In the soft glow of Orsus's setting sun, Harrold stood upon a rocky overlook, watching the last rays of light cast vibrant purples and oranges across the horizon. Below him, the settlement bustled with preparations for the next supply run to Volantis. His thoughts, however, were elsewhere—on the clones he'd created and the surprising revelation that had come with them.
It had all begun in his previous world, years after he had unknowingly carried a piece of Voldemort's soul. When that fragment was destroyed, and he later became Master of Death, something within him had shifted. Old powers, once dormant, awoke. Harrold discovered he was a Metamorphmagus, a talent that allowed him to mold his appearance at will. This alone was remarkable enough, but what fascinated him most was tracing its lineage back through his family tree, unearthing a branch that led to the Blacks. There, he found a great-grandmother—a squib from his mothers side of the family, exiled from the main family—whose diluted magical blood had lingered quietly through the generations until it blossomed in him.
Back in his old world, he'd never thought his latent Metamorphmagus powers would prove so essential. But upon arriving in this new realm—where the wild magic and his status as Master of Death seemed to synergize—he discovered that his clones, too, could harness this shapeshifting ability. It was not so in his old world. There, his temporary clones were exact replicas, lacking the nuance to adapt their appearances independently. Yet here, on Orsus, he found they could alter their forms just as deftly as he could.
The first time he witnessed a clone metamorphosing into a completely different persona—brown skin, short curly hair, a different jawline—he'd been equal parts startled and thrilled. The clone had grinned, its face shifting back to Harrold's own features, and exclaimed that it had simply followed the instinct he'd imparted. "We share your essence," it said. "So why not your gifts, too?"
Looking down at the bustling island settlement, Harrold couldn't help but feel a rush of relief. This shapeshifting was a boon for his clone network—especially as they ventured far from Orsus to recruit sailors or negotiate with slavers. The clones no longer had to wear Harrold's face like a badge, an unmistakable giveaway. They could assume local guises, blend in with their surroundings, and go about their tasks unseen.
He also wondered if the shapeshifting arts of this world—rumored to be practiced by the mysterious followers of the Many-Faced God at the House of Black and White—played a role. Perhaps the magic of Braavos, or the innate mystique of this realm, granted the clones the fine control they lacked before. In any case, it was a happy discovery. Far from being a liability, his clones now carried an incredible advantage: anonymity.
The significance of his lineage hadn't been lost on him either. While many details of his grandmother's life remained obscured by time, Harrold often pondered the quirk of fate that allowed him to inherit such a gift. The Blacks, famed for their magical prowess and sometimes dark inclinations, had in a roundabout way bequeathed him this ability—an ability that was now powering his plans to protect Orsus and its magical denizens.
Harrold stood at the center of a torchlit council hall on Orsus, a place he'd set aside for private discussions with his clones and key employees. The nocturnal chorus of insects provided a steady backdrop, and the thick tropical air carried the scent of damp leaves. Ringed around him were the many copies of himself—temporary manifestations of his will, each formed by his cloning technique and tied to his consciousness. Some wore different appearances thanks to their Metamorphmagus ability, but each bore an unmistakable echo of Harrold's presence. He had called for a meeting with his clones to discuss plans and next steps.
One of the clones, carrying a bundle of parchment, stepped forward. His face was set with an almost boyish excitement, and when he spoke, his voice carried both reverence and exhilaration.
"My lord, I think we've found a way to make our existence… permanent."
A ripple of surprise coursed through the assembled clones. Until now, each of them existed only so long as the magic Harrold fed them endured. They required periodic infusions of power, and eventually, they faded back into nonexistence. The clone unfurled the parchments to reveal intricate diagrams of a runic array, pulsing with swirling patterns that suggested motion even when drawn in ink.
Harrold's gaze narrowed with interest as he took in the design. Dozens of sigils, circles, and connecting lines formed a complex tapestry of magical geometry. The writing in the margins detailed an unprecedented fusion of the runic systems from his old world and the wild, chaotic magic native to this realm.
