Harrold stood at the prow of the ship, the wind snapping at his cloak as the vessel cut through the glittering expanse of sea. The sky above was a vibrant canvas of blues and golds, promising clear sailing ahead. Yet his thoughts drifted far from the immediate journey east—deeper, toward the peculiar magic that had shaped his existence here.
He couldn't help but recall how clones functioned in his old world. There, any temporary clone he created was physically able, sure, but their magical core remained painfully limited. Their strength directly tied to what he initially infused them with, and unless he continued feeding them magic, they would weaken over time. Worse, they displayed no Metamorphmagus abilities. For them, shapeshifting had been out of reach.
The permanent clone he once made, though, had been different—able to shapeshift with an average magical core, and with time, it grew independent, forming a distinct personality. Harrold had always admired that clone's ability to adapt, but he had found it risky. Independence could be dangerous if not carefully managed.
Now, in this new world, things were unexpectedly turned on their head. When he arrived on Orsus and replicated his old approach to creating clones, a remarkable change occurred. These so-called "temporary" copies emerged with gifts far surpassing what he once deemed possible. Gone was the need to constantly funnel magic into them—they had devised a rune-based solution that allowed them to tap into the wild ambient magic of Orsus, sustaining themselves without draining Harrold further.
And the shapeshifting—he couldn't quite fathom how it came so naturally. Perhaps this realm's magic favored that ability. He thought of the House of Black and White in Braavos, with their Faceless Men rumored to slip into different forms. Maybe that same undercurrent of shape-changing magic runs deeper here than anywhere else, he mused. Or maybe it's the island's wards tying everything together. Whatever the reason, his clones could assume new appearances at will, and each possessed a magical aptitude comparable to a fifth-year Hogwarts student—substantial compared to their feeble old-world counterparts.
The significance was enormous. Harrold had acquired a small legion of loyal, magically adept agents who needed no constant maintenance from him. They could journey wherever he sent them—Braavos, Pentos, Westeros, Slaver's Bay—and operate independently without crumbling into nonexistence or running out of magic. And he had zero doubt about their loyalty: they were extensions of his mind and magic. They literally could not go against his wishes.
Standing at the ship's rail, the salt breeze ruffling his hair, Harrold allowed himself a moment of gratitude—and anticipation. In his old world, creating more than a handful of clones at once was dangerously draining and often pointless if their magic was so limited. Here, it was a game-changer. The clones could hold positions of leadership, manage entire missions, and seamlessly alter their features to blend with any culture or city.
This opens a world of possibilities, he thought. We can trade, gather intelligence, infiltrate enemy ranks if needed, and I never have to fear betrayal or resource depletion.
He breathed in the ocean air, watching the sunlight sparkle across the waves. Ahead lay the Far East—Yi Ti, and beyond—where new wonders and challenges would inevitably await him. With these clones by his side (and scattered across the known world in other roles), he felt prepared for almost anything. Their existence in this new, wild-magic realm was a gift he intended to wield carefully but boldly.
And as the ship continued east, Harrold let his mind wander, imagining future missions the clones might undertake, the alliances they might forge, and the secrets they might uncover—secrets that would propel Orsus's grand destiny forward.
Days after leaving Slaver's Bay behind, Harrold's ship glided through the Gulf of Grief, with the deserts of New Ghis far to port and the lush jungles of Naath and the Basilisk Isles to starboard. The voyage east was long and often scorching, but the sight of exotic coasts, hidden coves, and passing merchant vessels kept the crew's spirits aloft. At last, the crow's nest spotted the outline of tall walls rising from a shimmering plain, heralding their arrival at Qarth—the so-called greatest city that ever was or will be.
Qarth sits between the vast Red Waste to the north and the Jade Sea to the southeast, occupying a strategic crossroads for caravans and sea routes alike. Visitors approach across a barren, sun-blasted landscape that gives way to the city's gleaming triple walls. These successive fortifications—each one taller and thicker than the last—encircle Qarth's opulent palaces, grand manses, and sprawling markets.
Outer Wall: A first line of defense, formidable yet still welcoming to caravans and merchant wagons.
Middle Wall: Thicker and loftier, designed to repel seasoned invaders who breach the outer gates.
Inner Wall: The ultimate stronghold, protecting Qarth's most elite districts—luxurious estates and the seat of its ruling bodies.
Rising above these barriers, slender towers and domed mansions punctuate the skyline. The city's architecture embraces grandeur: broad avenues lined with palm trees, mosaic-tiled courtyards, and verandas overlooking lush gardens fed by irrigation channels that defy the surrounding arid terrain.
