The icy winds of the North bit harder as winter crept closer, yet Harrold paid them little mind. His thoughts were consumed by an unsettling revelation: for all his power, for all the centuries he had lived as the Master of Death, he knew alarmingly little about death magic itself. The encounter with the Three-Eyed Raven and the Children of the Forest, as well as the faint necromantic wards on the Wall, had shaken his confidence. There were forces at play that even he could not fully comprehend—and worse, could not control.
Harrold retreated from his usual duties, delegating the day-to-day responsibilities of Moat Cailin to his trusted clones and magicals. For the first time in many decades, he dedicated himself fully to the study of death magic, the Wall, and the lands beyond.
The Wall itself became a focal point of his research. Its faint anti-necromantic wards intrigued him. The remnants of Children of the Forest magic were delicate yet enduring, a testament to their skill. But it was clear the wards had degraded over time, their strength waning as the centuries passed.
Harrold's Inner Thoughts: If this magic was meant to stop necromancers, it was once powerful. But how? And more importantly, how can I replicate it—or improve upon it?
Despite weeks of searching beyond the Wall, Harrold found no trace of the Children of the Forest or the Three-Eyed Raven. It frustrated him to no end.
I thought myself unmatched in this world, the most powerful being alive. Yet they elude me. Their wards are like shadows, slipping through my grasp. What else have I underestimated?
The realization gnawed at him. For the first time in centuries, Harrold was confronted with his limitations. The arrogance he had cultivated over lifetimes began to crack under the weight of his newfound doubts.
Harrold turned inward, delving into death magic in secret. Only his clones knew of his experiments. The thought of involving anyone else—no matter how trusted—was too great a risk. The potential backlash from even a hint of necromancy was something he could not afford.
In a secluded chamber beneath Moat Cailin, Harrold created an inferius—a reanimated corpse controlled by a necromancer's will. The act itself was unsettling, even to him, but it was necessary. He needed a test subject to explore his theories.
He began crafting wards designed to disrupt the connection between a necromancer and their inferi. The work was painstaking, the intricacies of death magic requiring precision and care. After weeks of refinement, he created a ward that pulsed with faint but deliberate power.
With only his clones as witnesses, Harrold activated the ward and directed it at the inferius. The results were immediate: the creature stumbled, its jerky movements faltering before it collapsed entirely, lifeless once more.
Clone Cyric, observing closely: "It worked. The connection was severed."
Clone Elenna, cautious: "But will it work on wights? They're not just inferi—they're something else entirely."
Harrold, his expression grim: "It's a start. If the connection between a necromancer and their creation can be severed, perhaps the same principle applies to the wights. But we'll need more tests—Preferably using a real wright."
Harrold stared at the inert corpse on the floor, a mixture of satisfaction and unease settling over him. He had taken a step forward, but it was a step into murky waters. Death magic was a path he had avoided for most of his life, and now he was walking it deliberately.
Ironic, isn't it? The Master of Death, finally exploring the magic of death itself. But this isn't for power—it's for survival. If the stories of the White Walkers are true, if the Long Night returns, we'll need every weapon at our disposal.
He glanced at his clones, their expressions mirroring his concern. They were loyal to a fault, but even they seemed uneasy with the direction this research was taking.
Over the next few weeks, Harrold refined the ward further, testing it on additional inferi he created. Each time, the results were the same: the connection severed, the creature rendered inert. He documented every detail meticulously, ensuring the knowledge would not be lost.
This must work against the wights. If it doesn't, we're back to swords and fire—and against the dead, that won't be enough.
Despite the progress, Harrold kept the experiments a closely guarded secret. The mere whisper of necromancy could ruin everything he had built. Even his most trusted magicals were kept in the dark.
As the days turned to weeks, Harrold began to turn his thoughts to the larger implications of his work.
The Wall is failing, the North is vulnerable, and I've only scratched the surface of the magic that threatens us. But this ward—it's a beginning. If I can replicate it on a larger scale, it could tip the balance in our favor.
Standing alone in his workshop, Harrold felt the weight of the future pressing down on him. The North depended on him, even if they didn't fully understand how or why. For now, he would continue his work in silence, knowing that the time would come when his secrets would need to be revealed.
And when that time comes, he thought, the North will be ready.