"We discovered it while refining our method to inscribe runes on the island's protective wards," the clone explained, voice brimming with enthusiasm. "If we place these runes on a special construct—an amulet, perhaps—worn on our person, and bind it with your blood enchantment, it should anchor us to this world's magic instead of relying solely on yours."
The others leaned in, curiosity lighting their eyes. Each clone knew their existence was finite. It was, until now, an accepted reality.
Harrold found himself unexpectedly moved. Although each clone shared his consciousness and loyalties, they were still individuals in their own right, with experiences that diverged once they stepped out of his direct influence. The prospect of granting them true autonomy—allowing them to exist without perpetually draining his magic—filled him with a warmth akin to pride.
"This could change everything," he said softly, fingers tracing the edge of one diagram. "If this works, you'll be free from fading. Our entire operation becomes that much stronger, because we won't have to repeatedly re-create clones or reinforce your connection."
A hush of anticipation fell over the circle.
"Still," Harrold added with caution, "blood enchantments aren't to be taken lightly. We must ensure we do this safely. If we misstep, we could disrupt the bond that ensures your loyalty or compromise your wellbeing. We can't risk madness or magical corruption."
One of the other clones, wearing a different face to avoid confusion in public, nodded. "Of course, my lord. We believe these runes channel the island's chaotic magic, stabilizing it through your blood. The enchantment holds your intent—meaning we still remain part of you, unable to betray or act against your will."
Harrold studied the runic array. Indeed, it harnessed the island's unpredictable energies, shaping them into a steady, life-sustaining flow. It was elegant, almost poetic. The clones would wear amulets, each keyed to a drop of Harrold's blood, thus tying them to his core essence without draining him constantly.
He turned his gaze around the circle of clones, seeing flickers of hope on each face—variations of his own. "We'll proceed carefully," he decided. "I'll create a prototype amulet first. We'll test it on a single clone to confirm it works without harmful side effects. If it proves stable, we can replicate it for all of you."
A chorus of murmured assent rose from the group.
"If this works," one clone mused, "we can be stationed anywhere in the world, for as long as needed, without returning to Orsus or draining you. We can expand our network, gather resources, protect magicals, and never fear fading again."
Harrold nodded. The future suddenly felt much broader. Building a hidden sanctuary, forging alliances, even contending with slavers and forging ties with the North—all these ventures would benefit from a permanent group of trusted agents who were effectively Harrold's extensions in mind, if not in body.
"Exactly," he said. "We'll keep refining the array until it's flawless. This is the next great step in our work—one I never expected to find."
The conversation then changed to the unsullied.
Clone Arven hesitated, then spoke the question that had clearly been on his mind. "Why bother with the gold, the heist, all the risks? Why not just Imperius the slavers? Mess with their heads, make them hand over the Unsullied for free, then forget we ever came."
Harrold's expression tightened. His clone's directness was not unexpected—they shared the same mind, after all—but the topic itself was unsettling. "Arven," he said quietly, "I've asked myself that too. But no. Mind magic is a line I won't cross in the open."
Arven frowned, confusion painting his features. "But you've used it before. Why stop now, when it would solve our problem so perfectly?"
Harrold folded his arms, exhaling a tired breath. "Because people will accept a lot of things in this world: illusions, runes, potions, even the destructive force of a wand. But the moment they learn someone can control their minds, all trust evaporates. Fear sets in. They begin to wonder if every decision they've made was truly theirs. They grow paranoid, suspecting their own thoughts aren't their own."
He kicked at a stray pebble, sending it skittering across the sand. "Look at us, Arven. We're building something here on Orsus—an entire haven for magicals. If word gets out that I can—and do—bend wills to my liking, our allies, our people might question everything. We'd lose the fragile faith we've spent so long cultivating."
A hush draped over the pair, the crackling flames providing the only sound for a few seconds. Arven nodded, a flicker of realization crossing his face. "I see. So it's not the act, but the perception of it. If they discover we can tinker with minds at will, they'll never fully believe they're acting of their own accord."