Qarth is a cosmopolitan hub, home to a mix of peoples from across Essos and beyond. Proud Qartheen natives predominate—tall, copper-skinned men and women renowned for their elaborate clothing and flamboyant customs. Their attire often features airy robes or dresses of the finest silk, dyed in radiant colors and adorned with precious stones.
Socially, Qarth is famed for ostentatious display. Wealthy merchant-princes and nobles flaunt exotic pets, outlandish fashions, and extravagant feasts. Courtesans and performers line the grand avenues, vying for the attention of travelers and traders alike. Yet beneath the bright surface, political currents run deep. Power is split among influential groups such as the Pureborn (descendants of the city's ancient kings) and wealthy merchant councils. Intrigue and ambition shape daily life, making alliances fluid and betrayals not uncommon.
Positioned at a critical junction between the Jade Sea and the western lands, Qarth thrives on trade. Caravans laden with spices, gemstones, and silks roll in from far-off locales—Yi Ti, Asshai, even fabled realms beyond. From the sea, ships carry everything from precious metals to exotic beasts, funneling goods through Qarth's bustling harbors. In turn, Qarth exports its own luxuries: refined perfumes, intricate glasswork, top-grade silk, and other lavish items that fetch staggering prices in less prosperous markets.
The port on the Jade Gates bustles with vessels bearing cargo from the Summer Islands, the Free Cities, and as far as Westeros. Expansive markets sprawl near the docks, where hawkers call out, offering everything from sweet wines to enchanted trinkets (real or rumored). A class of wealthy traders wields enormous power, entertaining lavishly and negotiating complex deals. Competition among them can be fierce. The city's open gates and wide roads testify to the caravans that traverse the Red Waste or circle around it, bringing prized goods from the Far East and returning west with Qarth's lavish wares.
Standing on the ship's deck as it navigated the final approach, Harrold took in the sheer scale of Qarth with measured awe. Triple walls gleamed white in the sun, with slender towers and minarets rising behind them like an artist's fantasy. Approaching vessels were dwarfed by the city's grandeur, and just beyond the harbor lay a labyrinth of piers, crane houses, and warehouses stacked high with crates of incalculable value.
The din of labor and trade reached them before landfall—shouted commands in a dozen tongues, the clang of metal pulleys, and the melodic cries of street humid air carried a swirl of scents—fresh fish, spiced wine, exotic perfumes, and the faint tang of opulent decay. Qarth does not greet all visitors with the same warmth; wealth and novelty impress the Qartheen, but beggars and fools find themselves coldly turned away. Harrold's well-maintained Hedwig-class ships and exotic cargo promised a friendlier reception—or at least, an intrigued one.
Docked in the vibrant harbor of Qarth, Harrold called his clones and select crew members together on the quarterdeck of the Hedwig, the buzz of the bustling port only a soft din behind them. The Qartheen marketplace was already in full swing, with merchants hawking silks, spices, and stranger wares from all corners of Essos—but Harrold's tone was subdued and serious.
Standing at the ship's rail, he surveyed the faces gathered around him. Each wore the now-familiar enchanted bracelet on their wrist—a slim band of metal and runic carvings, ever-evolving in its magical capabilities. He cleared his throat to speak:
"Before anyone sets foot in Qarth's streets, there's one matter we need to address: the warlocks. This city is a haven for exotic and arcane traditions, but none more dangerous or unpredictable than the warlocks of Qarth. They dabble in illusions, mind tricks, and who knows what else."
A murmur of acknowledgment passed through the group. Some exchanged uneasy glances, recalling tales of Qartheen warlocks holed up in shadowy towers, rumored to crave power above all else.
Harry, Harrold's primary clone, stepped forward. "What's our best defense, then? Avoid them altogether?"
Harrold inclined his head. "As much as possible, yes. They're not likely to show open hostility to foreigners with silver to spend, but if they sense we possess items or knowledge they desire, they might try to manipulate us. Never share details of Orsus or our own magical secrets. If the warlocks take an interest in you, leave swiftly."
Several of the clones and crew members touched their bracelets instinctively, as if to assure themselves they were still there. Harrold offered a reassuring nod.
"We've enhanced these bracelets with a new feature—an emergency call. If you find yourselves cornered, under attack, or entangled in some warlock's illusions, press the runes at the inside of the band. It'll send a burst of magical signal that will alert me and any other bracelet-wearers in range. We'll know immediately who's in trouble and can respond."
He lifted his own wrist, showing the subtle shimmer of runes etched into the metal's underside. "You won't see flashy lights or hear a loud noise. The alarm is silent. But trust me—it'll reach us."
