The weeks Harrold spent at Winterfell were a mix of quiet preparation and camaraderie. Though his ambitions demanded swift action, he understood the importance of forging strong ties with his new Northern overlord and ensuring his standing as a lord.

On the third morning after his arrival, Harrold met with Lord Rickard Stark in the solar, a small fire crackling in the hearth. Maps of the North and scrolls of trade agreements lay on the large wooden table, but Harrold's focus was on the pouch he had brought with him—a pouch full of transfigured precious stones.

"My lord," Harrold began, placing the blade on the table between them, "As you know due to the trouble I had along the way, I am short of Gold. However I have these precious stones with me. I was hoping you could give me a loan with these as collateral."

Rickard picked up the pouch, turning it over in his hands, his gray eyes keenly examining the multiple uncut stones. "A good collection," he said, his voice even. "What do you intend to do with the coin, Harrold?"

Harrold leaned forward, his tone earnest. "A lord must present himself as one. My current wardrobe is... less than befitting of my station. I also need funds to procure supplies and secure the loyalty of the craftsmen and workers I'll require at Moat Cailin."

Rickard studied Harrold for a moment, then gave a curt nod. "You are wise to understand the importance of appearances. A lord must inspire confidence, not only in his allies but in his people. You shall have your loan, with the stones as collateral. And I trust you will repay it in time."

Harrold inclined his head deeply. "You have my word, my lord. This investment will benefit us both."

With the loan secured, Harrold immediately set about commissioning a wardrobe that would mark him as a lord of the North. He worked closely with Winterfell's tailors, who were initially baffled by some of his requests.

"I want a cloak lined with ermine," Harrold explained, gesturing to a sketch he had drawn. "And the griffin of my banner embroidered in silver thread on the breast. Simple, but elegant."

The tailors nodded, albeit hesitantly. Fur-lined doublets, heavy wool cloaks, and sturdy leather boots were crafted to match the Northern climate. Harrold also requested a more ceremonial outfit—a Midnight blue surcoat adorned with silver griffins, a symbol of his house.

By the end of the week, the wardrobe was completed, and Harrold stood before a mirror in the chambers provided to him. Clad in a dark tunic with subtle silver embroidery, he allowed himself a small smile. He looked every inch the lord he aspired to be

Despite his refined appearance, Harrold knew that being a lord of the North demanded more than fine clothes. The Starks were warriors, their lineage steeped in honor and strength. To gain their respect, he joined Brandon and Benjen in the training yard each morning.

Brandon, ever brash and full of life, greeted him with a crooked grin on the first day. "Come then, Lord Gryffindor. Let us see if you've got the mettle of a Northern man or if you'll freeze like the rest of those southern knights."

Harrold laughed. "If I freeze, Brandon, I'll blame the biting winds of Winterfell. But I promise you, I'll give as good as I get."

The sparring sessions were intense. Harrold, though not a novice with a blade, quickly realized the raw power and speed of Brandon's strikes. Benjen, still young, fought with enthusiasm if not precision. They teased each other relentlessly, but beneath the banter was a growing camaraderie.

"You've got a steady hand with a bow," Brandon remarked one afternoon as they practiced archery. "But your stance could use some work. Here, let me show you."

Under Brandon's guidance, Harrold improved his aim. By the end of the week, he could hit the center of the target with more consistency, earning an approving nod from Rickard Stark, who occasionally observed from the sidelines.

In the evenings, Harrold spent time with the Stark family in the great hall or with the Maester in the rookery. Recognizing the North's harsh conditions and limited access to resources, Harrold sought to share knowledge from his old world.

"My lord," The Maester said one evening as they pored over books of herbs and remedies, "you speak of practices I have never encountered. Tell me again of this 'soap' you described?"

"Soap, Maester," Harrold explained patiently, "is a simple but revolutionary tool for hygiene. Boil animal fat with lye, and you'll have a substance that cleans better than any cloth or water alone. Hygiene is essential—not just for comfort but to prevent sickness. The fewer diseases your people face, the stronger your hold over the North will be."