The private meeting took place in the solar of Winterfell, the fire crackling softly as Harrold, Rickard Stark, Brandon, and Benjen gathered around a sturdy wooden table. The atmosphere was heavy with purpose, the weight of the North's defense pressing upon them.
Harrold began, his voice calm but firm.
"I've developed a ward—one designed to sever the connection between a necromancer and their creations. If it works as I hope, it will render wights inert. But I can't be entirely certain without testing it against an actual wight."
Rickard and Brandon exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of hope and caution.
Rickard, gravely: "We don't have the luxury of waiting for certainty, Harrold. If the stories are true and the Long Night comes again, we need every weapon at our disposal."
Benjen, leaning forward with youthful curiosity: "If it works on wights, could it also work on the Others? The White Walkers themselves?"
Harrold shook his head slightly, his tone cautious.
"The ward is specific to necromantic control—wights are bound by that magic. The Others... they're something else entirely. But this is a step forward. It's a tool we didn't have before."
Rickard set a scroll on the table, the ancient parchment yellowed with age.
"While you've been working on your wards, I've been digging through Winterfell's archives. I found references to dragonglass—obsidian. According to these records, the Children of the Forest used to supply the Night's Watch with a hundred dragonglass daggers each year. It's said to be a weapon that can kill the Others."
Harrold's eyes lit with recognition, though he masked his deeper understanding.
"Dragonglass. The name is misleading—it's not related to dragons at all. It's formed when lava from a volcano cools rapidly, creating volcanic glass. I've encountered it before, but I never gave much thought to its potential as a weapon."
Brandon, intrigued: "Do we have any here in the North?"
Harrold nodded, a small smile forming.
"We do. Skagos has significant deposits of obsidian. I can plan to mine it. Once we have enough, we can experiment with forging weapons—daggers, arrowheads, perhaps even larger blades."
The conversation shifted to the Night's Watch, and Harrold's expression grew serious.
"The Wall may be our first line of defense, but the Watch itself is in dire condition. They're undermanned, underfunded, and relying on criminals and exiles to fill their ranks. It's not enough."
Rickard, nodding: "I've spoken with the Lord Commander. He knows they need more support but feels powerless to ask for it."
Harrold, thoughtfully: "The New Gift—those lands were meant to support the Watch. But they've fallen into disrepair, and their income is negligible. If the North reclaimed those lands and managed them properly, the income could be used to strengthen the Watch. We could rebuild their forts, improve their training, and ensure they have the supplies they need."
Brandon, his tone pragmatic: "It won't be popular. The king is not going to approve it. And the Night's Watch will not agree."
The discussion continued late into the evening, with ideas and strategies exchanged. Harrold outlined plans to begin mining dragonglass in Skagos, assigning clones and trusted magicals to oversee the operation. He also proposed sending emissaries to the Night's Watch to assess their immediate needs and start implementing changes.
Benjen, eager: "Can I help? I've been learning from you, Harrold. I want to do more."
Harrold smiled at the young Stark, his tone encouraging.
"You'll have your chance, Benjen. For now, focus on your training. When the time comes, you'll play a vital role in what's to come."
Rickard stood, signaling the end of the meeting.
"The North has always stood against the darkness. With these plans in motion, we'll ensure that when the time comes, we'll stand again—and we'll endure."
Harrold's mind churned as the meeting dispersed, his thoughts a mix of determination and unease. The pieces were falling into place, but the shadows of the past—and the looming threat of the future—remained ever-present.
If the Long Night comes again, he thought, we will be ready. But it will take every ounce of strength, every resource, and every secret I possess to ensure that readiness.
Harrold stood on the rocky outcrop overlooking the construction site of the eastern harbor, named Plymouth, nestled on the Bite. Below him, workers moved like ants, hauling timber and stone as the framework of docks and warehouses rose against the backdrop of the vast sea. The scent of saltwater mixed with the earthy aroma of freshly cut wood. The harbor was roughly halfway to completion, its promise as a new trade hub gleaming on the horizon.
Harrold, addressing the lead foreman: "How are we holding on timelines? Are we still on track?"
The foreman, a sturdy man named Jaren, wiped sweat from his brow. "Aye, my lord, barring any major storms. We've laid the foundations for three docks and begun work on the main warehouse. It'll be another six months before we can handle significant trade."
Harrold, nodding: "Good. Ensure the storage facilities are large enough to handle both perishable and durable goods. We'll need cold storage, too. The winters in the North are unforgiving, and proper preparation will be crucial."
