Murmurs spread immediately.
Harry raised one hand slowly, and silence gradually returned.
"I know very well what many of you will do if you leave," he continued. His voice hardened slightly. "You will raid villages. You will kill. You will enslave."
Some riders looked ashamed.
Others looked openly defiant.
Harry cared very little which.
"As King of Narnia," he continued calmly, "my responsibility is my kingdom."
"I cannot kill every man in the world simply because one day he may commit evil."
That statement confused many Dothraki deeply. Power did not usually work that way among their people. A weak threat was destroyed before it became dangerous.
But Harry continued anyway.
"So hear me clearly. If you wish to leave… you may leave."
A wave of whispers spread across the camps again.
Then Harry's eyes sharpened.
"But if you come back to attack Narnia…"
Winter growled softly behind him.
The sound alone nearly stopped hearts.
"Then I will destroy you."
No rider doubted him anymore.
Then Harry's voice softened slightly again.
"But those who stay…"
He gestured toward the glowing capital invisible beyond the distant wards.
"You will have homes. Food. Protection. Respect."
Some riders scoffed instinctively. Dothraki did not trust comfort. Comfort softened warriors and made them weak.
Harry expected the reaction.
"I do not ask you to stop being warriors."
That immediately gained attention.
"I need riders," Harry continued. "I need scouts. I need cavalry."
Now the Dothraki truly listened.
"You will still ride. You will still fight. But you will fight our enemies. Not innocent villages."
A scarred rider frowned suspiciously.
"And what do we gain?"
Harry smiled faintly.
"The greatest luxury your people have ever known."
More murmurs spread..
"You will not live inside the capital."
Harry pointed toward the open plains outside the magical barriers.
"You will camp here. You will guard the kingdom. You will become the shield between Narnia and hostile Khalasars."
The decisions began.
One by one, groups mounted their horses and rode away from the plains. Some openly cursed Harry as they departed. Others fled in fear. Many simply could not imagine abandoning the old Dothraki way of life.
By midday, nearly ten thousand riders had left.
Some joined neighboring Khalasars. Others disappeared eastward into the grasslands. A few smaller groups even began fighting one another almost immediately after leaving.
But eight thousand remained.
For the first time in their lives, no Khal had chosen for them. No blood rider commanded them. No whip forced obedience upon them.
They themselves chose their future.
The royal fleet of King Rhaegar Targaryen reached the waters of the Iron Islands beneath a calm golden sky, yet there was no beauty left in the sea anymore.
The smell reached them long before the islands themselves became fully visible through the evening haze. Burned wood drifted across the waves together with the sharp scent of salt, smoke, and rotting corpses.
Even the sea looked wounded. Blackened remains of destroyed longships floated endlessly upon the tide while broken masts tilted from the water like the bones of drowned giants.
Sometimes bodies drifted beside them.
Men swollen pale from weeks beneath the sea, armor still attached to their corpses as if death itself had not managed to strip them of war.
No one aboard the royal fleet spoke much as they sailed deeper into the islands.
Even the proudest Westerosi lords had gone quiet.
Because every man standing upon those decks understood the same truth now.
The Iron Islands had lost.
Only two great strongholds still remained unconquered.
Pyke.
And Great Wyk.
Everything else had already fallen beneath the banners of Narnia.
Old Wyk.
Blacktyde.
Saltcliffe.
Orkmont.
Harlaw.
Especially Harlaw.
That battle had already become infamous throughout Westeros. The Ironborn had fought there like cornered wolves defending their final den. Every village became a battlefield. Every hill stained red.
But the Narnians came with discipline the Ironborn could not comprehend.
Cannons.
Organized formations.
Massive fleets that moved like clockwork across the sea.
And once the walls of House Harlaw collapsed beneath sustained bombardment, the resistance broke shortly afterward. Lord Harlaw himself had bent the knee publicly to save the surviving remnants of his people.
Tens of thousands of Ironborn had already died since the beginning of the invasion. Some burned alive inside shattered ships. Others drowned beneath collapsing harbors. Many were executed after refusing surrender even after defeat became inevitable.
And every island knew the same thing now.
The Narnians were not raiders.
They were conquerors.
As the royal fleet moved closer toward Great Wyk, massive black warships emerged across the horizon and blocked their path entirely.
Narnian ships.
Huge monsters of dark timber and iron plating armed with rows upon rows of cannons. Their banners carried the dragon of Narnia snapping violently in the sea wind.
Westerosi sailors gripped weapons quietly. Archers moved into position. Knights rested hands upon sword hilts.
Across the sea, Narnian cannons slowly turned toward the royal fleet.
The message required no words.
Then a smaller vessel detached itself from the blockade and approached beneath white banners of peace.
A Narnian officer boarded the royal flagship calmly without visible fear despite standing in the center of armed Westerosi nobles.
"We recognize King Rhaegar Targaryen," the officer said respectfully. "But only one vessel may proceed to Great Wyk."
That immediately caused outrage.
"One ship?" Jason Mallister snapped furiously. "You dare restrict the King of Westeros?"
The officer remained completely calm beneath the anger directed toward him.
"You are entering territory under Narnian military occupation."
The wording alone nearly caused several nobles to explode.
Military occupation.
Tywin Lannister merely watched silently from nearby while studying the officer carefully with cold green eyes.
Rhaegar himself raised one hand before the situation worsened.
"And my men?" he asked calmly.
"You may bring trusted companions," the officer replied. "But only one vessel."
Rhaegar had expected this already.