Rickard, who had joined them that evening, stroked his beard thoughtfully. "A lord is only as strong as his people," he mused. "If what you say is true, this could save countless lives during the long winters."

Harrold also demonstrated how common herbs could be used for simple remedies. He showed the Maester how to prepare willow bark tea to reduce fevers and taught the kitchen staff how to use wild garlic and honey as an antiseptic for wounds.

The Stark family, curious and eager to learn, also benefitted from his lessons in the kitchens. Harrold introduced them to new recipes, some inspired by the spice-rich dishes of Essos. One evening, he served a hearty stew flavored with wild herbs and a pinch of ground cinnamon, a taste unfamiliar to the Northerners.

"This is... unusual," Brandon said as he chewed, his brow furrowed.

"But not unpleasant," Eddard added, his tone neutral but curious.

"It's different," Rickard concluded with a small smile. "And different is not always a bad thing."

By the time Harrold was ready to leave for White Harbor, he had left an indelible mark on Winterfell. The Stark children had grown fond of him, their respect for the enigmatic lord from the south evident in their good-natured ribbing and genuine farewells.

"You've earned your place here, Harrold," Rickard said as they stood by the gates, his voice heavy with sincerity. "Remember, the North does not forget its friends."

"And I will not forget the North, my lord," Harrold replied, bowing his head. "This is only the beginning of what I hope will be a long and fruitful alliance."

With that, Harrold mounted his horse, his new banners fluttering proudly in the cold wind. The gates of Winterfell creaked open, and he rode out, the lessons and bonds forged in the ancestral seat of the Starks a cornerstone of his burgeoning legacy.

The bustling port city of White Harbor greeted Harrold with the scent of salt and the clamor of dockworkers. The towering walls of the New Castle rose majestically above the harbor, a testament to House Manderly's wealth and influence.

Lord Wyman Manderly awaited him in the castle's grand hall, a portly man with sharp blue eyes that betrayed his cautious nature. He was seated in a high-backed chair, a goblet of wine in one hand and a look of guarded interest on his face as Harrold was announced.

"Lord Gryffindor," Wyman greeted, his tone measured. "Welcome to White Harbor Lord Stark wrote to me and asked me to help with your travel plans."

Harrold bowed respectfully. "Lord Manderly, your reputation for hospitality precedes you. I thank you for granting me this audience."

Wyman gestured for Harrold to sit. "I hear much of your ambitions, my lord. A talk of a harbor near Moat Cailin. Forgive me if I sound wary, but such endeavors often come at the expense of established trade routes. White Harbor thrives as the North's gateway to the world. I cannot see it diminished."

Harrold met Wyman's gaze, his expression calm but confident. "Your concerns are valid, my lord, and I would expect no less from a man of your standing. But rest assured, my harbor will not compete with White Harbor. It will serve a different purpose entirely."

"And what purpose is that?" Wyman asked, leaning forward slightly.

"Defense," Harrold replied firmly. "Moat Cailin's strategic position is unmatched, but its vulnerability is clear. A harbor there will serve as a military and logistical hub, ensuring the North remains protected from any threat that might come from the south—or the sea. Trade will still flow through White Harbor, as it always has. In fact, I intend to encourage it."

Wyman raised an eyebrow. "Encourage it, you say?"

Harrold nodded. "My ships are faster than anything else on the seas. I plan to establish new trade routes, connecting distant lands to the North. White Harbor will remain the heart of Northern commerce, and my fleet will ensure its prosperity. In addition, I am hoping to build a road to White Harbor from Moar Cailin."

There was a long pause as Wyman studied Harrold, his fingers drumming lightly against the arm of his chair. Finally, he broke into a smile.

"You are either very bold or very clever, Lord Gryffindor. Perhaps both," Wyman said with a chuckle. "If you can deliver on these promises, White Harbor will welcome your ambitions. But know this—if trade here suffers, I will not sit idly by."