As he walked through the construction site, Harrold's mind churned with plans.
This port will be the North's gateway to the southern kingdoms and the Free Cities. White Harbor may be the primary trade hub for now, but Plymouth will serve as a critical link to the rest of Westeros. The Neck's defenses will no longer be purely military; they'll be economic too.
He gazed out at the waters of the Bite, imagining fleets of Hedwig-class ships docked in the harbor, their holds filled with goods from Orsus, the East, and beyond. If the Long Night comes, the North must not only endure but thrive. Trade will ensure we have the resources to outlast whatever comes.
Later that evening, Harrold convened with his clones in a temporary command tent overlooking the site.
Clone Cyric, studying a map: "We've fortified the dock supports with runic bindings. They'll resist weathering and ice, but we should consider adding wave-redirecting wards to protect the smaller ships during storms."
Harrold, nodding: "Do it. And ensure the navigation markers for incoming ships are well-lit. We don't need another shipwreck like the one outside White Harbor last year."
Clone Elenna, smirking: "It would help if half the captains weren't drunk by the time they reached port."
Harrold chuckled but waved her off. "Even drunk captains must make it to harbor. Let's not rely on luck."
The next day, Harrold rode west to the mouth of the Fever River, where the Marsh Port, a joint venture with House Reed, was under construction. The journey through the Neck's marshlands was slow and arduous, but the sight of the bustling port-in-progress was worth it.
Small docks jutted into the river, and the beginnings of wooden warehouses and stilted homes rose above the swampy terrain.
Edrin Reed, flanked by several Crannogmen, greeted Harrold warmly as he dismounted.
Edrin, smiling: "Welcome, Harrold. You've come just in time. The first warehouse is nearly complete, and the docks are already proving useful for local trade."
Harrold, clasping his arm: "It's good to see progress, my lord. The Fever River has always been a vital artery for the Neck. This port will ensure it reaches its full potential."
Edrin led Harrold through the bustling construction site, pointing out various features.
"The stilted design was necessary to keep the structures safe from the marsh floods. We've also used Crannogmen techniques to reinforce the docks. They'll hold against the strongest river currents."
Harrold nodded approvingly. "Impressive work. The Crannogmen's ingenuity never ceases to amaze me."
As they walked, Harrold observed the workers hauling logs and crates of supplies. He saw the strategic value of the Fever River, which connected deep into the North, offering a direct trade route to Moat Cailin and beyond.
That evening, Harrold and Edrin sat in a temporary structure overlooking the river, sharing a simple meal of fish stew and fresh bread.
Edrin, sipping his stew: "With the Fever River connected to Marsh Port, we can export more goods from the Neck—fish, rare herbs, and even medicinal plants. But I assume you have bigger plans."
Harrold, smiling: "Always. Marsh Port will serve as a link between East and the West of Westeros. It will be a hub for trade, but also a point of influence. Together, we can show the strength of the North."
Edrin nodded thoughtfully. "And what of the Long Night? If it comes, will this port serve more than trade?"
Harrold's expression turned serious. "It will. Like Plymouth, Marsh Port will be fortified. We'll embed wards to ensure its protection. If the Wall falls, the Fever River may become a crucial defensive line."
The Citadel's raven arrived at Moat Cailin on a cold, misty morning, carrying the dreaded proclamation: Winter was officially declared. Harrold stood in the hall, the crisp parchment in his hands as the clones and trusted advisors gathered around him.
Harrold, addressing the group: "The time we've been preparing for is upon us. Winter is no longer on the horizon—it's here. We need to act swiftly to ensure the North endures."
The announcement sparked a flurry of activity as Harrold and his team launched into their meticulously crafted plans for weathering the cold season.
Harrold and his clones traveled across the North, creating and activating weather wards in key settlements and castles. These wards, designed to mitigate the harshest effects of the cold, used ancient rune arrays powered by the ambient magic and the weirwoods of the North.
At Bear Island, Harrold worked alongside House Mormont, explaining the wards' capabilities.
Harrold, placing runes in the hall: "This will create a buffer zone against the worst of the storms. It won't make winter easy, but it will make it survivable."
Maege Mormont, arms crossed, watching the runes glow faintly: "The North thanks you, Lord Gryffindor. It's rare for someone to give so much without asking in return."
Harrold, smiling faintly: "We're all in this together. What use is wealth and power if the North freezes?"
