Seven ships—the original Hedwig and Helena plus the five newly acquired Hedwig-class vessels—glided into Orsus's hidden harbor. Harrold stood at the shoreline, robes rustling in the ocean breeze, a proud flicker lighting his gaze. From where he stood, the harbor bustled with activity: hurried to tie off lines, unload goods, and greet the returning crews.
Despite the flurry of excitement, Harrold's mind was already elsewhere. The moment the new ships arrived, he had chosen two of the fleet—*Hedwig* and *Helena, naturally—to lead the expedition to Astapor. His goal: secure the purchase of Unsullied soldiers, men famed for their discipline and training, and known to Harrold for the latent magical spark he had seen in them.
Within days, the two ships set sail once more. The waters near Orsus, hidden by wards, gave way to open ocean. Harrold stood at the Hedwig's prow, arms folded, eyes distant. This was his first journey to Slaver's Bay. Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen—cities built on the backs of slaves, each with its own brand of cruelty. Astapor especially was known for crafting the Unsullied, forging eunuch soldiers through barbaric means.
I hate these slavers, Harrold reflected privately, but I need their merchandise, for now. Once they're in my hands, they'll be freed.
His plan was simple yet daring: buy the Unsullied at a steep price—enough to ensure cooperation—and then steal back what he had paid, leaving the slavers none the wiser until it was too late.
When the two ships entered the waters of Slaver's Bay, the sky was hazy, tinted red by the blazing sun. Astapor's skyline soon emerged: squat, sun-baked buildings of red brick, crenelated walls, and columns of black smoke rising from the forges and kitchens.
Harrold surveyed the harbor from the deck. Heat, cruelty, and coin, he thought grimly. That's all these men understand.
The Hedwig and Helena moored at the bustling docks, where chained slaves hauled crates and sweating overseers barked orders. Harrold's clones aboard each ship discreetly spread out, ready to manage logistics or watch for trouble. Nearby, Harry—Harrold's primary clone—stood on the Helena's deck, exchanging a subtle nod with Harrold across the gap of water.
Clad in unassuming yet dignified attire, Harrold made his way to a marbled hall where his contact awaited—an Astapori slave master named Moghaz. The hall reeked of perfumed incense, designed to mask the stench of fear and desperation that clung to the city.
Moghaz rose from a cushioned bench, wiping sweat from his brow. "Ah, you must be Lord Malfoy," he said in a wheedling voice. "Word reached me of your interest in acquiring Unsullied."
Harrold offered a polite bow internally snickering of his selected name. "That's correct. I want 250 trained Unsullied—no novices. They must be disciplined and prepared for immediate deployment."
Moghaz's face lit up with calculating glee. "That is quite the order. One that commands a… generous price."
Harrold inclined his head as if conceding. "I'm prepared to pay. Show me they're truly up to the Unsullied standard, and you'll have your gold by sundown."
Meanwhile, Harry was across the city, negotiating with a second slave master named Dakkan under nearly identical terms. They'd planned it so each master believed they alone were securing a valuable deal.
Late that afternoon, Moghaz escorted Harrold through the training yards. Rows of Unsullied stood at attention, sweat gleaming on their shaved heads. Each soldier wore the signature spiked helm and carried a short spear. Their eyes betrayed no emotion.
"Behold," Moghaz declared, "the finest warriors in all the world."
Harrold examined them carefully, sensing faint magical potential in each—just as he had hoped. By all outward appearance, he merely nodded impassively. "They'll suffice," he said. "Let's finalize the payment."
Back at the marbled hall, Harrold produced large chests of gold. Moghaz's eyes widened with delight. "You are wise indeed, Lord Malfoyr. Astapor thanks you for your patronage."
In a separate corner of Astapor, Harry closed a similar deal with Dakkan, purchasing another batch of Unsullied for the same price. By nightfall, both slave masters had parted with their prized soldiers, faces gleaming with avarice.
Under the cover of darkness, Harrold and Harry gathered their new troops at the docks. The Unsullied filed aboard the Hedwig and Helena with mechanical precision. Over five hundred men across the two ships, each silent and obedient, unknowingly on the brink of freedom.