Harrold inclined his head. "Nor would I expect you to, my lord. The prosperity of White Harbor benefits us all. You have my word—I will do nothing to jeopardize it."

Wyman raised his goblet in a toast. "Then let us drink to new alliances and shared prosperity."

Harrold raised his own goblet, meeting Wyman's gaze with a smile. "To the North, my lord. May it always endure."

The two men drank, and with that, Harrold had taken another step toward solidifying his place in the North.

The salty spray of the sea misted Harrold's face as his ship glided into the bustling port of Braavos. The first sight of the city struck him like a hammer. Braavos was unlike anything he had ever seen—a sprawling city of canals and islands connected by arched stone bridges, its skyline dotted with domed towers and slender spires. The constant movement of gondolas and flat-bottomed barges in the labyrinthine waterways was mesmerizing, as was the diversity of its people. Men and women of every color and creed bustled along the wharves, dressed in silks, wool, and leather, their tongues weaving a tapestry of languages that Harrold struggled to follow.

At the heart of it all loomed the Titan of Braavos, its colossal bronze form standing sentinel over the entrance to the harbor. The sheer scale of the statue was staggering, its watchful gaze seeming to follow Harrold as his ship docked beneath its shadow.

Stepping onto the cobblestone streets of Braavos, Harrold was struck by the sheer vitality of the city. Merchants hawked their wares in open markets, jugglers performed for coin along the canals, and the air was filled with the tang of saltwater mixed with the earthy aroma of fish, spices, and exotic goods.

For all its beauty, Harrold's purpose here was singular: to secure funding for his ambitions. And there was only one place in Braavos that held the kind of power he needed—the Iron Bank.

The Iron Bank's headquarters was an imposing edifice of black marble, its façade austere and unyielding, reflecting the nature of the institution it housed. No banners hung from its walls, no sigils adorned its gates; the bank's reputation was its only heraldry.

As Harrold entered, he was greeted by an air of quiet power. The interior was grand yet restrained, with polished stone floors and high ceilings. Candles flickered in sconces, their light reflected in the gleaming brass fixtures and dark wood paneling. Rows of clerks sat at long tables, quills scratching against parchment as they calculated sums or recorded transactions.

A man dressed in rich black robes approached Harrold. His face was severe, with thin lips and piercing gray eyes. "You seek an audience with the representatives of the Iron Bank?"

Harrold nodded, standing tall despite the imposing surroundings. "Yes. My name is Harrold Gryffindor. I have a proposition to discuss—one that I believe will be of mutual benefit."

The man studied him for a moment before nodding. "Follow me."

Harrold was led into a private chamber. The room was spacious but unadorned, save for a long table of dark wood and chairs upholstered in leather. Three men sat waiting for him, each representing the Iron Bank. They were dressed in simple but finely made garments, their expressions calm but calculating.

The eldest of the three, a man with thinning silver hair and sharp blue eyes, gestured for Harrold to sit. "I am Tycho Narris. These are my colleagues, Torren Vallis and Meris Arano. We hear you have a proposal for us, Lord Gryffindor."

Harrold took his seat, placing a leather-bound portfolio on the table. "I do. I come with the designs for a new kind of ship. A ship that will sail twice as fast as any vessel currently afloat."

Meris, a dark-haired man with an aquiline nose, raised an eyebrow. "Twice as fast? That is a bold claim, my lord."

"It is not a claim—it is a promise," Harrold replied confidently. He opened the portfolio, revealing detailed schematics he had spent weeks perfecting. "The ships of today are sturdy but slow, reliant on outdated designs. My ship will be lighter, more maneuverable, and capable of harnessing the wind in ways your current vessels cannot. With these ships, Braavos can dominate the trade routes and outrun any pirate fleet."

Tycho leaned forward, studying the drawings with interest. "And what is it you seek from us in return for these designs?"

Harrold folded his hands on the table, meeting each man's gaze in turn. "A hundred thousand dragons to fund my Personal endeavors after the ship is built and proved, ownership of the first ship you build using my designs. And four more ships, built and delivered to me within the next two years. Additionally, the option to buy more ships you build as the priority customer."