The same process repeated at White Harbor, Last Hearth, and Dreadfort, where Harrold himself anchored the ward to the weirwood tree in the Godswood.
Back at Moat Cailin, Harrold turned his attention to food. Messages were sent to the trade fleet with clear instructions: prioritize the acquisition of grain, rice, dried fruit, and other non-perishable goods from the East, where winters were mild or nonexistent.
Clone Cyric, reviewing maps with Harrold: "The fleet's current routes are efficient, but if we focus more on Yi Ti and the Summer Isles, we could double the imports."
Harrold, nodding: "Do it. Assign the two new ships after the modifications are done, exclusively to those regions. The rest can continue their current routes."
Meanwhile, London, Harrold's budding town, expanded its network of large warehouses. Massive storage facilities, enhanced with rune-powered freezers, were filled with preserved fish, vegetable, fruit, and other essentials. These warehouses became the North's secret weapon against starvation.
Harrold also turned to the coastal lords, urging them to increase their fishing efforts.
In White Harbor, he stood before a gathering of local fishermen and nobles.
"Fish will be our lifeline this winter. Focus on the catch, and I'll ensure it's preserved and distributed to those in need."
When a grizzled fisherman raised concerns about storage and spoilage, Harrold unveiled the rune-enforced freezers and glass jars from Orsus.
Harrold, holding up a jar of canned fish: "With this, we can preserve fish for years. Salt it, smoke it, or store it like this. Whatever method you choose, make it count."
The demonstration sparked enthusiasm among the fishermen, who redoubled their efforts. Harrold also personally purchased excess fish and stored them in the freezers at Moat Cailin and London.
Harrold sent ravens to every Northern lord, informing them of his preparations.
The Message:
"Winter is here, but we will be ready. I have secured food supplies from across the world and stored them for those who may need them. If your people face hardship, send word. We will not let the North starve."
The responses were overwhelmingly positive. Lords expressed gratitude, some offering their surplus to contribute to the effort. Harrold's reputation as a leader and provider grew stronger.
As Harrold watched his plans unfold, he reflected on the enormity of the task ahead.
Winter in the North isn't just a season—it's a test. The weak perish, and the strong endure. But this time, we will do more than endure. We will thrive. These preparations aren't just for survival; they're a statement to the world that the North is ready for anything.
Before the month ended, Harrold returned to Winterfell to meet with Rickard Stark. He shared the details of his efforts, from weather wards to food storage.
Rickard, after listening intently: "You've done more for the North in a year than most lords do in a lifetime. We're fortunate to have you, Harrold."
"It's my duty. The North is my home now, and I will do whatever it takes to see it thrive."
With the wards activated, warehouses stocked, and trade routes humming with activity, Harrold felt a rare sense of satisfaction. The North was ready for the long, cold months ahead. Let winter come, he thought, we are prepared.
A biting wind swept across Winterfell, the snowdrifts piled high against the ancient walls. Despite the cold, Rickard Stark found himself in an unusually contemplative mood as he strolled through the courtyard. This was winter—truly winter—yet the discomfort and scarcity that traditionally accompanied the season felt... muted. A faint smile touched his lips as he thought of all the measures that had been put in place, many inspired or implemented by Harrold Gryffindor.
Rickard paused near the Great Hall, gazing up at the heavy gray sky. He remembered the past winters: fierce winters that claimed lives, families forced to ration their last scraps of food, and the Mountain Clans sending their young down to Winter Town before the cold sealed the elders' fates. But this winter felt different—there was plenty of salted and smoked fish, preserved goods, and wards that kept the worst of the wind at bay.
Brandon Stark, cloak pulled tightly around him, approached from the stables. "Father, is something on your mind?"
Rickard turned, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Merely considering how different this winter is. In the past, so many endured unrelenting hunger and cold. Now... look at us."
Brandon followed his father's gaze to the bustling courtyard. Smallfolk went about their tasks without the usual pinched desperation. The White Harbor wagons had delivered extra supplies, and even those from the Mountain Clans appeared more at ease.
"Harrold's wards seem to be holding well. No one complains about the biting cold, and the wind doesn't howl as fiercely as it used to."
Rickard nodded, satisfaction evident in his eyes. "He did something remarkable. He placed runic arrays around the castle, and beyond, that soften the worst of the winter storms. Even the stories from the Mountain Clans say they haven't lost a single elder to the cold this season."