Harrold placed a hand on his clone's shoulder. "Exactly. We can't afford that, especially when I plan on facing far greater foes than slave masters. Trust—real, earned trust—is a rarer commodity than gold. We have to guard it fiercely."
The embers danced between them, reflecting in Arven's eyes. He gave a slow, measured nod. "Understood. We'll do it your way—buy and then steal back our coin. It's riskier, but it keeps our greatest secret safe."
Harrold nodded and cleared his throat and began, "As you know, we have an agreement with the Iron Bank to purchase additional Hedwig-class ships. Our last discussion settled on five more. That means five separate crews—each of which will need proper oversight."
A ripple of acknowledgment passed through the clones. One, wearing closely cropped dark hair, nodded sharply. "We're stretched thin on sailors. Do you intend for us to sail the new ships home ourselves?"
Harrold inclined his head. "Partially. We'll still recruit sailors from Braavos, but I don't want to rely on unknown and unskilled sailors for newly built vessels. Each ship must have at least two clones aboard, anchoring our interests. That means sending ten of you to Braavos, two per ship."
Several clones exchanged satisfied glances; the plan was clear. One clone, broad-shouldered and sporting sandy-blond hair, asked, "What about resources for the journey? Gold, supplies, runic tools?"
Harrold nodded. "You'll carry sufficient gold to close the deals. My other clones here on Orsus will have begun gathering the needed runic carvings and wards so each ship can be readied for service immediately. My instructions for you are simple: be discreet, be swift. We can't afford delays, and we can't risk broadcasting our presence."
A hush settled as each clone absorbed the details. Finally, the tall clone with the cropped dark hair exhaled. "Very well. Ten of us will go. We'll split into pairs before we reach Braavos, take on separate identities, and converge once the ships are built. We'll stay hidden in plain sight until the moment we're needed."
Harrold placed his hands on the table, gaze steady. "Precisely. Do it right, and within a few months we'll have five additional new Hedwig-class ships at anchor in our harbor—and a far stronger position for Orsus's future."
With the plans in place the meeting was adjourned and everyone left to their own things.
The meeting of Harrold's clones continued into the evening, the torchlight in the council hall casting long shadows upon the walls. Only the clones were present, each an extension of Harrold's mind, each with a specific purpose. Conversation turned to the ever-pressing subject of gold—how much remained in Orsus's coffers and how they planned to replenish what had been spent.
Harrold stood at the head of the table, arms folded. "We've taken on significant expenses: the new dormitories, the supply runs, bribing slavers—if only temporarily—and of course purchasing more Hedwig-class ships. I want an honest account of our treasury. Where do we stand?"
A clone with neatly trimmed hair and a meticulous air—Clone Mortimer, who managed the island's finances—stepped forward. "My lord, we've used about twenty-five percent of the gold we initially gathered from our raids, Valyrian expeditions, and early trade. It's enough for the current plans—barely—but we'll need more if we keep expanding at this pace."
A quiet murmur passed through the assembly. Harrold nodded, expression grave. "Then we must find ways to increase our gold reserves beyond mere theft. Stealing is quick but risky and unsustainable. We need legitimate avenues—trade, for instance. We have ships, we have cunning, and we can move faster than most vessels."
The mention of sea trade stirred interest around the table. Several clones exchanged knowing looks. Clone Edric, a clone who specialized in naval logistics, cleared his throat. "We've heard stories from the sailors about the Nine Voyages of the Sea Snake—how Lord Corlys Velaryon amassed a fortune by venturing far east. With the Hedwig class ships, we could replicate that success, or at least approach it."
Harrold's gaze grew sharper. "Precisely. I plan to take three ships on my trip to the East. We'll buy exotic goods, establish trade connections, and bring back resources no other merchants can match. That should stabilize our finances, and perhaps even grow the treasury."
