The new capital of Narnia rose from the heart of Essos like a dream made real.
Every week it grew larger. Every month it became more beautiful. Every passing season made it harder for anyone to believe that only a few years ago, the Narnians had been scattered refugees living beyond the Wall, hidden among snow, mountains, and forgotten valleys.
Now they were building a city.
From the sky, Winter's shadow could often be seen passing over the growing capital. Whenever the great white dragon flew overhead, workers paused to look up. Children pointed excitedly from the streets. New arrivals from Essos stopped where they stood and stared in awe, many seeing a dragon for the first time in their lives.
Harry saw the city most clearly from Winter's back.
Every time they circled above it, something new had appeared below. A new road. A new warehouse. A new farm. The city seemed almost alive, growing outward with every shipment, every family, every stone laid into place.
The migration from the far north had accelerated dramatically. Entire settlements from Skagos were already gone, and many villages beyond the Wall had been dismantled stone by stone. At first, outsiders thought the idea was madness. Why take apart entire homes, roads, and halls instead of simply abandoning them?
But Harry had never liked waste.
Perfectly cut stone blocks were loaded onto ships. Wooden beams were carried south. Glass windows, iron fittings, furniture, roof tiles, doors, even entire paved road sections were transported across the sea. Anything that could be used again was saved.
Soon enough, people understood.
Every stone saved months of labor. Every beam saved money. Every shipment helped the new city rise faster. What had once been old northern villages became walls, homes, bridges, schools, and markets in Essos.
More importantly, the people were happy.
The weather alone convinced many that moving had been the correct decision. There was no endless snow here. No bone freezing winds. No ice storms burying homes in the night. Instead, there was sunshine, fertile soil, clean rivers, and fields that seemed to stretch forever.
The farms expanded further every month. Thousands of acres were now under cultivation, producing wheat, barley, vegetables, fruits, and herbs. Orchards had been planted near the rivers, and shepherds who had spent their entire lives wandering began building permanent homes.
The magical wards protected them.
The Dothraki threat had diminished.
And for perhaps the first time in generations, people felt safe.
One afternoon, Harry stood atop the nearly completed palace alongside Ragnar. The old Skagosi leader leaned against a stone railing and looked down at the city below, his weathered face filled with quiet wonder.
"It still feels unreal," Ragnar said.
Harry smiled. "What does?"
Ragnar gestured toward the city stretching beneath them. Ships entered and exited the harbor constantly. Farmers guided carts along paved roads. Builders worked on dozens of structures at once. Merchants shouted prices in the markets. Children played in open plazas while guards watched lazily from shaded posts.
"All of this," Ragnar said softly. "I remember when we were digging caves into mountains just to survive winter."
"And now look at us."
The two stood in silence for a while, watching the life below them. Skagosi, free folk, giants, Essosi shepherds, Braavosi merchants, northern craftsmen, and children born into a kingdom none of their ancestors could have imagined.
Ragnar eventually shook his head.
"If someone told me ten years ago that all these people would live together in one city, I would have called them insane."
Despite its growth, the city still lacked one important thing.
A name.
For months everyone had used temporary names. The New Capital. The Great City. The Southern Capital. The King's City. Some even called it Winter's City because of the dragon constantly flying overhead.
None of them felt right.
A capital needed a name.
Harry had spent weeks thinking about it. He wanted something that belonged to Narnia, but also something that honored where everything had begun. Not just the kingdom, but the journey that had led them here.
One evening, he gathered the city council inside one of the palace's newly completed halls. Ragnar came, along with Rulf, Brandon, engineers, temple representatives, harbor officials, merchants, and several leaders from the relocated settlements.
They sat around a long table covered in maps, building reports, shipping schedules, and lists of materials still required for construction.
Harry waited until everyone settled before speaking.
"We need a name."
That immediately started an argument.
"New Telmar," one merchant suggested.
"No," Ragnar said instantly.
"New Narnia?"
"Terrible," Rulf muttered.