Harrold had no intention of letting that gold truly line the masters' pockets., a small contingent of clones slipped through the slave markets, using illusions and silent spells to break into Moghaz's lavish estate. In a matter of minutes, they retrieved every coin paid. They repeated the trick at Dakkan's compound, ensuring the second slaver's fortune vanished as well.
Some illusions here, a few quiet misdirections there, and the clones vanished into the night. By the time Moghaz or Dakkan discovered the theft, the Hedwig and Helena were safely sailing from Slaver's Bay, the stolen coin stashed in hidden compartments.
On deck, Harrold stared at the receding Astapor skyline, the red brick walls fading into the starlit horizon. Anger still simmered within him at the horrors these men inflicted, but he felt a quiet triumph. At least these 5000 Unsullied are no longer their pawns.
When dawn broke, both ships were well away from Slaver's Bay, heading south-east before they'd circle back to Orsus under the cover of the wards. Harry stepped to Harrold's side, gaze drifting over the grim-faced Unsullied assembled on the deck.
"So that's that," Harry said, voice low. "They're ours now—though they don't yet realize they're free."
Harrold exhaled slowly. "No longer slaves. Once we land on Orsus, they'll understand. We'll have to build their trust, though. They've known only chains and cruelty."
Harry nodded. "Better in our hands than left to the slavers."
A rare, genuine smile curved Harrold's lips. "Yes. A hundred times yes."
The two ships pressed on through calm seas, carrying the newly acquired Unsullied back to the hidden island fortress. Harrold knew that, with these formidable soldiers, Orsus was one step closer to becoming a secure haven for magicals. And best of all, he had reclaimed every coin spent—leaving the slavers none the wiser until it was far too late.
When the Hedwig and Helena returned to Orsus with two hundred and fifty new Unsullied each, the hidden island came alive with both curiosity and apprehension. The unsullied, stripped of their old shackles, marched off the ships in rigid formation, their eyes darting at the lush greenery and humming wards. They had expected another slavemaster's domain, yet what they found was drastically different.
Harrold stood at the dock, flanked by clones and a few of his more trusted lieutenants, waiting to greet them. He offered neither orders to break them further nor immediate commands to fight—only an invitation.
"You are free," he told them simply, his voice resonating across the wooden pier. "The gold I paid was to purchase your freedom, not your servitude. You owe me nothing. Yet, I hope you'll join me in building something new."
The Unsullied exchanged uncertain glances. Freedom was an alien concept to men who had been trained to kill on command and believe in nothing else. Many of them stood poised, as if waiting for a hidden blow. Others simply stared, hollow-eyed, at the foreign landscape.
Harrold could see the doubt etched into their faces. They don't believe it yet, he thought. It'll take time.
Indeed, the next few weeks proved more challenging than any battle. A few Unsullied walked the island in confused silence, trying to comprehend the absence of whips and dogmatic punishments. Some waited, morning after morning, for someone to bark an order. Others simply followed routine—eating, standing guard, training—because it was all they knew.
Anya, the chief healer, offered them medical care and gentle conversation, while various clones attempted to teach them a smattering of the Common Tongue if they were lacking. Harrold made a point of inviting them to Orsus's communal hall, ensuring they received the same meals as everyone else.
Slowly, a change settled over the group. A few began to venture beyond the training fields, curiosity piquing at Orsus's strange beauty. More and more of them, at least in private, expressed gratitude and a tentative willingness to be part of whatever "future" Harrold was planning.
"This is… different," one Unsullied murmured in heavily accented speech, after watching clones demonstrate runic wards. "No punishment. No commands for cruelty."
A nod of agreement from another. "If you say we are free, we choose to stay."
Harrold let himself feel a rare warmth of pride, though he maintained a calm exterior. They're starting to believe.
With the Unsullied gradually accepting their freedom—and deciding to remain—Harrold turned his attention to organizing them. His vision for Orsus required a disciplined defense force. In his old world, he had studied countless military formations; one of the most efficient was the Roman army structure.