Torren, a stout man with a neatly trimmed beard, frowned. "You ask for much, Lord Gryffindor. The Iron Bank does not invest lightly."

"Nor do I," Harrold countered. "Consider this an investment, not just in me but in Braavos's future. The ships I offer you will revolutionize maritime trade. You will earn back your investment tenfold—no, a hundredfold—in the years to come. I am giving you the means to outpace every trading city in the known world."

Tycho regarded him for a long moment. "You seem confident in your designs. But confidence does not guarantee results. If your ship fails to deliver the speed you claim, we will have wasted time, labor, and resources."

Harrold leaned back, a faint smile playing on his lips. "With the ship building capabilities of Braavos, you risk nothing. The worst-case scenario is that you will have regular ship cost you maybe twice the normal cost."

The three men exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable. Finally, Tycho spoke. "You propose a fair risk. But we must discuss terms further. How soon can we see this ship built?"

"With the resources of Braavos, I estimate six months for the first ship. Once your builders have experience and streamline the production, I believe you can build a ship per month." Harrold replied. "For the first one, I will oversee the construction myself to ensure perfection."

Meris tapped his fingers on the table. "And if you fail to deliver on your promise of speed?"

"Then I forfeit my share of the investment," Harrold said firmly. "I am a man of my word, and I stake my reputation on this venture."

After a long pause, Tycho rose from his seat. "We will deliberate on your proposal and inform you of our decision within two days. For now, consider Braavos your guest."

While waiting for the Iron Bank's decision, Harrold took the time to explore the city. He wandered through the Moon Pool, its surface reflecting the shimmering lights of nearby mansions, and marveled at the Palace of Truth, a grand structure used for public hearings.

In the fish markets, he observed merchants haggling over barrels of eels and salted cod, their voices a cacophony of urgency. Along the canals, he watched the famed courtesans of Braavos, their silks as colorful as the flowers in the gardens of Essos.

Harrold also visited the famed Sealord's Palace, though only its outer halls, and paid his respects at the Temple of the Moonsingers, the faith that had guided the exiles who founded Braavos.

Everywhere he went, he observed, listened, and learned. Knowledge was as valuable as gold, and Harrold intended to leave Braavos richer in both.

Two days later, Harrold was summoned back to the Iron Bank. Tycho Narris greeted him with a faint smile. "After much discussion, the Iron Bank has decided to accept your proposal, Lord Gryffindor. The terms are as follows: you will receive the funds you requested and ownership of the first ship built to your specifications. four additional ships will be delivered within two years, as agreed. But know this: the Iron Bank always collects what it is owed."

Harrold inclined his head. "I would expect nothing less."

The deal was sealed with handshakes and signatures. As Harrold left the Iron Bank, his heart raced with triumph. The first step of his grand plan was complete.

With the backing of Braavos and the Iron Bank's resources, he was closer than ever to realizing his vision. The world would soon witness the might of Harrold Gryffindor, and no force—on land or sea—could stand in his way.

The Braavosi shipyards stretched across the harbor, a sprawling network of docks, drydocks, and workshops teeming with activity. Wooden scaffolding and cranes towered over the waterfront, while the air rang with the rhythmic hammering of blacksmiths, the rasp of saws, and the shouts of shipwrights directing their teams. The shipyards were the lifeblood of Braavos, a hub of innovation and craftsmanship renowned across the known world.

The waters of the harbor glittered with vessels of all shapes and sizes: sleek galleys, squat merchant cogs, and the iconic lean warships of the Braavosi fleet. Dozens of half-built ships stood in drydocks, their skeletal forms a testament to the industriousness of the craftsmen. The air was heavy with the mingled scents of tar, sawdust, and saltwater.

Harrold stood at the edge of one such drydock, surrounded by Braavosi shipbuilders, his leather-bound schematics spread out on a table before them.

