The sunset over Orsus radiated in hues of bronze and magenta, casting long shadows across the island's central courtyard. Harrold stood atop a wooden platform overlooking the farmland that stretched toward the distant jungle. In the twilight, he surveyed the orderly rows of new crops—rice seedlings from Yi Ti sprouting alongside tubers from Moraq. Orsus was flourishing more than he had ever hoped.

And yet… he thought, our story here is only the beginning.

Late that evening, Harrold commanded the large doors of Orsus's great hall to be opened. The chamber's walls, etched with runic symbols for warmth and illumination, filled with a soft glow from torches hung overhead. In the center, a grand table stood, set with papers, maps of Westeros, and sketches of future expansions for Orsus. One by one, the island's key figures arrived:

Harry, Harrold's first clone and longtime confidant, wearing a calm expression and quietly greeting everyone with nods.

Elissa, captain of the Hedwig, her sharp gaze scanning the room for new updates.

Thoren, who captained the Helena, nodding politely at the Orsus administrators as they filed in.

Several administrators in charge of trade and agriculture, anxious to share updates on the island's progress.

A handful of other clones—some overseeing potions, others runic wards—taking seats along the edges.

Outside, a cool breeze rustled Orsus's tropical leaves. Inside, a sense of anticipation grew. When everyone had settled, Harrold rose, his cloak trailing behind him.

"Thank you all for coming," he began, his tone warm yet carrying weight. "Orsus stands as proof of what we can accomplish: new trade routes, thriving fields, even an army of freed Unsullied forging their own identities as legionnaires."

He paused, scanning the faces around the table. "But I recall a promise I made in Westeros—to restore Moat Cailin and build a stronghold in the North. I've decided… it's time we fulfill that oath."

A low murmur passed around the hall. Harry offered a small nod, unsurprised. Elissa exchanged glances with Thoren, eyebrows raised in curiosity. Some of the clones wore expressions of eagerness, while others bore worry about the timing.

"What about our expansions here?" asked an administrator named Marisol, who oversaw the newly planted fields. "We've just begun harvesting the first wave of eastern seeds—leaving too soon could unsettle everything."

Harrold raised a hand gently. "We won't abandon Orsus. But the North is crucial. Moat Cailin can connect us to Westeros on solid ground. My agreement with the Starks was never a mere politeness." His gaze flicked to a large map pinned to the wall, depicting a rough shape of the continent. "We build in the North, we secure our future—trade, alliances, resources. And from there, Orsus can thrive with a second stronghold to support it."

Captain Elissa folded her arms, leaning forward. "So we're talking about a full-scale operation in the North—a fortress, farmland, supply lines? That's no small undertaking. We'll need ships and men, plus materials to handle Winter's cold."

Thoren tapped a finger on the table. "What about the journey? Will we be taking the majority of the fleet?"

Harrold shook his head. "We'll take a smaller contingent—one or two vessels. The rest will remain here or continue on their assigned trade routes. We only need enough to transport supplies, initial building materials, and volunteers. The rest can come later."

Harry cleared his throat. "You'll want to bring clones, too. You'll need runic wards in the North, especially if Moat Cailin is half-ruined."

A chorus of agreement spread across the table.

Marisol spoke again, her voice tense. "My lord, we've recruited more magical people since your eastern journeys. Many are still learning Common Tongue or the new tasks we've assigned them. Rushing off might disrupt—"

"I understand," Harrold interrupted gently. "That's why I'm not leaving tomorrow. We'll plan. We have farmland to secure, advanced wards to test, magical recruits to train, and trade to keep afloat. But Moat Cailin must come soon—Lord Stark expects it, and so do I."

The tension receded as Harrold outlined a tentative timeline:

Within the next fortnight, Orsus's administrators would finalize which seeds and potions needed his oversight for the upcoming season and which could be handled by the clones. Trade routes would continue, with each ship assigned to a specific path. Harrold planned to keep Orsus a key hub while forging new connections from the North. A small expedition to Moat Cailin would leave as soon as everything is finalized and prepared.

"We'll coordinate with the North's local resources, gather building materials en route, and bring just enough legionnaires for defense," he concluded.

Captain Elissa exhaled slowly, relief mingling with determination. "That's… workable. But we'll need to watch out for storms near Bear Island. The seas around there can turn treacherous."

Harry folded his hands together. "We can finalize rosters soon. I'll make sure those who remain on Orsus can handle the daily tasks—training, runic experiments, and farmland expansions."

Harrold offered a grateful smile. "Exactly. We mustn't lose all we've built here. With the right plan, Orsus will thrive and Moat Cailin will rise from ruin."

The meeting drew on as smaller discussions erupted around the table. A few clones questioned if leaving Orsus so soon might jeopardize the delicate alliances Harrold formed with magical recruits from across Essos. But Harry reassured them that ongoing communication and assigned duties would keep the community stable.