Brandon gestured to the new glasshouse near the godswood, where recently constructed panels gleamed, catching the pale winter sun. "Shall we take a look? I hear the seedlings are thriving despite the weather."
Rickard agreed, and they made their way through a light snowfall to the greenhouse's entrance. As they stepped inside, the sudden warmth and brightness astonished them. Sunlight streamed in through crystal-clear glass sheets—far superior to the old, cloudy glass Winterfell had used for centuries.
Rickard, running a hand along a smooth pane: "This glass is extraordinary—truly transparent. Harrold said it was made in the East, didn't he?"
Brandon nodded. "Aye. He called it a refined method, something the Myrish had once tried, but the Eastern glassworkers perfected it. Allows far more sunlight and keeps the warmth in."
Rickard's gaze wandered to rows of green seedlings, each planted in carefully warmed soil. They thrived here, protected from the harsh winds and insulated by subtle wards. Even in the dead of winter, life found a way to flourish.
As they walked deeper into the glasshouse, the space felt almost surreal—white snow beyond the walls and vibrant green within.
Brandon, brushing a finger over a budding leaf: "I never thought I'd see fresh greens in the heart of winter. Normally, we'd be resigned to dried vegetables and salted meat by now."
Rickard gave a quiet laugh, remembering the grim monotony of past winters. "We owe much to Harrold's innovations—his wards, his knowledge of preservation, even these glass panes. The North has never known such comfort in winter."
Brandon's tone was reflective. "It feels like we're in the middle of a change, Father. Between the wards, the new trade routes, and these new methods of storing food, the North might never be the same."
Rickard paused to admire a row of thriving herbs. "Change often comes with a price, Brandon. But the price we've paid is far less than the lives we've saved. No more elders from the Mountain Clans giving themselves to the cold, no more children going hungry in the harshest months."
"I wonder how Harrold feels about all of this. He set so much in motion, yet he's always looking ahead, as if the future is pressing on him."
Rickard's gaze settled on his son. "He carries secrets and worries beyond our understanding. But for now, we can be grateful for what he's done. I suspect there's more yet he'll reveal when the time is right."
The pair wandered among the rows of vegetables, nodding to the gardeners who tended them. Steam rose from enchanted troughs that kept the soil warm.
Rickard picked up a small sprig of thyme, inhaling its fresh scent. "I remember winters when even Winterfell struggled. Our stores ran low, and the old glasshouse barely eked out a handful of vegetables. Now, with these new jars and freezers, our pantries overflow with fish and grain. This is life-changing, Brandon. Even the winter feels less cruel. The White Knife doesn't freeze so soon, and our people—truly, they have hope."
Brandon, meeting his father's eyes: "Harrold called it a 'comfortable winter,' but it's not just comfort, it's survival. We're forging a North that might stand against any threat."
Rickard placed a hand on Brandon's shoulder. "And stand we will. Let's see to it that this new North remains strong, even after Harrold's wards, knowledge, and magic become the norm."
Exiting the glasshouse, father and son stepped back into the crisp winter air. Snow fell gently across Winterfell's courtyard, but the air felt less punishing than in times past. The wards whispered their subtle magic, shielding the castle from the worst of the cold.
Brandon, looking up at the gray sky: "If this is how all winters could be, maybe the North can finally thrive without sacrificing so many."
Rickard, nodding: "That's the dream, son. A North prosperous even in winter. We still have challenges ahead—there's never an easy path in this land. But thanks to Harrold's efforts, we have more than just hope. We have a plan."
The fire in the solar of Winterfell crackled softly, filling the room with a warm glow as the snow fell outside. Rickard Stark sat at the sturdy table, reviewing a collection of maps and letters. Brandon entered, his heavy boots barely making a sound on the stone floor. He looked determined, his expression betraying the weight of the conversation he was about to initiate.
"Father, may I have a word?"
Rickard glanced up, setting aside the parchment. "Of course, Brandon. What's on your mind?"
Brandon sat across from his father, leaning forward with his hands clasped. "It's about Lyanna. And her future."
Rickard raised an eyebrow. "You've been thinking about her betrothal? I thought you'd leave that to me."
Brandon took a deep breath. "I know you're considering marrying her and me to southern houses. Tying Winterfell to the south makes sense politically. But… things have changed, haven't they?"