The design was bold, almost audacious. Harrold's ship would be a fully rigged, four-masted marvel, unlike anything the Braavosi had ever constructed. The hull was sleek and narrow, designed to cut through the water with minimal resistance. The masts were taller than those of standard Braavosi ships, designed to carry more sails and catch higher winds. The rigging system incorporated innovative pulley mechanisms to allow for faster adjustments during high-speed maneuvers.

Most controversially, the ship featured a raised forecastle and aftcastle, with a reinforced keel and additional ballast to maintain stability at higher speeds. Harrold had also included a retractable rudder design for sharper turns, something that had the shipbuilders scratching their heads in both skepticism and wonder.

"This is madness," muttered Veyro Tomaros, a grizzled shipwright with a bristling gray beard, as he traced the lines of Harrold's blueprints with a calloused finger. "A four-masted ship? It will take an army to crew her. And these masts—too tall. They'll snap in a strong gale."

Harrold folded his arms, his expression calm but firm. "Only if the masts are made of poor wood, Veyro. I've already arranged for Ironwood from the forests of the North. It's strong enough to withstand storms, yet flexible enough to bend with the wind. As for the crew, the pulley system I've designed will reduce the manpower needed for rigging."

"Pulley systems," Veyro snorted. "Ships aren't built with parchment and ink, my lord. They're built with wood, sweat, and steel. This ship of yours—it's untested, unproven."

"All innovation is untested until it is proven," Harrold countered, leaning over the table to meet the older man's gaze. "But I didn't come to Braavos to build another cog or galley. I came to change the way the world sails. Do you want your name attached to a ship that will make history, or do you want to cling to the past?"

Veyro stared at him for a moment before a slow grin spread across his weathered face. "You've got a silver tongue, my lord. Fine. We'll build your ship. But if she sinks on her maiden voyage, don't come crying to me."

The six months that followed were a blur of relentless work and unyielding determination. The shipbuilders of Braavos, though initially skeptical, were craftsmen of unparalleled skill, and under Harrold's guidance, they rose to the challenge.

The keel was the first to be laid, a massive beam of Ironwood hewn from the Northern forests and transported to Braavos at great expense. Dozens of men worked to secure it in the drydock, their chants echoing across the shipyard as they hammered the supports into place.

As the hull began to take shape, Harrold was a constant presence, moving among the workers with his sleeves rolled up and his hands often dirtied with sawdust and resin. Though he was no shipwright, his keen eye for detail and unshakable vision inspired the craftsmen.

One day, Harrold stood alongside Veyro and another shipwright, a younger man named Loras Samarro, as they inspected the half-finished hull.

"The lines of the hull are too fine," Loras said, shaking his head. "She'll be fast, yes, but fragile. A broadside hit would tear her apart."

"This isn't a warship," Harrold reminded him. "It's a trade vessel, designed to outrun pirates, not fight them. Speed is its armor. Besides, the reinforced ribbing will make the hull stronger than you think."

Veyro frowned, running a hand over one of the ribs. "Reinforced ribbing or not, she'll need perfect balance. If the ballast is even a stone off, she'll list like a drunkard in a storm."

"And that's why I've calculated every detail," Harrold replied, tapping a set of measurements on his blueprints. "The ballast will be placed low and evenly distributed. Trust me, Veyro—when she's in the water, she'll be the steadiest ship in the harbor."

Veyro grunted. "We'll see about that."

As the months passed, Harrold's ship began to resemble the sleek, elegant vessel he had envisioned. The hull was sealed with pitch and painted a deep blue, the color of the open sea, with silver accents along the prow and stern. The four masts towered above the deck, each fitted with complex rigging systems that would allow the sails to be adjusted with precision.

The deck itself was a marvel of craftsmanship, with smooth planking and reinforced railings. The forecastle and aftcastle were fitted with small cabins, while the hold was designed to maximize cargo space without compromising speed.

By the time the ship was finished, it stood as a testament to the ingenuity of Harrold and the skill of the Braavosi craftsmen. It was unlike anything the city had ever produced—a ship built not just to sail the seas, but to conquer them.