A gentle breeze swept the deck, ruffling cloaks and hair. One of the clones—Clone Alaric, assigned as a trade liaison—raised a cautious question. "What if a warlock tries to read our minds or enchant us on the spot? The bracelets can't block every spell, can they?"
Harrold exhaled thoughtfully. "It's true, I can't shield everyone from all illusions. But the runes will offer some protection, enough to give you time to react. And remember: we're not here to antagonize them. Move quickly, stay polite but distant, and if anything feels off, use your training and the bracelet's alarm function."
Captain Elissa, overseeing the ship's readiness, gave a curt nod. "Understood. We'll keep groups small and watch each other's backs."
Harrold surveyed the faces before him, sensing both confidence and a flicker of nervous energy. "Qarth is a city of wonders and dangers. We're here to trade, to learn, and to keep a low profile until we set sail for the Far East. Keep your wits about you."
With that, he dismissed them to their tasks—some to oversee cargo unloading, others to scout the markets for potential deals or hidden magicals. They dispersed into the sunlight, each wearing the bracelet that quietly linked them back to Harrold and Orsus, a lifeline if the warlocks or any other threats in Qarth dared to move against them.
As he watched them go, Harrold let out a measured breath. So many months of planning, forging alliances, building new wards and tools—and in Qarth's labyrinth of intrigue, a single misstep could unravel it all. He resolved to stay vigilant, fully prepared to respond the moment an alarm rune lit up on his wrist.
We'll be fine, he told himself. Just another test on our long, winding road.
Days stretched into weeks as Harrold and his clones settled into the chaotic rhythms of Qarth's markets and opulent districts. While the clones managed stalls at the bazaar—trading Orsus's exotic goods for gold and rare commodities—Harrold himself prowled deeper into the city's upper echelons. Disguised by subtle shapeshifting and illusions, he delved into lavish mansions and private halls, guided by the flickering lamplight of Qarth's midnight streets.
At first, Harrold's purpose seemed purely observational. In the wealthy neighborhoods, behind gilded gates and marble columns, merchants and minor nobles gathered in sumptuous salons. Harrold slipped among them like a ghost, eavesdropping and, when needed, lightly touching minds with practiced Legilimency. Unspoken thoughts spilled secrets about trade routes, hidden vaults, and inter-family rivalries.
They hoard so much wealth while their city starves in the slums… Harrold mused quietly. At least I can use it better.
Each night, he returned to his personal hideout—an inconspicuous apartment near the docks—armed with fresh insights. Some of these discoveries benefited his clones, who sought to secure lucrative trade pacts. Others were more personal: leads on Qartheen families known for hoarding gold, jewels, and rare relics behind ornate doors.
Before dawn, Harrold slipped back into the labyrinthine streets, illusions concealing his true face and aura. Armed with knowledge gleaned from reading minds, he struck methodically:
Identify: He pinpointed vaults or hidden treasures from the unsuspecting minds of Qarth's elite.
Infiltrate: Under the cloak of illusions, he bypassed guards and wards, often sprinkling Confundus Charms to ensure no alarm was raised.
Extract: Gems, gold, and valuables vanished into his enchanted pouches—pouches with internal expansions that held far more than they should.
Depart: He left false leads or illusions to mask the theft, so confusion reigned until he was long gone.
A pattern emerged: wealth drained from those who amassed it through cruel or exploitative means, often none the wiser until days later. Harrold found a grim satisfaction in it—rob the unscrupulous to fund a hidden sanctuary, a plan that served his long-term goals.
Yet Harrold knew he couldn't leave Qarth without a local intermediary. The warlocks were a constant threat, and installing one of his own clones here seemed reckless. Instead, he needed a native—someone with connections, local savvy, and a willingness to keep secrets. Through mind reading and careful observation, he identified Marras Shalar, a middle-aged merchant dealing in spices and textiles. By Qartheen standards, Shalar was… well, not entirely honest, but less treacherous than most.
Harrold arranged a midnight meeting in a quiet side street near Shalar's warehouse. Cloaked in illusion, he approached the merchant as he counted the day's coins.
"Who are you?" Shalar demanded, eyes darting nervously.
"Think of me as a new partner," Harrold replied evenly. "I come from distant shores, with goods and opportunities you've never seen."
Curiosity flickered in Shalar's eyes, but he remained guarded—until Harrold subtly pressed a trickle of mind magic, nudging the merchant's wariness away. A gentle Legilimency whittled down Shalar's resistance, sowing compliance like seeds in fertile soil.
"Y-you say you have… goods?" Shalar stumbled, suddenly eager to listen.