Others, particularly the sailors, expressed concerns about unpredictable weather near the North and ensuring they had enough supplies for the journey. Harrold welcomed their input, promising to gather exact resource lists and safety measures.

Throughout, the unwavering loyalty of the clones shone through. While they voiced honest concerns—harvest schedules, incomplete expansions—none doubted Harrold's vision.

Finally, the conversation wound down. A sense of excitement lingered in the hall: excitement for a new beginning in the North, and pride in what Orsus had already become.

Harrold stood, signaling the meeting's end. "You all have your tasks. I'll expect updates on preparations daily until we depart. Let's make this transition as seamless as possible."

Those assembled gathered their notes and began filing out. Captain Elissa gave Harrold a respectful nod, promising to start wind and route studies that very night. Marisol and a few other administrators shared quick words about farmland expansions. Harry stepped forward last, quiet resolve in his eyes.

"We'll manage here," he said simply.

Harrold clasped his clone's shoulder. "I know," he replied. "Orsus is in good hands. And I'll see that the North welcomes us just as well."

As the hall's torches sputtered, the new era had truly begun. Preparations for the final stronghold in the North were now in motion—an ambitious leap that would test Harrold's cunning, the clones' diligence, and Orsus's growing might. But with purpose set and tasks assigned, they stepped into the night armed with hope and the dream of making two distant lands flourish as one.

A warm sun filtered through Orsus's swaying palm trees as Harrold stood on a broad wooden balcony overlooking the island's bustling center. Below him, clusters of makeshift greenhouses and paddy fields spread out, the beginnings of a rich harvest gleaned from faraway lands. In the far distance, small dots of Unsullied legionnaires sparred on the beach, the sound of clashing steel lost in the breeze. Harrold braced his hands on the rail, heart heavy with the knowledge that soon he would leave all this behind—if only temporarily.

Orsus has thrived, he thought. But there's a promise to keep in the North.

A firm knock on the balcony doorway drew his attention. Turning, he found Harry, his first and most trusted clone, standing quietly with the same features Harrold once wore—yet different, shaped by his own experience and opinions.

Harrold beckoned him forward. "Harry, join me."

Harry stepped alongside him, glancing over the bustling activity below. His eyes lingered on the newly built greenhouses, where clones in straw hats bustled about testing the irrigation techniques gleaned from Yi Ti scrolls. "The island's changed so much since we first arrived," he said, pride and concern mingling in his voice.

Harrold nodded. "For the better. We owe much to our recruits, new and old. But we can't rest on this success. My plans for the North can't wait any longer."

Harry's brow furrowed. "You're going, then?"

With a measured inhale, Harrold turned to face him. "Yes. But Orsus can't just drift leaderless in my absence. I want you to be its steward."

Shock flashed across Harry's features. "Me?"

Harrold placed a reassuring hand on his clone's shoulder. "You're my first clone, the one who knows my mind best. You've led off-island missions, negotiated trade deals, even captained a ship. There's no one I trust more."

Harry's gaze dropped, humility tugging at his expression. "I'm honored. But… am I ready to bear all of this? The runic experiments, the legionnaires, the recruits—"

"I believe in you," Harrold said, cutting off any protest. "And so do they. I'll brief everyone on their tasks, but the final voice in Orsus shall be yours."

A flicker of pride dawned in Harry's eyes, tempered by the weight of responsibility. He nodded slowly, grappling with the monumental shift in his role.

That afternoon, Harrold summoned a gathering in the island's main hall—less formal than a throne room, more a wide, airy space with tall pillars and open windows. Leaders from various island subgroups gathered, each wearing the distinctive enchanted bracelet that tied them to Orsus's emergency network:

Harrold stood at the forefront while Harry waited to one side, trying to look confident. "I'll be traveling north soon," Harrold began, projecting calm authority. "During my absence, Harry will serve as Orsus's steward. Any decisions about trade, security, or magical research go through him."

A ripple of reaction moved through the group—murmurs of agreement from some, flickers of uncertainty from others. Clone Vale raised a cautious hand. "So, if we want to, say, test a new runic inscription on the legionnaires' shields, we no longer wait for you?"

Harry gave a small nod, glancing at Harrold for reassurance. "We'll continue those experiments. I'll coordinate with you, Vale, and ensure our potions and runic teams have what they need. Harrold's taught me enough to guide you."

Harrold strolled through the rows of greenhouses erected on Orsus's southern plain, the late morning sun casting bright beams through the enchanted glass panels. Inside these structures, humidity clung to every surface, and the faint, telltale gleam of runic symbols etched into the frames pulsed softly in tune with the island's wards. A few of his clones, dressed in simple tunics and wide-brimmed straw hats, waited to greet him amid the greenery.