"Winter's Rest?"
Brandon raised an eyebrow. "We left the snow behind. Why name the city after winter?"
"Dragon's Harbor," someone offered.
Harry rejected that one immediately.
"No."
The discussion lasted nearly two hours. Names were suggested, mocked, debated, defended, and rejected one after another. Eventually Ragnar leaned back in his chair and rubbed his forehead.
"Do you already have a name?"
Harry smiled slightly.
"Maybe."
That immediately caught everyone's attention.
Brandon leaned forward. "What is it?"
Harry remained silent for a moment, looking at the map of the city spread across the table. Roads, districts, harbors, farms, temples, schools, gardens, walls, and homes covered the parchment.
Then he spoke.
"Caer Peverell."
Several people repeated the name softly, testing its sound.
"Caer Peverell."
"It sounds good."
"It sounds important."
Brandon looked curious. "What does it mean?"
Harry leaned back in his chair.
"It is named after my ancestors. The Peverells were an ancient family. Their blood eventually flowed into the Griffindors."
That surprised many of them.
Harry rarely spoke about his life before Narnia. He spoke of Hogwarts sometimes, and of magic, and of dragons, but rarely of his family. The name clearly meant something to him.
Ragnar nodded thoughtfully.
"So this city honors where your family came from."
Harry looked toward the window, where the unfinished streets of the capital glowed beneath torchlight.
"Not just mine."
"This city exists because thousands of people trusted me," Harry said quietly. "They left their homes. They crossed oceans. They followed me into the unknown. Some came from caves beyond the Wall. Some came from Skagos. Some came from Essos. Some came from places that no longer exist."
His gaze returned to the council.
"This city should remember where it came from."
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Brandon Stark nodded.
"I like it."
Ragnar smiled. "So do I."
One by one, the others agreed.
And just like that, the capital of Narnia gained its name.
Caer Peverell.
The name spread quickly.
Workers used it first. Then merchants. Then sailors. Within weeks, ship captains arriving from distant ports were asking for harbor permits to Caer Peverell. Essosi newcomers adopted the name surprisingly easily. It sounded foreign enough to belong in Essos, yet unique enough to stand apart from every city around it.
Meanwhile, the palace neared completion.
Unlike most palaces in the known world, it had not been designed primarily as a fortress. Harry had no desire to live behind layers of defensive walls, isolated from the people he was meant to serve. The city itself had defenses, and the wards were stronger than stone. The palace did not need to be a prison.
It was designed for comfort, beauty, and life.
Massive gardens surrounded the palace grounds. Fruit trees lined wide walkways. Flower gardens bloomed in carefully planned courtyards. Magic accelerated their growth, and within weeks, trees that should have taken decades stood proudly beneath the Essosi sun.
Harry liked imagining children playing beneath them someday.
The interior was just as carefully planned. Photographs covered many walls, preserving every important moment since Narnia's founding. The first settlement. The first harvest. The first dragon flight. The temple ceremonies. The Narnian Games. Sirius growing up. Lyanna smiling. Friends and family.
History filled the halls.
Not the kind written only by maesters and kings, but the kind lived by ordinary people.
Furniture craftsmen worked day and night to complete the rooms. Curtains arrived from Braavos. Carpets from Volantis. Glass from Myr. Stone from the north. Wood from dismantled villages beyond the Wall.
The palace became a reflection of Narnia itself.
Many peoples.
Many cultures.
Many dreams.
One evening, Harry stood alone on a balcony overlooking the city. Below him, Caer Peverell glowed with hundreds of lights. The harbor remained active even after sunset, with ships unloading cargo beneath lanterns. Music drifted from taverns, laughter echoed in the streets, and somewhere in the distance children were still playing despite the late hour.
Winter landed behind him with a low rumble, folding his wings and settling comfortably upon the wide balcony. Harry reached up and scratched the side of the dragon's neck.
"You like it too?"
Winter released a pleased sound.
Harry smiled.
"So do I."
For years, Narnia had hidden.