Commander Jorund would never permit an entire royal fleet close to the heart of the Narnian military camps. The Narnians were careful.
And after conquering half the Iron Islands—
They had earned the right to be.
So the decision was made quickly.
Only one royal ship continued onward.
Rhaegar chose carefully who would accompany him.
Tywin Lannister.
Robert Baratheon.
Jason Mallister.
Several trusted knights.
Royal guards.
A handful of advisors.
The rest of the fleet remained behind beneath the watchful eyes of Narnian warships and loaded cannons.
The closer they sailed toward Great Wyk, the more visible the scars of war became.
Burned fishing villages clung to rocky shores. Half-collapsed towers stood blackened against the cliffs. Entire ports had been reduced to ruins where only broken docks remained floating above dark water.
And everywhere—
Narnian banners.
Even Great Wyk itself looked less unconquered and more strangled slowly to death.
When they finally reached the shores near the main Narnian encampment, silence spread among many Westerosi lords at the sheer scale of what stood before them.
The camp stretched endlessly across the coastline.
Perfect rows of tents covered the hills beside the sea while supply wagons moved constantly between roads. Barricades and trenches surrounded important sections of the camp. Thousands upon thousands of soldiers moved with practiced discipline.
No drunken screaming.
No wandering mercenaries fighting over coin.
This was an army.
A real army.
Captured Ironborn worked near the blacksmith stations under armed supervision, repairing armor and damaged weapons. Ships arrived and departed constantly from temporary docks carrying food, timber, and supplies with alarming efficiency.
And overlooking the sea itself—
Massive cannons waited like sleeping beasts.
Robert Baratheon stared openly for several moments before letting out a low whistle.
"Seven hells…"
Even he looked impressed.
Tywin remained silent for a long while before finally speaking quietly.
"This is not a temporary invasion."
"No," Rhaegar agreed softly while studying the endless camp. "This is a kingdom planting roots."
Commander Jorund personally greeted them near the center of the encampment.
The giant Narnian looked exactly like the stories described. Tall as a tower, broad-shouldered, wrapped in thick furs and dark armor stained by salt and old blood. Yet despite his appearance, his eyes remained calm and disciplined rather than savage.
"King Rhaegar," Jorund greeted respectfully with a bow rather than kneeling. "You are welcome in our camp."
Rhaegar returned the respect with a nod.
"I thank you for receiving us."
Jorund glanced toward the darkening sky overhead.
"It grows late," he said simply. "We discuss politics tomorrow."
No dramatic demands.
Instead Jorund merely gestured toward a section of large tents farther inland.
"You sailed long. Your men are tired. Tonight you rest."
Robert muttered quietly beside Jason Mallister, "They prepared for us before we even agreed to come."
Tywin noticed it too.
The accommodations themselves shocked many nobles even further.
The tents were massive and warm, properly furnished with thick furs, polished tables, real chairs, and heated stones beneath the sleeping areas to fight the cold sea air.
Not crude military camps.
Comfort.
Resources.
And then came the food.
Fresh fish stew.
Roasted goat.
Warm bread still steaming from ovens.
Strong drink.
Spiced vegetables.
Even Tywin silently admitted the meal rivaled many noble feasts.
"These people feed soldiers like lords," Robert muttered while tearing apart bread hungrily.
"That," Tywin replied coldly, "is why they win wars."
Later that evening, the gathered Westerosi lords sat together privately inside the royal tent while sea winds battered the heavy canvas outside.
The atmosphere became tense almost immediately.
Robert Baratheon spoke first.
"We cannot allow this."
Tywin glanced toward him calmly.
"Allow what?"
"A foreign kingdom claiming Westerosi territory!"
Tywin remained completely unmoved.
"The Iron Islands barely obeyed Westeros to begin with."
"That does not matter," Robert argued sharply. "It sets precedent."
Jason Mallister snorted loudly while drinking.
"The Ironborn spent centuries raiding our coasts. The Westerlands suffered more than most."
Tywin leaned slightly forward then.
"And what exactly have the Iron Islands contributed to the realm?" he asked coldly.
Tywin continued without emotion.
"They pay little tax. They ignore laws whenever convenient. They answer calls to war only when it benefits them. And whenever the crown appears weak, they raid their fellow countrymen like starving wolves."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"Frankly, Balon Greyjoy caused this himself."
No one truly disagreed.
Even Rhaegar knew it.
The Ironborn had always been a problem.
Always.
But still—
The king could not simply surrender territory to foreigners without consequence.
Finally Rhaegar spoke quietly.
"If I allow a foreign kingdom to take the Iron Islands…"
He stared into the candlelight for several moments before continuing.
"The Free Cities will see weakness. The great houses will see weakness. The realm itself will see weakness."
Tywin nodded once.
"That is true."
"And if you fight?" Robert asked bluntly.
Silence returned immediately.
Because everyone already knew the answer.
Cannons.
Dragon.
Massive fleets.
Magic.
Tywin finally spoke again.
"If full war begins…"
He looked directly toward Rhaegar.
"Then Westeros wins eventually."
Several men visibly relaxed hearing that—
Until Tywin finished.
"But the cost would cripple the realm for generations."
Because every man in the tent believed him completely.
Rhaegar rubbed his forehead slowly while exhaustion settled deeper into his bones.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow he would speak with Commander Jorund.
Tomorrow he would try to salvage peace between kingdoms standing on the edge of war.
And tomorrow—
He would decide whether the Iron Islands were truly worth bleeding Westeros dry against Narnia.
Author's Note:
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