Harrold nodded, voice low and steady. "Exotic items. Future profits. All I ask in return is your loyalty and discretion."
Moments later, a mild form of Compulsion took root, ensuring Shalar would see reason in any arrangement Harrold suggested. They struck a deal: Shalar would become Orsus's agent in Qarth, handling any cargo that passed through, sending letters or small shipments whenever needed. In exchange, he'd receive a generous cut—and the promise of a stable partnership immune to the city's fickle politics.
Meanwhile, Harrold's clones and the crew had their own covert missions. Word of Orsus's acceptance of magical individuals trickled through Qarth's underbelly. Over quiet cups of spiced wine in dim taverns, the clones whispered offers to men and women who displayed a subtle spark of power. Some could read omens in the flames, others sensed the tides or conjured illusions to amuse sailors. All lived in fear of warlocks or unscrupulous Qartheen lords.
One by one, a small but diverse group of these hidden magicals slipped aboard one of the ships, signing the standard contract that bound them to Harrold's cause. Many looked relieved, even tearful, at the prospect of escaping Qarth's intrigue for a place where magic wasn't a curse.
On the night before departure, Harrold stood atop the deck, gazing at the triple-walled grandeur of Qarth in the distance. Torchlights glimmered along the harbor, the city's wealth a glittering façade belying the cruelty and ambition lurking beneath. He thought of the warlocks, the gullible lords he had robbed, and Marras Shalar—now mentally coerced into compliance but perfectly placed to serve Orsus's interests.
Qarth remains dangerous, he reflected, but we leave it stronger and wealthier than before. And with a thread of influence running back here whenever we need it.
He cast a final glance at the harbor, then turned to find his clones and the newly recruited magicals waiting near the helm. Smiling faintly, he gave the order to weigh anchor. The ships glided away from the quays, sails unfurling under Qarth's moonlit sky. Beyond lay the Jade Gates, Asshai, Yi Ti, and uncountable mysteries of the Far East.
And as the vessels slipped into open water, Harrold felt more certain than ever of his path. Orsus would be funded, the new magical recruits given purpose, and Qarth left behind—like so many cities before it—richer for him, poorer for those who hoarded gold without conscience. A fleeting success, perhaps, but one step further in weaving the grand tapestry of a sanctuary untouched by the world's old grudges and failures.
After parting ways with the city of Qarth under the cover of night, Harrold's small fleet—a handful of Hedwig-class ships—ventured into the far reaches of the Jade Sea. Here, the waters took on a greener hue, and the horizon felt endless. In this lesser-known corner of the world, exotic isles and distant ports beckoned with the promise of new alliances, fresh resources, and hidden wonders. Harrold stood at the prow of the flagship, eyes alight with the thrill of discovery, eager to see what each new land held for Orsus.
fter a long stretch of sailing across the Jade Sea's steamy waters, Harrold's small fleet at last dropped anchor off the coast of Qal. The climate hit them first—the air clinging to their skin, dense and humid, as tropical rains threatened each afternoon. Dark beaches framed the shore, and beyond them loomed tall palm trees swaying in a restless breeze.
A modest trading post greeted them near the mouth of a brackish river that wound down from the rugged highlands inland. Locals, lean and wary, approached with a guarded courtesy. Their clothes were thin and loose to combat the intense heat, and many sported tattoos depicting the strange fish caught in Qal's waters. Harrold, flanked by two of his clones, stepped cautiously onto the plank pier and offered polite bows rather than overzealous warmth. They had come to buy—not to sell—and the Qali seemed both intrigued and uncertain about these newcomers.
Over the next two days, Harrold and his companions ventured into the small markets scattered around the trading post. Simple wooden stalls displayed local goods. salted fish laid out in neat rows, their scales glistening under the tropical sun. Carved bone trinkets etched with swirling motifs, said to honor local river spirits. Vibrant dyes, painstakingly extracted from plants unique to Qal's marshy lowlands, their rich tones an eye-catching promise for future use.
Though the Qali vendors eyed the visitors with curiosity, they proved amenable to trade once gold coins appeared. Harrold's clones, accustomed to forging deals elsewhere, took care to adopt a gentle, respectful approach—Qal was no grand metropolis, and strong-arm haggling would have earned them nothing but closed doors.
Harrold's principal objective was to purchase new varieties of fruit, herbs, and other potential crops for Orsus. They discovered a kind of mango-like drupe that local fishermen ate for quick energy, its flesh bright orange and piquant. Several stalls sold spiced citrus variants, smaller than lemons but rumored to ward off minor illnesses when steeped in hot water. A few reclusive gatherers from the highlands brought unusual dried leaves and seeds, claiming these plants thrived in Qal's muggy climate.