A clone wearing a faint grin—Clone Alden, usually tasked with scouting and resource gathering—stepped in. "Speaking of resources, there's something we discovered while surveying Orsus. We found deposits of silver and gold in the island's northern hills." The atmosphere in the hall brightened momentarily. "But we believe they're saturated with the island's magic—exceedingly potent. It might be unwise to extract them for common currency."
A ripple of surprise spread among the clones. Harrold raised an eyebrow. "Explain."
Alden set a small chunk of metallic ore on the table. "We tested a sample. It resonates with Orsus's wild magic. If we were to mine it carelessly or melt it into regular coin, the enchanted properties could lead to strange side effects—maybe even curses or dangerous instability." He hesitated. "However, for enchanting, forging into runic items, or building wards, it's invaluable."
Harrold rested a hand on his chin, considering the ore's dull sheen in the flickering torchlight. "Then we'll save it for that purpose. We won't risk destabilizing the island's magic for mere currency. Keep the site under guard, and we'll harvest only what we need for high-level enchantments."
The clones nodded, with Edric adding softly, "It's a pity we can't tap it to fill our coffers."
Harrold gave a faint smile. "A pity indeed, but Orsus is more important than gold we can find elsewhere. We can't afford to ruin the delicate equilibrium here."
Finally, Clone Ronin—the one assigned to revisit the North—spoke up. "I'll be leaving for Winterfell soon, with the gold you set aside for Lord Rickard. I thought I might survey the lands around Moat Cailin while I'm there. Perhaps there's something of value we can mine. Iron, tin, precious metals… any such resource could bolster our finances without publicly relying on your mind magics or questionable raids."
Harrold considered this, a measured satisfaction in his gaze. "Smart. We promised the North we'd invest in Moat Cailin. If we find a profitable resource, it'll prove our commitment without depleting Orsus's unique gifts. See what you can learn while keeping our intentions discreet."
With that, the clones exchanged final thoughts, and a somber but determined note settled over the meeting hall. They had a plan: expand through honest trade, safeguard Orsus's arcane mineral veins for enchantments, and keep an eye on the North for any dormant wealth. Though their gold might be dwindling, their ambition was not—each step they took now would secure the future of their hidden sanctuary and the grand destiny Harrold had in mind.
Ronin stood on the deck of the Hedwig, the sea air tugging at his cloak. Though he shared Harrold's essence, he wore a different face—short, sandy hair and a sharp jawline. He'd taken the surname Peverell, an homage to Harrold's mysterious lineage. This disguise would help maintain the illusion that he was merely Harrold's cousin rather than a clone. Even the crew on board the Hedwig treated him with polite curiosity, accepting him as one more distant relative of their enigmatic lord.
The voyage from Orsus to White Harbor was uneventful, the Hedwig-class ship easily outpacing other vessels on the Narrow Sea. Ronin passed the days ensuring his letters and gifts for the North were well packed. The largest chest contained a full hundred thousand gold dragons, the coin that Harrold insisted on sending to Lord Rickard Stark as a sign of good faith. Another held intricate trinkets and rare goods from across the Free Cities.
When the Hedwig finally docked at White Harbor, Ronin stepped onto the bustling quay. The scent of fish, salt, and trade wagons filled the air. He was met by a pair of Manderly guards who escorted him up to the towering walls of the city's castle. There, in a modest receiving chamber, Lord Wyman Manderly greeted him with a curious smile.
Ronin inclined his head respectfully. "My lord, I am Ronin Peverell, cousin to Harrold Gryffindor. I bear a letter of introduction and a small token of respect from my family to yours." He handed over a sealed parchment, its wax stamped with the golden griffin of House Gryffindor.
Lord Manderly broke the seal and read, his brow arching slightly as he scanned Harrold's neat script. "You are most welcome, Master Peverell. It seems your cousin speaks highly of our house. Pray, stay as our guest while you arrange your journey north."