He gathered the Unsullied in one of the makeshift fields, where he outlined his plan:
The smallest unit would be a squad of ten soldiers, led by a Lieutenant.
Ten squads would form a Century, led by a Captain (effectively one hundred men).
Six Centuries would form a Cohort, commanded by a Major.
Seven Cohorts would make up a Legion, overseen by a Colonel—the highest field rank in this budding army.
He stood before them, explaining each rank's responsibilities with help from clones who acted as translators where needed. The Unsullied listened quietly, some exchanging glances. Harrold sensed their relief at being given clear, purposeful structure—one that acknowledged their strengths rather than reducing them to mere tools.
"I will not be the one giving every order," Harrold told them. "You will choose your officers based on merit and loyalty to our cause. Your discipline remains valuable, but you are no longer forced to fight without reason."
The unsullied nodded, and though no one openly cheered—years of stoicism refused to vanish in an instant—an undercurrent of cautious optimism ran through the group.
As the Unsullied began training under their new ranks, Harrold and his clones introduced them to Orsus's daily life—farming, fishing, ward-building, and communal meals. Little by little, the rigid lines of their old existence softened. Many remained stoic, but some discovered they had skills outside of war: a knack for carpentry, a steady hand for herbal salves, or a keen eye for scouting. Harrold encouraged these diversions, recognizing that a well-rounded force was more valuable than a single-minded one.
Within a month, the once-skeptical Unsullied began to settle into the island's rhythms. Harrold observed them from a distance, letting them find their own place. He noted how squads turned into squads-of-friends, how newly minted Lieutenants guided their men without fear of lash or punishment, and how the partial century awaited reinforcements to fill its ranks.
"We've got a real army forming," Harrold confided to Harry, his primary clone, during one evening stroll along the docks.
"They're not just an army," Harry replied, eyes flicking toward a group of Unsullied laughing—quietly but genuinely—over a shared meal. "They're part of this community."
Harrold nodded, contentment flickering in his eyes. "Exactly what I wanted."
In the weeks following their arrival and integration, the Unsullied began adjusting to freedom—and the new military structure Harrold had designed. Yet the transition was not without challenges. Discarding the name "Unsullied" entirely would come in time, but for now, they were at least beginning to adopt new ranks, learning that their future extended beyond rigid, mindless obedience.
Harrold stood before a gathering of the soldiers, flanked by five of his clones—Majors, each responsible for leading one century of men. He spoke in a calm, clear voice, with a pair of clones translating where necessary:
"I know you're used to following your own officers—or none at all. But as we build this army, you'll see it's not about blind orders. It's about teamwork, trust, and learning how to be part of something bigger."
The five clones stepped forward—each one a different face, courtesy of their Metamorphmagus talents, but all radiating an air of confidence. Harrold introduced them as Majors, temporarily in charge of each century until the former Unsullied learned enough leadership skills to command themselves.
"We're not here to replace you," one Major clone told the soldiers. "We're just here to guide you until you're ready to lead yourselves."
A hush of acknowledgment spread among the ranks. These men, who once had no autonomy, could sense that change was in the air, even if they were unsure of how to embrace it.
Behind the scenes, a few other clones worked closely with the newly formed "officers" among the ex-Unsullied, helping them craft a new appearance. They needed armor that could blend into Westeros while still giving the men a unified identity.
Under a tent near the forging area, a group studied sketches of helmets, breastplates, and layered leather pauldrons. Gone were the short spears and spiked helms; in their place, clones introduced a legionnaire-styled short sword and tower shield, with a standard-issue breastplate shaped to evoke a more Westerosi feel.
"We want you to look like you belong in the North," explained Clone Lorcan, who headed the design effort. "Metal should be tempered for colder climates, and we'll have some fur at the collar—not too much, just enough to pass a casual glance."
Several ex-Unsullied nodded, examining the prototype. It was a subtle change, but to them, it felt monumental. No more faceless spikes or identical drab cloth. Each soldier would have a uniform that both unified them and allowed for a personal crest or minor adornment if they so wished. That, in itself, was freedom.