Beyond the Wall.
Behind mountains.
Far from the eyes of the world.
It had been necessary then.
Caer Peverell was too large to hide. Too prosperous. Too important. Sooner or later, the world would notice what had risen in Essos.
Perhaps that was no longer something to fear.
The palace would soon be finished. When it was complete, Harry intended to bring Lyanna, Sirius, and the rest of his family south. No more hiding in frozen lands. No more pretending Narnia was merely a distant settlement spoken of in rumors.
The kingdom had grown beyond that.
It was time for the world to see what the Narnians had built.
When that day came, the banners of Narnia would fly proudly above Caer Peverell.
As a kingdom strong enough to stand beside any power in the known world.
Of all the challenges facing Narnia, the Dothraki settlement was one of the few things that genuinely frustrated Harry.
The irony was that the settlement itself was not failing. In fact, by every measurable standard, it was succeeding. The people were fed and no one was raiding neighboring villages anymore. Women no longer lived in fear of being sold, traded, or carried away after battles.
By any reasonable measure, the situation was improving.
Yet the Dothraki themselves refused to change.
Or at least, they refused to change quickly enough.
As Harry rode across the fertile plains surrounding Caer Peverell, he found himself thinking about that problem once again. The grasslands stretched endlessly around him, dotted with farms, roads, and newly built villages. In the distance, the towers of the capital could still be seen rising proudly above the horizon.
The Dothraki had bent the knee.
They obeyed him.
Many of them even viewed him as a figure touched by the gods, some magical king sent from the heavens riding dragons and wielding powers beyond their understanding.
But deep down?
They still thought like Dothraki.
Everything revolved around strength. Riding. Raiding. The old traditions of the grass sea.
Harry understood why. Culture was not something people abandoned overnight. It could survive wars, famines, migrations, and even the fall of kingdoms. People carried it with them wherever they went.
But if Narnia was going to survive long after he was gone, then the kingdom could not remain divided into separate peoples.
A kingdom where Skagosi thought like Skagosi, free folk thought like free folk, giants thought like giants, and Dothraki thought like Dothraki was not truly a kingdom.
It was an alliance.
And alliances eventually broke apart.
They needed a shared identity.
They needed to become Narnians.
The process had already happened with the free folk beyond the Wall. Most of them still remembered their traditions, but they thought of themselves as Narnians now. The Skagosi had done the same. Even the giants, slow as change came to them, were beginning to see themselves as part of something larger than their clans.
The Dothraki would have to follow the same path.
The process would simply take longer.
Harry was not foolish enough to force it.
History was filled with rulers who had tried to change people through laws, threats, and swords. Most of them failed. The fastest way to create rebellion was to tell people they were no longer allowed to be themselves.
Instead, Harry relied on the same strategy that had worked everywhere else.
Integration.
Teachers had been sent into the settlement. So had healers, blacksmiths, bakers, merchants, priests, craftsmen, and builders. Hundreds of Narnians now lived among the Dothraki, working alongside them every day.
At first they had been viewed with suspicion.
Now many of them were respected.
There was the healer who treated wounded horses better than any bloodrider. The teacher who somehow convinced children that reading could be useful. The blacksmith whose tools lasted longer than anything the Dothraki had ever used. And there was the baker who had achieved what Harry considered one of the greatest diplomatic victories in Narnian history.
He had convinced Dothraki children that fresh bread was superior to dried horse meat.
Small victories.
But victories nonetheless.
Harry's thoughts were interrupted when a familiar owl descended from the sky. He immediately recognized the bird before it landed gracefully on his shoulder.
"Hello there," Harry said.
The owl hooted proudly.
Harry untied the letter attached to its leg and immediately smiled when he recognized the handwriting.
Rickard Stark.
Harry opened the letter and began reading.
The old lord's writing was neat, direct, and completely lacking in unnecessary flourishes.
Harry,
You continue to surprise me.
I still believe gifting an entire island kingdom as a wedding present is madness.