Clone Vale, the most senior clone assigned to agricultural research, waved Harrold over. "We've been making good progress, my lord—though some of these seeds respond better to Orsus's climate than others."

Harrold let a slight smile play on his lips. "That's expected. Which ones thrived best?"

Vale guided him to a set of raised beds, each labeled with small wooden plaques. "Look here. This Yi Tish rice we planted has taken to our soil quite well. We suspect the wards help stabilize temperature at night, so the crop doesn't suffer from the island's occasional chill."

Harrold traced a hand over the tender green stalks. "Good. I want a full paddy of this variety outside by next season."

Clone Irene, another agricultural specialist, stepped closer. "We tried the same seeds in an open-air field beyond the wards," she explained. "Without the runic temperature regulators, the shoots grew slower, and about a quarter failed to sprout. Still, better than some other types of rice we tested."

Vale nodded. "Meanwhile, the Moraq tubers have had a mixed performance. Inside the greenhouse, they flourished—enough to produce bright purple blossoms in just a few weeks. But outside, the sea winds might be stunting their growth. We lost maybe half to fungal issues we're still diagnosing."

"Any leads on that fungus?" Harrold asked, arching an eyebrow.

Irene retrieved a small clay pot with a wilted tuber plant. "We suspect it's from a local spore that thrives when the monsoon rains come. With more runic wards controlling the humidity, we might manage it. Or we can crossbreed them with tubers from Qal, which seem more resistant."

Harrold gave a thoughtful hum. "Yes, crossbreeding might give us a heartier strain. Document everything carefully. We can't risk losing a valuable food source."

Exiting the steamy interior, the group crossed onto a series of experimental plots that stretched across gently sloping terrain under the open sky. Rows of sweet-smelling fruit shrubs, transplanted from Yi Ti seeds, ran parallel to channels of water fed by the new irrigation system. A few clones carefully observed the soil's moisture content and jotted notes on tablets.

Clone Alaric, who had once traveled east to gather seeds, beckoned Harrold to a stand of young citrus trees. The leaves bore a waxy sheen, but some tips looked withered. "We believed these sour-sweet citrus from Yin would handle salt breezes decently, but they're suffering more than expected. Possibly too much direct sun?"

Harry, who had been shadowing Harrold on the tour, leaned in. "Could we erect partial shade canopies? Or perhaps line the orchard with taller plants to break the wind?"

Alaric brightened. "Yes, exactly. If we can replicate some of the layering methods from the horticulture texts—using natural windbreaks and shading from taller fruit trees—we might salvage them."

Harrold turned to Vale. "Keep me posted. If the orchard fails, we'll revert to greenhouse cultivation. But ideally, we want these to adapt naturally."

Vale nodded, scribbling instructions on a parchment. "We'll try multiple windbreak solutions. Maybe those quick-growing palms near the eastern ridge."

They progressed to another set of plots, where grains from Jinqi and Yin grew side by side. Tall, slender stalks rustled softly in the breeze, promising a future of abundant harvests—if they could conquer Orsus's sudden storms.

Clone Alvin, who specialized in runic weather wards, grinned as he gestured to the sky. "We've tested mild weather runes around these plots to protect from heavy downpours. It's working, though about twenty percent of the runes failed last month, letting a flash storm flatten some stalks. But that's data we can use to improve the carvings."

Harrold studied the different patches—one bright with gold-tipped wheat, another with a red, almost millet-like grain from Leng. "How about yield predictions?"

Alvin shrugged. "We're still analyzing. The red millet from Leng actually tolerates heavy rain well, but it's vulnerable to certain local pests. We'll have to coordinate with the potioners for natural insect repellents."

Harry, tapping the staff that symbolized his stewardship, interjected, "We do have that insect-repelling salve discovered by Clone Vale's group. If we coat the stalks lightly, it might repel the pests without harming the crops."

Stopping at a small clearing, Harrold glanced around at the hopeful faces of his clones and the newly assigned legionnaire guards who accompanied them. "We've seen successes, but not everything's perfect. Tubers in open air, certain citrus lines… they're giving us trouble. Don't be discouraged. That's the nature of experimentation."

Irene exhaled, eyes downcast. "I just… hate to see good seeds wasted. Some of the tuber stocks were expensive or hard to obtain."

Harrold's tone softened. "That's why we're here: to see what thrives under Orsus's unique conditions. Keep at it, refine the wards, crossbreed, and, if needed, pivot. We can always get more seeds, especially once our new trade routes settle."

Harry offered a supportive nod. "We have the rest of the seeds stored in the vaults, right? And we can keep the best performers for next season. No sense planting every last one on an untested patch."

Irene's lips curved into a grateful smile. "Yes, that's wise. We'll be more selective next time."