Braavos, with its maze of canals, towering structures, and diverse population, was a city of secrets. Beneath its veneer of wealth and culture lay the whispers of things long forgotten or deliberately hidden. It was during his frequent forays into the lower districts of Braavos—exploring markets, taverns, and places where the downtrodden gathered—that Harrold began to notice something peculiar.

It started small. A beggar on a canal bridge muttering strange word, and a tiny flame igniting in his palm, quickly extinguished when others approached. A child selling clams in the dockyards who could seemingly calm even the angriest sailors with a single glance. A washerwoman who always finished her work twice as fast as her peers, despite taking frequent breaks to hum haunting melodies.

At first, Harrold thought it might be a coincidence, or simply clever tricks used by the destitute to survive. But as he observed further, he realized these people shared something: a faint, almost imperceptible aura of magic. It wasn't the potent, raw magic wielded by wizards or sorcerers, but something weaker, diluted, and barely noticeable unless you knew what to look for. These were the weak magicals—ordinary men, women, and children with just a glimmer of magical talent, often too insignificant to attract notice.

One evening, in a dimly lit tavern by the canals, Harrold decided to test his theory. He had been watching a bartender named Varko, a sullen man with a knack for "guessing" what drink his customers wanted before they even asked.

Harrold approached the bar and struck up a conversation. "You seem to have a gift, my friend," he said, sliding a silver coin across the counter.

Varko glanced at him warily. "Just a knack, lord. Nothing special."

"Not a knack," Harrold replied, lowering his voice. "Magic. A spark of it, at least."

Varko froze, his hand tightening around a tankard. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't deny it," Harrold said, leaning closer. "I've seen others like you. Magic is rare but not gone. You've felt it, haven't you? A connection to something beyond the ordinary."

Varko's eyes darted around the room before he whispered, "Keep your voice down. If the Faceless Men hear of this..."

Harrold smiled. "I'm not here to expose you. Quite the opposite. I'm here to offer you a place where your gift will be valued. Where you'll be protected."

After his encounter with Varko, Harrold began seeking out others like him. He moved cautiously, knowing that in Braavos, any whisper of magic could attract unwanted attention. He relied on subtle inquiries, quiet observation, and the trust of those he had already recruited to expand his network.

Over the next six months, he gathered a group of around 200 magicals—men, women, and children of all ages. Some had powers so faint they were barely detectable: a woman who could keep bread warm for hours without an oven, a boy who could make his drawings come to life for mere moments, a fisherman who could sense where the best catch lay beneath the waves.

For each of them, Harrold offered the same deal: protection, purpose, and a place in his growing enterprise. In exchange, they would swear loyalty to him, bound by magical contracts that he had meticulously crafted.

Harrold's contracts were no ordinary agreements. Using a mix of ancient texts he had studied in his youth and his own magical knowledge, he created contracts that were both legally and magically binding. The terms were simple yet effective:

The binding process was subtle but powerful. Each magical signed the contract with their blood, and Harrold, using his own magic, activated the binding. It didn't strip them of their free will, but it ensured that betrayal or disobedience would come at a steep price—a sense of unbearable guilt or physical discomfort that would deter even the boldest from breaking the pact. Harrold could not confound anyone to sign. Unless they sign with their own will, the binding will not take hold. Harrold had to be subtle with his magic to guide the magicals to sign. So Harrold used magic laced voice and/or touch to make them trust him and they signed the contracts even without Harrold's asking.

To maintain their loyalty, Harrold treated them fairly, ensuring they had food, shelter, and a sense of purpose. He divided them into groups based on their abilities—cooks, craftsmen, healers, and laborers—and assigned them to work on his various projects, including the ship, Hedwig.

One of Harrold's most critical needs was finding sailors for the Hedwig. He wanted a crew that was not only skilled but also loyal and capable of understanding the ship's unique design and purpose. It was during his recruitment efforts that he discovered a surprising number of magicals among the Braavosi sailors.