Harrold paid in coin, abstaining from offering any of Orsus's goods in return. Although the clones carried runic trinkets and potions with them, their orders were clear: observe, buy, and remain discreet. No need to draw attention or create new questions about the mysterious Orsus.
Throughout their stay, the Qali people remained cautious hosts. They would share local legends about hidden reefs and fierce river creatures, but seldom pried into their visitors' origins. Harrold, meanwhile, kept conversations light, focusing on small talk about the weather or Qal's fishing customs—anything to put the townsfolk at ease without revealing too much.
By the dawn of the third day, with the ship's hold newly stocked with seeds, fruits, and a selection of dyes, Harrold decided it was time to depart. Despite the humidity that clung to their clothes, his crew and clones managed final farewells. A smattering of Qali waved from the shore, curiosity lingering in their eyes as the Hedwig-class ship slipped back into the Jade Sea.
Harrold stood at the ship's railing, watching the dense palm groves shrink behind them. He couldn't help but feel a mild satisfaction in the unobtrusive success of this brief stop. The knowledge gleaned from Qal's climate and the seeds they'd purchased might one day enrich Orsus's ever-expanding agricultural potential. Their pockets weighed heavier with the promise of new crops—and the journey onward awaited, the Jade Sea's horizon beckoning them toward yet greater mysteries.
The shimmering turquoise waters gradually shifted into the tropical breezes of Moraq, a region of scattered isles where monsoon rains and humid winds converged. The closer they sailed, the higher the basalt cliffs rose, towering over hidden coves and reefs.
Reaching Moraq's shores was not straightforward. Jagged reefs fringed much of the coastline, forcing the fleet to pick their way slowly, inch by inch, under the careful direction of Harrold's clones. Spotters dangled lanterns over the prow, calling out each submerged ridge that threatened to scrape or hole the hull. Eventually, the ships found a calm natural lagoon, surrounded by tall cliff faces.
From the deck, Harrold surveyed the island. Mist clung to the mountainous interior, while monsoon clouds hovered ominously on the horizon. Even so, the lagoon's relative stillness promised respite from the high seas—a chance to explore and gather what they needed from this little-known corner of the world.
As the crew ventured ashore, they discovered a series of stilt houses clustered along a winding beach. Bamboo scaffolding and walkways connected homes perched above the marshy ground—practical in a region of sudden rains and rising waters. A faint clang of hammers echoed from nearby, guiding Harrold and his companions to an impromptu blacksmithing quarter, where Morakhi smiths shaped intricate bronze tools and weapon heads.
The locals greeted the strangers politely but kept a watchful eye. Neither welcoming nor hostile, they simply recognized that these outsiders meant to purchase goods. Harrold was content with this arrangement. He had no intention of drawing undue attention or showcasing anything from Orsus this time. Their purse, plumped by the coin gleaned from Qarth's elite, was enough to handle purchases discreetly.
In Qarth, Harrold had tapped into a trove of languages by using his adept mind magic, or Legilimency. Skimming surface thoughts from traders and scribes, he amassed knowledge of YiTish dialects, the Basilisk Isles' patois, and even scraps of old Morakhi speech. Before setting sail, he'd worked a silent ritual with his clones, "uploading" this linguistic trove into their minds.
"Here," he'd said, pressing the tip of his wand against each clone's forehead, "are the basics you need for the next leg of our journey. You'll still have to speak carefully, but you'll be understood."
Unfortunately, this technique couldn't easily be extended to his mortal crew. Their minds lacked the magical receptivity that bound Harrold's clones to him. Hence, Harrold began devising remote crystal 'brains' for each ship—arcane constructs of runes and memory crystals that would subtly impart language lessons to sailors while they slept. The approach was similar to the "night tutoring" wards they'd experimented with on Orsus, but scaled to maritime life.
"It'll take months," he murmured one evening, "but in time, our sailors will pick up these Eastern tongues naturally."
Armed with their newly refined language skills, the clones accompanied Harrold into the Morakhi markets—clusters of tables and stalls at the base of stilt houses. There, local farmers and fishermen brought out rice seeds favored in Moraq's swampy paddies, tubers that thrived in standing water, and small bundles of pungent herbs used for both cooking and rudimentary medicine.
The Rice Varieties: Known to withstand heavy monsoon rains, these seeds promised higher yields under Orsus's planned irrigation system. Exotic Tubers: Purportedly hardy, they might adapt well to Orsus's climate, providing a new source of starch. Herbs and Spices: Believed to ward off diseases common in Moraq's muggy environment, possibly useful for Orsus's growing population.