True to his word, Manderly provided Ronin with an escort bound for Winterfell—a handful of mounted men clad in the Merman sigil. Ronin departed White Harbor the next morning, riding with measured pace through the winding roads of the North. The weight of coin and gifts pressed against him like the significance of his mission. Yet, he felt prepared. He was Harrold's envoy, after all—an extension of the one who had great plans for Moat Cailin and beyond. And with each step northward, Ronin understood that his role here was more than merely delivering gold; it was about solidifying trust between Harrold's burgeoning empire on Orsus and the lords of the North.
Ronin rode into the courtyard of Winterfell on a crisp morning, the gray sky overhead hinting at the North's looming winter. The clatter of hooves echoed against the ancient walls, and he couldn't help feeling a touch of awe at the size and history of the castle. His small escort—courtesy of House Manderly—halted as stablehands rushed forward to tend to the horses. The stark wolf banner flapped in the breeze, and servants moved quickly to see to the new arrivals.
A tall steward awaited him by the keep's doors, dipping his head in greeting. "Master Ronin Peverell," he said politely, "Lord Rickard Stark and his family welcome you. They have already received word of your coming."
Ronin offered a grateful nod and followed him inside, the chill of the courtyard replaced by the warmth of the Great Hall's hearth. Waiting at the far end was Lord Rickard Stark, flanked by his children—Brandon, Benjen, and Lyanna. The presence of the children underscored both their curiosity and the informality of this welcome.
"Welcome to Winterfell, Master Peverell," Lord Rickard said, extending a firm hand. "I trust White Harbor and Lord Manderly treated you well?"
Ronin bowed respectfully. "They did indeed, my lord. Lord Manderly was most gracious, and he wished me to pass on his respects to you. I bring gifts and letters from my cousin, Harrold Gryffindor."
At the mention of Harrold, Brandon and Benjen exchanged excited looks. The Starks had not forgotten the eccentric wanderer who had saved Brandon's life and spoken grandly of rebuilding Moat Cailin.
That evening, Ronin found himself seated at the high table in the Great Hall of Winterfell. Rough-hewn beams soared overhead, and the air hummed with the lively chatter of lords, knights, and courtiers. Platters piled with roasted meats, bread, and root vegetables surrounded them, and spiced wine flowed freely. Candles and torchlight sent flickers dancing against the stone walls, lending an intimate glow to the hearty feast.
Rickard Stark raised a cup in Ronin's direction. "To your cousin Harrold and his safe travels," he proclaimed. The hall lifted their cups in a spirited toast.
Once the meal had settled into a comfortable rhythm, Lord Rickard turned to Ronin, curiosity evident in his gray eyes. "We have had only raven reports of Harrold's dealings. Please, share with us how he fares. We know he made a deal with the Iron Bank, but little else."
Clearing his throat, Ronin glanced around the table, acutely aware that every ear was turned his way. "My lord," he began, "Harrold is well. He asked me to convey his respect and gratitude for your patience. He's been finalizing certain agreements he made with the Iron Bank regarding ships—five more, in fact. With these, he hopes to secure the sea routes and eventually move his family and close associates north."
A subdued murmur spread among the Starks and their guests. Brandon leaned in. "He must be gathering quite a following. Is the North truly enough for him?"
Ronin smiled, choosing his words carefully. "He's a man of broad vision, my lord. He's been encouraging those loyal to him—family, friends, employees—to see the potential of the North. He believes Moat Cailin could once again be a keystone for trade and defense. It only makes sense to gather resources, ships, and people before making the final move."
"Does that mean he's still coming?" Brandon asked quietly, a note of earnestness in his voice.
Ronin inclined his head. "Oh, absolutely. He has not forgotten his promise to restore Moat Cailin. In truth, he's traveling to finalize the last of his business ventures, so he can focus wholly on the North. He intends to keep every word he's given. This is only the beginning, if I may say so."
Of course, Ronin's account was carefully curated—shorn of any mention of Orsus, the clones, or the more dangerous exploits Harrold had engaged in. He spoke only of merchant ventures, the need to close out old contracts, and the promise of new fortunes in the North. The Starks listened intently, their curiosity piqued.