At first, they were hesitant to reveal themselves. Sailors were a superstitious lot, and many feared that their magic would lead to exile—or worse. But Harrold's reputation among the magicals he had already gathered began to spread, and soon, they began to approach him in secret.

There was Milo Saan, a wiry young man with the uncanny ability to predict the weather with almost perfect accuracy—a skill that had earned him a living as a navigator. Jorah Coen, a broad-shouldered man with the strength of two, was another recruit. He could manipulate ropes and rigging with ease, even in the fiercest storms. Anya Veloro, a soft-spoken woman with the gift of calming both seasick passengers and panicked crews, became the ship's healer and morale officer.

By the end of the six months, Harrold had gathered a crew of 50 magical sailors, each bound by contract and trained to serve aboard the Hedwig. They were a diverse group, representing the various corners of Braavos and beyond, but they shared a common loyalty to Harrold and a belief in his vision.

As the Hedwig neared completion, Harrold spent time training his magical crew. He worked closely with Captain Elissa and First Mate Thoren to ensure the crew understood their roles and responsibilities. The magicals, with their unique abilities, quickly adapted to the ship's innovative design.

During one training session, Harrold stood on the deck as Milo demonstrated his weather-sensing ability. "Storm brewing in two days, my lord," Milo said, pointing to the horizon.

"Impressive," Harrold said. "With you on board, we'll always have an advantage over our rivals."

Thoren, standing nearby, added with a grin, "And if a storm does hit, we've got Jorah to keep the rigging in place and Anya to keep the crew sane. This ship's more than just fast—it's unstoppable."

Harrold nodded, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The Hedwig and her crew were ready. With a ship built for speed, a crew of magicals bound by loyalty, and a vision that extended far beyond Braavos, Harrold knew he was on the brink of something extraordinary.

The morning sun bathed the harbor of Braavos in golden light, glinting off the polished hull of the Hedwig. She was a masterpiece, the culmination of six months of relentless effort. Her sleek design and four towering masts stood in stark contrast to the other ships docked nearby. Her sails, dyed a deep blue to match the sea, bore no sigil, only a silver streak along their edges to symbolize speed and elegance.

The shipyard bustled with activity as dockworkers and curious onlookers gathered to witness the maiden voyage. Harrold stood at the dock, dressed in a finely tailored coat of midnight blue, trimmed with silver thread, a nod to his new-found lordly status. His expression was unreadable, a mix of pride, determination, and the faint shadow of sorrow.

He turned to the captain of the ship, a woman named Captain Elissa Vayne, whose reputation for both daring and discipline had earned her respect across Braavos and beyond. Her sun-kissed skin and sharp, sea-green eyes spoke of years at sea, while the silver braid that fell over her shoulder hinted at her advancing years. She had agreed to take command of the Hedwig only after inspecting every inch of the ship herself.

"The ship is ready, my lord," Captain Elissa said, her voice firm yet respectful. "But are you sure about the name? A ship like this deserves a name that will strike fear—or awe—across the Narrow Sea."

Harrold smiled faintly, his hand brushing the silver talisman he wore around his neck, shaped like a owl in flight. "The name is perfect, Captain. Hedwig gave her life to save mine. It's only fitting that she continues to soar, even in death."

At his words, those nearby fell silent, sensing the weight of the name. Harrold's familiar, the snowy owl Hedwig, had been his steadfast companion for years, a bond forged through magic and loyalty. Her sacrifice during an ambush had saved Harrold's life but left a scar on his soul. The ship was both a tribute and a promise to honor her memory.

The Hedwig's crew was handpicked by Captain Elissa. At her side stood First Mate Thoren Pyke, a broad-shouldered Ironborn turned honest sailor with a reputation for cunning and humor. His deep, booming laugh was as familiar to the docks as the creak of rigging, but beneath his jovial exterior lay a sharp mind and a fierce loyalty to his captain.

"Lord Harrold," Thoren said, bowing his head slightly as he approached. "It's not every day we get to sail a ship like this. Half the harbor's jealous they're not aboard."

"Jealousy won't make them faster," Harrold replied with a smirk. "But speed is what we'll show them today."