Paying with silver coins gleaned from Qarth's wealth, Harrold politely negotiated for larger quantities, especially of the prized seeds. No fierce bargaining was needed—Moraq's inhabitants appeared pleased to have new buyers, rarely questioning Harrold's origin or the reasons for his interest.
By the second evening, the horizon darkened under a looming monsoon sky, lightning forking amid rolling clouds. Harrold decided it was time to move on, not wishing to risk the ships against Moraq's reefs in a full-blown storm. The crew and clones hurried to load newly purchased sacks of seeds, tubers, and herb bundles.
Before setting sail, Harrold took a final stroll along the bamboo walkways. A handful of Morakhi blacksmiths worked late, their hammers ringing in the humid twilight. Though Harrold had initially planned only to buy, he couldn't resist a final peek at their latest bronze creations—polished daggers with serpent motifs, ceremonial spearheads etched with swirling designs. Even if he chose not to purchase them, he admired the craftsmanship silently.
Returning to the ships, he cast a watchful gaze at the basalt cliffs vanishing behind a curtain of rain. Moraq had proven a worthwhile stop—its riches modest but essential for Orsus's agricultural and cultural ambitions. And thanks to Harrold's newly absorbed languages and the clones' quick tongues, the transactions had gone smoothly.
"Next time we come," he remarked softly to his primary clone, "we may speak as if we've lived here our whole lives."
A grin tugged at the clone's lips. "And by then, maybe our sailors too can manage a few words in Morakhi, thanks to those crystal brains."
As the anchors rose and sails unfurled, lightning flashed over the dark sea. The Hedwig-class ships pulled away, carefully threading between black reefs under a shroud of rain. Another leg of the Jade Sea lay ahead, and Harrold felt an undercurrent of satisfaction: with each new purchase and language learned, he inched closer to weaving Orsus into a tapestry of distant lands—ever expanding, ever more prepared for the challenges to come.
Crossing the Jade Sea's easternmost reaches, Harrold and his small fleet at last reached the fabled empire of Yi Ti, a realm known in Westeros mainly through legend and the stories of explorers. They visited key cities—Jinqi, Yin, and Asabhad—each distinct but bound by the Golden Empire's shared heritage.
Long days of travel across the Jade Sea and through winding inland rivers finally brought Harrold and his small fleet to Jinqi, a key city in the Golden Empire of Yi Ti. Perched on fertile lowlands near the legendary Yellow Emperor River, Jinqi offered a striking tableau: lush rice paddies blanketed the horizon, their jade-green tips glistening under the midday sun. Irrigation canals snaked through the landscape, threading between broad avenues and stately pavilions.
From the moment Harrold and his clones set foot on Jinqi's docks, they sensed the city's fusion of agriculture and grandeur. Canals lined every major street, boatmen ferrying produce and people with efficient calm. On either side of these watery thoroughfares, gardens bloomed—a riot of florals carefully arranged to reflect Yi Tish aesthetics of balance and harmony.
Tall stone statues of mythical beasts—dragons, phoenixes, and tiger-lion hybrids—stood guard at temple gates, their carved eyes seeming to watch every passerby. The clones, having gleaned local languages from Harrold's mind magic, moved among the crowds with relative ease, picking up gossip and vendor calls in the YiTish tongue. Meanwhile, a small portion of Harrold's crew, still reliant on the "crystal brains" to steadily acquire new languages, trailed behind, listening and learning.
As foreigners in a city not accustomed to many western arrivals, Harrold and his party drew discreet interest. Local lords and wealthy landowners, always curious about exotic wonders, extended polite invitations. A rumor spread that Harrold carried "mystic potions," stirring excitement among scholars and minor nobility. A few bold officials approached, inquiring about Orsus's distant location and the rumored powers of these runic-bound concoctions.
Harrold, remembering his aim was primarily to purchase—rather than sell—remained cautious. He limited demonstrations of magic to harmless illusions or minor runic displays. Nonetheless, the glimpses he offered piqued keen interest among local scribes and alchemists.
One evening, Harrold received an invitation to a banquet in a marble pavilion overlooking a vast stretch of rice fields. There, YiTish scholars and minor nobility converged to greet the western visitor. Pillars carved with swirling dragons supported a vaulted ceiling draped in silks. Servants circulated platters of spiced fish, sticky rice, and sweetmeats, while delicate flutes and string instruments filled the pavilion with haunting melodies.
As Harrold took his seat at a low table, the scholars peppered him with questions of the west.