Rickard tilted his head, intrigued. "Go on."
"Harrold. Everything he's done, everything he's brought to the North—it's shifting the balance. We don't have to look south for strength or alliances anymore. Harrold's work is making the North strong on its own."
Rickard stroked his beard thoughtfully. "You're not wrong. But how does this involve Lyanna?"
"The lords of the North won't take kindly to a southern woman becoming the next Lady of Winterfell. Not after everything Harrold has done to revive the old ways and the old gods. And honestly, I'm not sure how Harrold himself would react to such a move. He's committed to the North's traditions, even more than we are."
Rickard leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing. "And you think Harrold would be a better match for Lyanna?"
Brandon nodded. "Yes, I do. But I know what you're thinking. Lyanna is only ten, and Harrold is twenty. There's a decade between them."
Rickard sighed. "A decade is no small thing, Brandon. And Harrold, for all his strengths, wouldn't marry her until she's at least sixteen. That's six years. A long time for a betrothal."
Brandon, shrugging: "Long betrothals aren't unheard of. If Harrold agrees, it could give Lyanna time to grow into the role. And honestly, she's more likely to agree to someone like Harrold than anyone else."
Rickard raised an eyebrow. "And why is that?"
Brandon grinned faintly. "Because Harrold treats women differently. Equally. Look at his advisors, his captains—many of them are women, and they hold real power. Lyanna, for all her talk of never marrying, respects strength. And she's a free spirit. If she knew she could be part of Harrold's adventures, his travels, his plans—she'd be intrigued."
Rickard leaned forward, his expression softening. "You think she'd accept because she wouldn't feel trapped."
Brandon nodded firmly. "Exactly. Harrold isn't some lordling who'd expect her to sit in a castle and sew banners. She'd have a role, a purpose. That would matter to her."
Rickard tapped his fingers on the table, considering his son's words. Brandon hesitated before speaking again.
"There's another thing, Father."
Rickard's eyes narrowed. "What is it?"
Brandon looked down for a moment, then met his father's gaze. "I… I care for Barbrey Ryswell. I'd like to marry her."
Rickard leaned back in surprise. "Barbrey Ryswell? I hadn't considered her."
"She's smart, capable, and she knows the North. She's strong, like Lyanna. And I care for her."
Rickard studied his son for a long moment. "You've given this a lot of thought."
Brandon nodded. "I have. And I think it's the right path—for all of us."
Rickard sighed deeply, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. "You make a compelling case, Brandon. I'll think on it—about Lyanna and Harrold, and about you and Barbrey. These are important decisions, and they can't be made lightly."
Brandon smiled, relief evident on his face. "Thank you, Father."
Rickard waved a hand. "Don't thank me yet. I'll speak with Harrold about Lyanna, but this is a delicate matter. It may take time to see where he stands."
As Brandon rose to leave, Rickard called after him. "And Brandon—don't tell Lyanna about any of this. Not yet."
Brandon grinned. "I wouldn't dare. She'd have my head before dinner."
Rickard chuckled, though his mind remained heavy with thought. The North was changing, and so too were the lives of its people. Decisions made now would shape the future of House Stark and the North itself. And Rickard Stark did not take such matters lightly.
The Lily glided into the bustling port of Braavos, its rune-powered propeller humming faintly beneath the surface. Harrold stood at the prow, the cold winter wind grazing his cheeks as the city of islands spread out before him. Even in the chill of the season, Braavos was a furnace of activity—merchants haggling, sailors hollering, and the ring of hammers echoing from numerous shipyards.
The North sleeps beneath its snows, but my plans do not. If winter halts progress there, I'll simply move south—or to Braavos—where work can continue undaunted.
He had left London and Moat Cailin in the capable hands of his clones, ensuring the wards and food supplies remained secure. Now, two new ship designs beckoned him to the famed shipbuilders of Braavos once again.
As Harrold and his small retinue stepped onto the wooden docks, Master Shipwright Callen, the same craftsman who had built his previous vessels, approached with a respectful bow.
Callen, with a hint of a grin: "Back so soon, Lord Gryffindor? Another secret project, I presume?"
Harrold returned the smile. "I come bearing not just one project, but two. Something to keep your shipwrights busy through the winter."
Callen eyed the rolled parchments tucked under Harrold's arm. "You've never disappointed me yet. Let's see what peculiar wonders you have in mind this time."