"Aye, speed and then some," Thoren chuckled, running a hand over the rail. "She's a beauty, though I'll admit, I didn't think she'd float with all the ideas you stuffed into her."

"Have faith, Thoren," Harrold said, his tone light but confident. "This ship will change everything."

Before the ship was unmoored, Harrold stepped forward to perform the christening. He held a bottle of Braavosi wine, its dark red contents glinting in the sunlight.

"Today, we launch not just a ship, but a dream," Harrold said, his voice carrying over the gathered crowd. "This ship is named Hedwig, in honor of a companion who gave her life for mine. May she protect and guide all who sail aboard her, and may she always find her way to safe harbors."

With that, he smashed the bottle against the hull, and the crowd erupted into cheers as the ship was unmoored and prepared for departure.

As the Hedwig slipped away from the dock, the crew worked in perfect harmony, guided by Captain Elissa's sharp commands and Thoren's booming encouragement. The sails unfurled, catching the morning breeze, and the ship surged forward, slicing through the water with an ease that left even the most seasoned sailors awestruck.

"She glides like a bird," Thoren marveled, standing at the helm beside Captain Elissa. "I've never seen anything like it."

Elissa nodded, her eyes fixed on the horizon. "This isn't just a ship. It's a work of art."

Harrold stood near the prow, feeling the wind on his face and the steady rise and fall of the deck beneath his feet. For the first time in months, he allowed himself a moment of quiet pride. The Hedwig was everything he had envisioned—and more.

The maiden voyage was not just a ceremonial journey; it was a test of the Hedwig's capabilities. The crew maneuvered her through a series of trials, testing her speed, stability, and responsiveness. Harrold watched closely, taking notes and discussing adjustments with Captain Elissa and the shipbuilders who had come aboard for the voyage.

"She's fast," Elissa said after a day of sailing, her tone grudgingly impressed. "Faster than anything I've ever sailed. But the rigging needs to be reinforced. Ropes are holding, but barely. If we hit a storm, they might snap."

"Noted," Harrold said, jotting it down. "We'll reinforce them before the next voyage. What about the rudder?"

"It's as responsive as you promised," Thoren said, grinning. "She turns on a coin. Never thought I'd see a ship this big handle like a sloop."

"And the ballast?" Harrold asked.

"Steady as a rock," Elissa replied. "You were right about the balance—it's perfect."

On the third day of the voyage, as the Hedwig sailed into open waters, the weather turned. Dark clouds gathered on the horizon, and the wind picked up, whipping the sails and churning the sea into frothy waves.

"Storm's coming," Elissa said, her voice calm but firm. "We'll see what your ship is made of, my lord."

As the storm hit, the Hedwig was put to the ultimate test. The crew worked tirelessly to adjust the sails and keep the ship steady, while Harrold stayed near the helm, his heart pounding as the ship was battered by wind and waves.

"She'll hold!" Thoren shouted over the roar of the storm, his hands gripping the rail as the ship surged forward. "She's built for this!"

And hold she did. The Hedwig cut through the storm with remarkable grace, her reinforced hull and innovative design proving their worth. By the time the skies cleared, the crew was drenched and exhausted, but the ship had weathered the storm with barely a scratch.

When the Hedwig returned to Braavos, she was met with cheers and applause from the gathered crowd. News of her performance had already spread, and Harrold was hailed as a visionary.

Captain Elissa approached Harrold as the crew began to disembark. "You've done something remarkable here, my lord," she said. "This ship isn't just faster—it's better. You've changed the game."

Harrold smiled, though his eyes were already on the horizon. "This is only the beginning, Captain. The Hedwig is proof of what's possible. Now, we build the future."

Thoren clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. "Aye, my lord. And with a ship like this, the future's looking bright."

As Harrold stepped off the Hedwig, he felt a sense of accomplishment he hadn't known in years. The ship was more than a vessel—it was a symbol of his ambition, his ingenuity, and his unyielding determination to leave his mark on the world.

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 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.