Meanwhile, the issue of language loomed large. Many of the Unsullied spoke only rudimentary Valyrian, and a fraction spoke no common tongue at all. Moreover, Orsus had newcomers from various Free Cities, each with their own dialect. Communication was essential.
Clone Irene, a researcher skilled in runes and mind arts, presented the council with a novel solution: a "download" process of language acquisition.
"We've developed a method," Irene explained, "using the magical crystals found here and some runic constructs. Think of it like creating a central 'brain' that holds the knowledge of the Common Tongue. While our people sleep, subtle mind-arts enchantments will transfer the basics of the language into their subconscious."
The clones and ex-Unsullied alike reacted with cautious curiosity—and hope. This process wouldn't be instantaneous, Irene stressed. It'd take about three months of nightly exposure, after which everyone would still need practice to become fluent.
Harrold found the idea thrilling, though he cautioned them about potential side effects. "We'll do this carefully," he told Irene, "and ensure no one feels their mind invaded. Gaining language skills is one thing, traumatizing them is another."
Irene nodded eagerly. "We'll keep the illusions subtle. They'll just have extra vocabulary and grammar in their heads each morning. It'll feel… natural enough."
As the training ramped up, Harrold turned his attention to security across his fleet and within Orsus itself. He decided to station two squads—twenty men total—per ship, a measure to protect against pirates and prying eyes that might stumble on the island's secrets.
Gathered along the pier, he addressed the assembled century officers and the Majors.
"We'll rotate your squads so that everyone has the chance to serve and see how the ships operate. Two squads per vessel. You'll learn seafaring skills and be ready to defend against any threat."
One Unsullied officer, recently promoted to Lieutenant, nodded. "Yes, my lord. We will follow this rotation schedule?"
Harrold handed the man a rough chart. "Yes. Every two months, we'll swap squads so that everyone cycles through. Over time, each of you will gain some knowledge of the sea, which will help us if we ever need to move quickly. We're building more than just an army—we're building a community that can adapt to anything."
Day by day, the transformation continued. The Unsullied no longer marched in lockstep under the shadow of cruelty but took strides under a new banner, forging bonds with the clones who led them. Their new legionnaire-style armor symbolized a turning point: they weren't just Harrold's acquisitions—they were forging an identity of their own.
At night, many of them drifted into uneasy dreams, only to wake feeling a faint new understanding of Common Tongue—enough to form basic sentences. Curious, some tested their new vocabulary with each other. By dawn, the training fields echoed with halting but earnest conversation.
Harrold, observing from a nearby hill, allowed himself a rare moment of pride. He saw men who had once known nothing but pain, who now slowly grasped hope and agency. If the Orsus project was to flourish—if the North was to be truly secured—these legionnaires would stand at the heart of it, a testament to the idea that one's past need not dictate one's future.
All in all, Harrold mused as he watched the squads rotate onto the ships, we're forging something extraordinary. And with that, he turned to his clones, each wearing a different face but sharing his determination. The next steps would be even more challenging, but he was certain they could handle whatever came next—together.
Harrold stood at the edge of Orsus's bustling pier, gazing at the line of ships that bobbed gently under the bright morning sun. The island's harbor teemed with activity—workers loading crates of exotic goods, sailors preparing sails and rigging, and a handful of Unsullied squads stationed along the docks for security. This time, however, the focus wasn't on military might but on forging a new era of commerce and alliances.
He had selected three of the Hedwig-class ships to spearhead trade missions—each bound for different routes:
First ship: The eastern ports of Westeros, from White Harbor, Gulltown to Duskendale, Kings Landing and Planky town.
Second ship: The western ports of Westeros, from Bear Island Lannisport to Oldtown, skirting the southern coastline.
Third ship: The Free Cities of Essos—Bravos, PentosMyr, Lys, Tyrosh, Volantis and perhaps Lorath if needed.
Standing beside Harrold were three clones—each wearing a different face to conceal their resemblance to him. Their expressions combined anticipation and gravitas; they were about to embark on missions that could reshape Orsus's economic foundation.
Clone Sorin would command the ship heading to eastern Westeros.