Rhaella agrees.
Nevertheless, we thank you.
The North remembers generosity.
I hope one day I can repay it.
That sounded exactly like Rickard Stark.
By the time Harry finished reading, he was still smiling.
The Iron Islands had never interested him. The conquest had never been about gaining territory. Cold rocks, bad weather, and generations of piracy were not things Harry wanted to inherit.
The islands had been conquered because the Ironborn needed to be stopped. The culture itself needed to change.
That had always been the goal.
Jorund would handle the transition. In fifteen years, the islands would pass peacefully to Rickard and Rhaella's child, creating stability for everyone involved.
Harry suspected some Ironborn still had opinions about the arrangement.
The owl received a strip of dried meat as payment before taking flight once more.
Hours later, the Dothraki settlement finally appeared on the horizon.
Wood houses stood throughout the settlement. Workshops had been built. Warehouses, schools, bathhouses, and storage buildings lined the roads.
Most of them were empty.
Because the Dothraki refused to use them.
Instead, hundreds of tents surrounded the village.
Harry sighed.
A group of riders spotted him approaching and immediately rode forward. The moment they recognized him, they lowered their heads respectfully.
"King Harry."
Harry returned the greeting with a nod.
"How are things?"
The riders exchanged glances.
One finally answered.
"Quiet."
Harry immediately understood that meant trouble.
When Dothraki described something as quiet, it usually meant they were bored.
And bored Dothraki were dangerous.
News of his arrival spread quickly. People emerged from tents and buildings to watch him pass. Women carrying baskets stopped to wave. Children followed him openly. Warriors observed him carefully. Some greeted him warmly while others remained cautious.
Many still hadn't decided exactly what they thought of their king.
Eventually Harry reached the center of the settlement where the largest tent stood.
Jogho was waiting outside.
The young khal had changed significantly since Harry first met him. He is more confident now. Less afraid of making decisions.
He still had much to learn, but he was no longer the frightened boy fleeing the collapse of his father's khalasar.
"King Harry."
"Jogho."
The young man smiled.
"I didn't know you were coming."
"I wanted to see the settlement."
Jogho's smile immediately became awkward.
Harry looked around.
"You still aren't using the houses."
Joko coughed.
"They are strange."
Harry stared at him.
"You sound exactly like a Dothraki," Harry said.
"I am Dothraki," Joko replied proudly.
"For now."
Jogho narrowed his eyes.
"You always say that."
"Because it's true."
Harry gestured toward the settlement.
"What happens when your children are born?"
"They ride."
"What happens when they get sick?"
"They survive."
"What happens when they want to learn?"
Jogho opened his mouth.
Then stopped.
Harry noticed immediately.
There was no answer.
Or rather, there was no good answer.
"Exactly."
Jogho crossed his arms.
"You want us to become Narnians."
"I want you to have a future."
The young khal looked away.
For several moments neither spoke.
Then Jogho finally said what had been bothering him all along.
"My people fear forgetting who they are."
Harry nodded.
The real issue.
The fear of becoming something different.
The fear of losing the stories, traditions, and identity that connected them to their ancestors.
Harry placed a hand on the young man's shoulder.
"When Ragnar joined me, people said he would stop being Skagosi."
Jogho listened quietly.
"When the free folk joined me, people said they would stop being free folk."
"And?"
Harry smiled.
"They still remember where they came from."
The king looked around the settlement.
Children ran between tents. Builders worked on unfinished homes. Merchants argued over prices. Teachers led classes beneath shaded awnings.
"You don't have to stop being Dothraki."
Joko looked genuinely surprised.
"You must become something more."
The wind swept through the camp. Somewhere nearby, children laughed. Builders continued hammering away at another unfinished house.
And for the first time since Harry arrived, Jogho looked at the settlement differently.
Not as the death of his culture.
But as the beginning of something new.
Something his father would never have understood.
Something larger than any khalasar.
Something that might survive long after the last great horse lords vanished from the grasslands.
Author's Note:
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