They moved to a broad work table in a nearby warehouse, where Harrold spread out the first set of plans. It depicted a 100-foot vessel, streamlined and reminiscent of the original Hedwig-class, but scaled down.
Harrold, tapping the design: "This is a short-haul variant of the Hedwig. Smaller—one hundred feet long. It's intended for shorter routes: White Harbor to Pentos, King's Landing to Portsmouth, or even just coastal patrols. It needs fewer sails—though I'll keep a simplified rigging—and a compact cargo hold for quick, frequent trips."
Callen studied the lines of the ship, nodding slowly. "I see. Good for trades where speed and capacity aren't quite as critical as the full Hedwig-class. Easy to build, too, since we can adapt your original blueprint. How many of these you want to build ?"
Harrold, with a wry smile: "10 for now. Based on the performance, I might ask for more."
Callen nodded. "I'll start the keel next week. Shouldn't take more than a few weeks to float her out, given she's simpler."
Next, Harrold unrolled the second set of parchments. This time, the ship depicted was like nothing the Braavosi had ever seen: a 350-foot catamaran, its twin hulls connected by a wide deck and an unusual superstructure. The lines were sleek, almost futuristic compared to the typical Braavosi galleys.
Callen, eyebrows rising in disbelief: "A… catamaran? Two hulls? No sails, no oars? How do you expect her to move?"
Harrold nodded at the confusion in Callen's voice. "She's inspired by a design I've seen elsewhere. It's intended for high-speed travel, with minimal drag."
Callen, carefully: "High speed. And no sails or oars... I recall your smaller ships lacking the usual rigging, but this is a far larger scale. Are you planning more of your... modifications in Portsmouth?"
Harrold, nodding: "Precisely. The final propulsion system will be installed there by my own team. For now, I only need the hulls and basic framework. If you can handle that, the rest is my concern."
The shipwright ran his fingers over the parchment, noting the revolutionary shape. "Two hulls will require reinforced beams, especially for something of this length. But as long as you can pay…"
Harrold's smile turned confident. "You know I can. And I want the best shipbuilders assigned to this. It will require precise measurements and top-quality materials. I'll handle the cost."
Callen rolled up the designs, the wonder in his eyes now replaced by resigned acceptance. "You never fail to bring us the strangest commissions, Lord Gryffindor."
Harrold chuckled. "Strange, perhaps. But rewarding for all, wouldn't you agree?"
Callen's grin spread across his weathered face. "Aye. I won't deny the coin has been plentiful. Rest assured, my teams will give you their best work, and keep the details discreet."
Harrold inclined his head. "I appreciate that, Master Shipwright. The modifications in Portsmouth are… sensitive."
Callen waved off the notion. "I've grown used to your secrets, my lord. Build, float, and hand it off. That's the Braavosi way."
As he left the shipyard, Harrold felt a spark of excitement. A smaller Hedwig-class for short hops, and a monstrous catamaran for speed beyond what any Westerosi ship could imagine. Even if the North slumbered under snow, his ambitions did not. Orsus's knowledge and magic would power the future of shipping—quietly at first, but unstoppable once unleashed.
He glanced back at the workers already laying out the timbers for the new vessels. By next year, these ships will ply the seas, unsuspected by the world at large. And each new design is another step in pushing the boundaries of possibility, forging the world I envision.
With a final look over his shoulder, Harrold headed back to the Lily, content that even in winter, his grand designs sailed forward.
As he left the shipyard, Harrold felt a spark of excitement. A smaller Hedwig-class for short hops, and a monstrous catamaran for speed beyond what any Westerosi ship could imagine. Even if the North slumbered under snow, his ambitions did not. Orsus's knowledge and magic would power the future of shipping—quietly at first, but unstoppable once unleashed.
He glanced back at the workers already laying out the timbers for the new vessels. By next year, these ships will ply the seas, unsuspected by the world at large. And each new design is another step in pushing the boundaries of possibility, forging the world I envision.
With a final look over his shoulder, Harrold headed back to the Lily, content that even in winter, his grand designs sailed forward.
AN – If you recognize anything, they don't belong to me. Please note that I am using AI to help me write the story. If the words, dialogue feel little off, that's the reason. I simply do not have the time, energy or the talent to write without AI. If I did, I would publish my own book. I am writing because it makes me happy and hope you will find it interesting. If not, there are plenty of other talented writers and many amazing stories to read.