Clone Marisol would command the ship bound for western Westeros.
Clone Alaric would oversee the Free Cities route.
Harrold spoke with quiet resolve. "We need to establish regular trade routes and secure steady income. Each of you will manage commerce, from mundane staples to specialty goods we can source from Orsus."
Sorin, a tall, lithe figure, nodded. "We'll need port agents to facilitate docking rights and handle local taxes."
Marisol, in braided hair and wearing a practical seafaring coat, added, "And to gather information—letters, rumors, political shifts that might affect us."
For Sorin and Marisol—the ships bound for Westeros—Harrold had an additional directive:
"In each city, appoint agents—contacts we can trust. They'll handle your goods, relay local news, and discreetly forward intelligence back to Orsus. Look for reliable factors, merchants in need of a fresh start, or even magicals who might be sympathetic to our cause. Focus on anyone with a magical gift but if they are skilled enough recruit them even without magical gift as long as they have enough magic in them to trigger the contract."
Sorin rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Gulltown first, then up the coast to the Vale's smaller harbors. I'll check with local guilds, see who's fed up with the big houses pushing them around."
Marisol's eyes gleamed. "I'll do the same in the west. Lannisport and Oldtown have large merchant classes. Plenty of folks might be open to new opportunities—especially if we pay well and keep them in Harrold's good graces."
Harrold smiled faintly, hands clasped behind his back. "Yes, exactly. We must plant seeds of loyalty. Don't flaunt our resources, but don't seem stingy either. Provide them a taste of Orsus's high-quality trade, and they'll come to us willingly."
Workers bustled around the three vessels, loading crates of Orsus's exotic goods: fresh fruits, medicinal herbs grown under runic wards, a few potions the clones had refined, and samples of the island's crafts. Some Unsullied squads stood by, overseeing the process. Others manned the piers, giving the new "legionnaires" a chance to practice their rotational guard duty.
Sorin inspected barrels of salted fish and jars of fruit preserves. "These will fetch a good price," he commented to one of the quartermasters. "We can store them in the new stasis boxes if the journey extends."
Alaric, destined for the Free Cities, studied a small chest of precious crystals found on Orsus, though not the deeply magic-saturated ones—those were reserved for enchantments. "The Lyseni and Tyroshi love rare stones. We'll hook them with these, then introduce them to bigger trades."
When the ships were nearly ready to cast off, Harrold gathered Sorin, Marisol, and Alaric on the dock. The briny air carried faint echoes of seagulls.
"Your voyages won't just line our coffers—they'll spread our influence. In each port, find at least one agent who'll serve as our eyes and ears. Pay them well, treat them fairly. We want their genuine loyalty, not grudging service."
The clones inclined their heads in unison.
Sorin was first to speak. "I'll keep an eye on the eastern lords. They might be more open to trade but watchful of outsiders."
Marisol tightened her gloves. "I'll do the same in the west. Oldtown is a nexus of scholars and merchants—if we're discreet, we can secure valuable knowledge."
Alaric's tone was lighter. "And I'll sample Essos's wares. The Free Cities can be chaotic, but there's profit for those who navigate them well."
Harrold clasped each clone's shoulder in turn. "Safe journeys, all of you. Return with gold, goods, and information. We're building more than an island—we're building an empire of knowledge and trade."
With that, the three ships weighed anchor. The Hedwig-class vessels, their sails dyed a rich midnight blue emblazoned with Harrold's silver griffin, cut through the waters. Two squads of legionnaire Unsullied—still adjusting to their new ranks and uniforms—manned each deck, ensuring security.
As Harrold watched the ships sail beyond the protective wards, he felt a swell of pride. We have an army. We have a hidden sanctuary. And now, we're forging trade routes with every corner of Westeros and Essos.
He turned from the shoreline, the wind teasing his cloak, and headed back up the path to Orsus's central keep. There was still much to do on the island—magical wards, training, and diplomacy among his new arrivals. But each ship that left to ply the seas brought Orsus one step closer to becoming a true power in this wild world, anchored by cunning, magic, and ambition.
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.