Ronin could see Lord Rickard's mind already turning over the implications of several new ships plying northern waters and the added prosperity that might bring. Brandon, for his part, wore a look that said he was eager to see results—Moat Cailin restored to its former glory. Brandon and Benjen seemed more measured, nodding but withholding judgment. Little Lyanna observed quietly, her bright eyes darting back and forth.
By night's end, Ronin felt he had done his part. He had quelled any fears that Harrold had abandoned his Northern ambitions and had promised real evidence of progress.
When the dinner drew to a close and the Great Hall cleared of its many guests, Rickard Stark approached Ronin by the warmth of the hearth. "You've put my mind at ease," the Lord of Winterfell said quietly. "Harrold is an unusual man, but I've never doubted his sincerity. Your presence here with these gifts and news confirms it."
Ronin offered a respectful bow. "I'm glad I could reassure you, my lord. In time, you will see even more evidence of Harrold's devotion to the North."
They parted on amicable terms, Ronin's job largely done for the moment. He would spend the next few days observing, perhaps making quiet inquiries about the lands around Moat Cailin—both as part of his cover story and to fulfill Harrold's directive. In the meantime, he left the Stark family with renewed hope for Harrold's grand design, knowing the truth of Orsus and Harrold's far-reaching plans remained safely veiled.
The ride south from Winterfell toward White Harbor was brisk, the chill wind off the moors cutting through Ronin's cloak. As he followed the well-worn road, his mind kept drifting back to Moat Cailin and the possibility of gleaning something useful for Harrold. A detour wouldn't hurt, he decided—after all, Harrold did want him to survey the lands around Moat Cailin.
So, rather than continuing straight to White Harbor, Ronin veered west, letting the terrain become marshier and the air more humid. The Neck was a far cry from the stony heights of the North he'd just left, its landscape dotted with bogs, and low-lying stretches of mossy ground.
As Ronin approached Moat Cailin, its ruined towers jutted from the swamplands like broken teeth. He reined in his horse at a distance and took a moment to absorb the sight.
Moat Cailin, he mused inwardly, once the mighty fortress that guarded the entrance to the North. Now only a few towers remain standing—barely.
Weeds climbed over fallen stones, and stagnant water pooled in half-collapsed courtyards. Two of the towers looked salvageable, but the rest were little more than rubble. Wooden walkways made from rotting planks spanned some of the swampier stretches, and a few fires burned in crude camps along the walls.
He nudged his horse forward, wary of hidden pitfalls. A group of crannogmen emerged from the shadows of the wreckage, each armed with spears and carrying net-bags of caught fish or small game. Their attire was a mix of leather and woven reeds, perfect for blending into the bogs.
The leading crannogman, a slim figure with mud-streaked cheeks and dark, cunning eyes, hailed Ronin with cautious curiosity. "Not often we see a stranger here," he said, voice low.
Ronin offered a friendly smile, raising his hands slightly to show no threat. "Name's Ronin Peverell. I'm doing a survey on behalf of lord Gryffindor. The future lord of this castle."
A murmur swept through the small band. They of course knew about lord Gryffindor as the Lord Stark made sure to inform house Reed about the new lord. The crannogman stepped closer, tapping the butt of his spear against a mossy stone. "We stand guard here on behalf of House Reed, bannermen to Lord Rickard Stark. We're the watchers of the Neck."
Ronin nodded, recalling what he knew of House Reed—the lords of Greywater Watch, famed for their stealth and loyalty to the Starks. The Reeds led other small marsh houses like Blackmyre, Boggs, Cray, Fenn, Greengood, Peat, and Quagg—all fiercely independent, all deeply tied to the bogs and their secrets.
Crannogmen are known for cunning and surviving where others can't, he thought. They're rumored to have hidden magic, too, though Harrold's guess is that their magic is more about the land and illusions.
The crannogmen allowed him to pass, though they trailed at a distance. Ronin spent the better part of two days exploring the outskirts of Moat Cailin and the surrounding swampy terrain. His keen eyes caught glints of ore in exposed rock—silver deposits, by the look of it. He knelt and ran a hand over a seam of shiny metal.