Harrold answered in polite, measured tones, revealing nothing about Orsus's deeper secrets. He mostly described Westeros and Free cities, referencing the Old Gods, kings, and knights. The clones, mingling among the guests, gleaned snippets of local lore about Jinqi's ancient ties to the Yellow Emperor River—stories of harvest gods, water spirits, and blessings for bumper crops.
Amid the festivities and inquisitive chatter, Harrold never lost sight of his true purpose: to buy seeds and crops that could strengthen Orsus's food supply. Earlier discussions with YiTish agronomists directed him to a warehouse near the city's southern gate. Under flickering lanterns, he and his clones inspected superior strains of rice long favored in Jinqi's rich paddies—renowned for high yield and resilience to pests.
"This variety endures flooding better than most," explained a local farmer, scooping a handful of pale grains from a sack.
"And this one," said another, showing off a different strain, "thrives even if the monsoons come late."
Harrold, impressed, purchased sizable quantities of both. The cargo soon found its way into the ships' holds, destined for Orsus, where he intended to replicate Jinqi's irrigation success on a smaller scale.
Beyond rice, the city's markets presented an abundance of exotic grains—millety cereals with hints of sweetness, hardy barley variants known to mature in half the usual time, and a few experimental crossbreeds developed by ambitious YiTish cultivators.
Harrold also encountered fruit seeds rarely seen in Westeros or the Free Cities—variants of plum, melon, and citrus that boasted intense flavors under the blazing YiTish sun. Though Orsus's climate might not exactly mirror Jinqi's, Harrold figured that with careful runic wards and greenhouses, these seeds could add variety and resilience to the island's budding orchards.
By the end of their stay, Harrold and his clones had formed cordial if superficial relationships with local notables. Jinqi's lords and scholars remained curious about their foreign guests, politely satisfied by the glimpse of runic potions and the promise of future visits. As Harrold and his party prepared to depart, the same local officials who had welcomed them came to see them off, parting with respectful bows and soft well-wishes.
Loading the last sacks of prized seeds and grains onto the ships, Harrold glanced back at Jinqi's broad streets one final time—the serene water canals reflecting the sunrise, and the distant hush of temple gongs announcing a new day. He sensed a deeper potential in this city of well-planned avenues and sprawling farmland. Perhaps another visit was in order someday—especially if Orsus flourished with the crops gleaned here.
"All aboard," he told the crew, stepping onto the ship's gangplank. The vessels eased into the calm waters of the Yellow Emperor River, gliding away from Jinqi's fertile lowlands. Harrold felt a fresh charge of optimism: with each new crop and every subtle piece of knowledge collected, Orsus drew closer to self-sufficiency and, ultimately, the grand future he envisioned.
Leaving behind the tranquil canals and fertile lowlands of Jinqi, Harrold's small fleet followed the flow of the Yellow Emperor River deeper into the Golden Empire of Yi Ti. After days of winding through mist-shrouded valleys and vast farmland, the river eventually led them to Yin, the fabled capital—said by some to be the greatest city in the known world.
From miles away, Yin's colossal walls gleamed beneath the scorching sun, their surface polished to a golden sheen. The sight alone dwarfed even the grandest realms Harrold had seen in the west. Rising behind these formidable ramparts were palatial complexes, each sprawling in a labyrinth of courtyards and ceremonial pavilions. The hustle of trade caravans—coming and going from the city's massive gates—underscored Yin's central role in the empire's commerce.
Harrold and his clones felt the weight of history in the very air: roads leading to Yin were meticulously paved and lined with statues of mythical creatures, while guards in ornate armor scanned each newcomer. Though the empire's internal politics remained something of a mystery—some whispered of an Emperor, others of a regent—no one questioned that power radiated from Yin's gilded heart.
Once the Hedwig-class ships secured permission to dock in one of the bustling harbor districts, Harrold and his party ventured into Yin's colossal bazaars. If Qarth had seemed grand, Yin surpassed it in both variety and sophistication.
Spices from every corner of Yi Ti and beyond perfumed the air, saturating it with exotic scents that clung to one's clothing. Carpets woven from fine silks and embroidered with images of dragons and phoenixes spilled over vendor stalls. Precious metals, from soft gold to harder alloys used in local crafts, glinted under the bright daylight, arranged with a methodical grace unique to this ancient empire.
Arcane relics were traded quietly by specialized merchants, offering everything from rumored "immortality potions" to curious amulets inscribed with Yi Tish script.