"Silver, all right," he muttered. "Could be worth something."
Deeper in one of the partially collapsed towers, he stumbled upon small clusters of magical crystals sprouting from cracks in the stone—a strange, faint glow illuminating their edges. Each crystal looked like a shard of captured moonlight.
Curiouser and curiouser, Ronin mused, thinking of Harrold's theories. The story went that the Children of the Forest had used potent magic to shape the Neck, flooding the land and creating these bogs to keep invaders out. Perhaps these crystals were remnants of that old magic, now fused with the earth and stone of Moat Cailin.
He carefully chipped off a small sample from one crystal cluster, tucking it into a pouch. "I'll show this to Harrold," he whispered to himself. "Might be the same type of residue we found on Orsus—magic-infused minerals. But no sense trying to mine it all right now… we're not ready to handle it properly."
By the end of his survey, Ronin had confirmed the presence of silver and discovered these mysterious crystals. His thoughts churned with possibilities: mining rights, trade deals, or even forging alliances with the crannogmen to protect any future operations.
With his mission in Moat Cailin complete, Ronin headed south again, retracing his steps to drier roads. Within days, he arrived at White Harbor, the city's walls and bustling port greeting him with the familiar clamor of trade.
He took a room in a modest inn near the docks, not wanting to draw attention by staying in a lavish manor. White Harbor was in a near-constant state of activity—ships unloading cargo from the south, fishermen hawking their latest catch, and merchants bargaining loudly in the streets.
After settling in, Ronin set out to find sailors—particularly those with a spark of magic.
He spent a few evenings in dockside taverns—low-lit, smoky rooms filled with worn tables and the smell of ale. It was here he listened for whispers: odd happenings on ships, rumors of freakish luck, or uncanny weather predictions. When he found the leads he needed, he introduced himself discreetly, gauging their responses, and eventually offered a place among Harrold's ever-growing circle.
"Join me," he told a lanky young deckhand one night, the tavern's din muffling their conversation. "We sail faster, we pay better, and we appreciate… unusual talents."
The deckhand hesitated. "What kind of talents?"
Ronin's lips curved in a faint smile. "The kind where you can always tell a storm's brewing, even on a clear day. Or sense the currents in your bones."
The deckhand blinked, clearly startled. "How'd you know about that?"
"Doesn't matter." Ronin slid a folded parchment contract across the rough table. Charmed runes shimmered faintly on the edges. "Sign here, and I'll give you a new life—one where no one calls you cursed."
Once the young man signed, Ronin felt the subtle magical lock click into place, binding them by contract. "Welcome to the family," he said quietly. "You'll find we value your abilities far more than these merchants ever did."
He repeated the process with a handful of others—men and women, some older, some barely out of childhood. Each time, the contract gently glowed, securing their loyalty without controlling their minds. By the end of the week, Ronin had gathered a modest but promising crew of new magical sailors.
Ronin woke early one morning to see a Hedwig-class ships gliding toward White Harbor's docks. He recognized the silhouette of the Hedwig and let relief wash over him. Soon, he'd be back on deck, ferrying his findings—and these new recruits—down south or wherever Harrold needed them next.
As he packed his samples of silver ore and that luminous crystal, he allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. This trip north had been productive: the Starks were reassured, Moat Cailin had promise of resources, and Harrold would have more magical sailors to strengthen his navy.
Heading down the inn's stairs to settle his tab and gather his new recruits, Ronin glanced out a window at the bustling port. The tide was in, the seagulls cawed overhead, and the promise of new horizons felt closer than ever. In the back of his mind, he pictured Harrold, waiting on Orsus, weaving grand plans, and orchestrating the next steps in a dance only they knew.
"Better head out," he murmured to himself. "Plenty of work still to do."
And with that, Ronin ventured into the busy streets, determined to see Harrold's ambitions one step closer to fruition—bound by magic, loyalty, and the endless drive for something greater than any one man could achieve alone.
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.