Strolling through these markets, Harrold found the entire city steeped in commerce. Every transaction was carried out with a calm efficiency that spoke of millennia of mercantile tradition. Local lords and high-born merchants eyed Harrold's party curiously, intrigued by their foreign dress and occasional glimpses of runic trinkets.
Harrold had posted some of his clones throughout Yin with a discreet purpose: recruit magical folk who lived in secrecy—temple acolytes skilled in minor illusions, hedge-wizards performing parlor tricks for coin, or street performers whose "miracles" hinted at deeper gifts.
Temple Acolytes: Quiet men and women who lit incense at grand shrines. Some had subtle healing powers or a knack for seeing "glows" of spiritual energy.
Hedge-wizards: Older individuals once scorned by more orthodox magicians. They practiced old spells, hidden in back rooms or out on lonely country roads.
Street Performers: Jugglers, puppet masters, and tricksters, occasionally revealing fleeting glimpses of telekinesis or illusions.
The clones approached them gently, offering a place of acceptance in Orsus—under the condition of secrecy and loyalty. Some hesitated, fearful of local crackdowns, yet a handful accepted the invitation, boarding the Hedwig-class ships in the dead of night.
Harrold had not come to Yin solely for trade. With the empire's storied knowledge at his fingertips, he sought out local libraries known for storing horticultural and engineering texts. Negotiations with the librarians were cautious at first—these were guardians of the empire's intellectual heritage. But Harrold, brandishing subtle illusions and runic potions as gifts, won them over enough to glimpse ancient scrolls on orchard management, advanced irrigation techniques, and botanical wonders.
Scrolls on orchard design: Detailed how to layer fruit trees for maximum yield, a concept foreign to Westerosi orchard keepers.
Tomes on water management: Showcased ways to channel river flow in stepped canals, something that might greatly benefit the agricultural expansion planned on Orsus.
In exchange for these secrets, Harrold parted with a few prized potions—carefully chosen not to reveal too much of Orsus's runic breakthroughs.
Of course, the trip would not be complete without Harrold's original aim: buying seeds and goods to bolster Orsus's agriculture. In Yin's grand markets, he encountered:
Heavy-sweet melons: Known to flourish under the empire's scorching sun, they were rumored to reach the size of a barrel if properly tended.
Purple plums: Rich in flavor, a delicacy among Yin's aristocrats, grown in carefully terraced orchards.
Sour-sweet citrus: A variety that could handle monsoon swings, perfect for adding variety to Orsus's orchard.
Harrold paid in gold coins quietly amassed from earlier ventures, ensuring he drew minimal attention. Like a cautious spider weaving a web, he let others see only a fraction of his wealth or magical prowess, enough to facilitate trade without stirring dangerous curiosity.
When Harrold and his companions finally prepared to leave, the ships' holds brimmed with seeds, horticultural texts, and a small group of newly recruited magicals. Yin's golden walls receded behind them as they sailed away, the glare of the sun reflecting off the city's palatial splendor.
Stepping onto the deck of his flagship, Harrold couldn't help a faint smile. This city—the reputed largest in the known world—had offered him the perfect trove of resources and knowledge for Orsus. A single trip had already yielded results that might have taken a Westerosi lifetime to gather.
There's so much more to see, Harrold mused, glancing back at the shimmering metropolis. But for now, we have what we came for—a glimpse into an ancient empire's mind, and seeds enough to reshape our island's future.
Their work in the Golden Empire complete, Harrold and his small fleet weighed anchor and cast off from Yin, leaving behind the gleaming walls and grand avenues of Yi Ti's capital. The massive city sank below the horizon under a radiant sky, its golden ramparts shining one last time before distance dimmed their glow. Harrold stood at the helm of his flagship, a contemplative look in his eyes. In the holds of his ships, he carried more than goods—he carried knowledge, seeds, newly discovered magic, and recruits yearning for a new beginning.
After weeks of sail, the air began to shift. Familiar ocean currents told seasoned sailors they were nearing Orsus. A hush of expectancy fell over the crew; many had left the island as novices or wanderers, but returned confident and purposeful, armed with new insights and experiences.
The first sight of Orsus's hidden harbor stirred elation. The island's protective wards shimmered faintly, unveiling the mountainous silhouette and lush jungles that Harrold had come to call home. As the ships slipped through the wards, legionnaire squads at the docks snapped to attention, welcoming them back with quiet efficiency.
AN – Added some more info about clones to explain how they are different from his old world. My theory for the story is that shape shifting is easier in this world due to having faceless men already practicing a form of it. The Magic of this world is already familiar with it. The success they are having with runes also due to the same reason. There was a question about unsullied number. They have 500 now. Harrold purchased 250 and Harry did the same number.
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.