After hours spent examining each field, greenhouse, and orchard row, Harrold and Harry led the clones back toward the main keep, the afternoon sun dipping low. The conversation revolved around next steps: enhanced runic wards to stabilize microclimates, cross-pollination experiments, and a dedicated "seed bank" to preserve variety.

Harry's brow furrowed slightly. "One concern: if warlocks or outside forces come sniffing around, they might sabotage these fields, sabotage our entire livelihood."

Harrold let out a measured breath. "That's why each greenhouse and orchard sector must be warded, so one area failing won't doom the entire island's food supply. Distribute authority among the clones—don't rely on one caretaker to keep everything afloat."

The group exchanged determined glances. They had come a long way from Orsus's early days of rickety farmland patches. Now, they possessed knowledge from across Essos, runic technology, and unwavering clones to push agriculture to new heights.

Before parting ways, Harrold turned to the assembled clones. "I trust your judgment. You'll discover what seeds best fit Orsus, and ensure we can feed our people—maybe even produce surpluses for trade. Keep pushing boundaries. This is our laboratory as much as it is our home."

Grins and nods spread among them, even as the day's fatigue weighed on their shoulders. The successes and failures alike had become stepping stones toward an abundant future, each new seed and magical approach forging a stronger, more self-sustaining Orsus. And as the sun finally set beyond the jungle canopy, hope for the island's blossoming agricultural dreams glowed all the brighter.

Before the evening meal, Harrold gathered a more private assembly—Harry and a few senior clones stood on a small dais at the island's courtyard. Word had spread that Harrold intended a short ceremony. Magical recruits, legionnaires, and some curious onlookers formed a loose circle to watch.

In silence, Harrold held up a short runic staff, carved from the island's magically rich wood and inlaid with silver filigree. Its top bore a crystal that glowed faintly, a node for controlling Orsus's wards.

"Harry," Harrold said, voice carrying through the hush, "I name you steward of Orsus. Take this staff as a sign of your authority—and my trust."

Harry accepted it with both hands, eyes darting across the runes etched into the wood. "I… I'm honored," he managed, voice thick with emotion. He could practically feel the staff's magic humming beneath his fingertips.

Many in the crowd, especially the magical recruits, watched with admiration. A couple of clones—ones who had long served Harrold—exchanged uncertain glances, struggling with the idea of following someone else.

"Lead them well," Harrold concluded, placing a hand over Harry's. "Protect Orsus until I return."

After the ceremony, a subdued celebration followed—more like a communal supper than a raucous feast. Harry accepted handshakes and quiet pledges of loyalty. Some magical recruits approached him, excitement in their eyes.

"My lord," a young hedge-wizard from the Free Cities murmured, "will we continue experiments on the library spells you found?"

Harry gave a small smile. "Absolutely. Just speak to Vale or me. We want to see Orsus's research flourish, especially now."

Behind them, a legionnaire officer bowed stiffly. "You can count on us for security, sir."

Harry looked uneasy at the formality. "Call me Harry," he said softly. "We're all in this together."

Nearby, Clone Alaric—one who had proven a capable liaison on eastern journeys—pulled Harry aside. "I know you'll do fine," Alaric whispered, though his eyes betrayed a hint of doubt. "Just don't try to be Harrold. Be yourself."

Harry squeezed Alaric's shoulder in gratitude. "I'll keep that in mind."

From a short distance, Harrold watched these exchanges, feeling both relieved and a pang of longing. So this is how it feels, letting go of the reins. Will Orsus stand strong without me? Will Harry manage the weight? A swirl of pride and regret filled him. He'll thrive… they all will. I have to trust.

The next sunrise, he'd ready for his journey north. For now, he took comfort in seeing the new steward—Harry—already fielding questions, offering guidance, and forging quiet bonds with Orsus's people. In the end, Harrold mused, this is exactly what we wanted: an island, a haven, united under a purpose that doesn't end just because I'm away.

As dusk settled, torches lit the walkways. Harry stood upon the dais one last time that evening, staff in hand, surveying the faces who'd come to pledge their cooperation. Nervousness flickered in his eyes, but also determination.

Harrold approached him gently. "Any regrets?"

Harry inhaled. "Fear, maybe. But no regrets. We can't abandon what we've built."

Harrold nodded. "Indeed. Orsus is in your hands, Harry. I have every faith you'll guide them well."

With that, the two parted ways, stepping into the night with hearts alight—one preparing to leave for distant lands, the other bracing to shoulder the responsibility of an entire island. And under the tropical moon, Orsus's wards pulsed faintly, as though giving their silent blessing to a new era of leadership, guided by Harry's steadfast resolve.

The morning sun painted Orsus's harbor in streaks of gold and pink, its gentle rays illuminating the ocean swells that rocked a formation of seven sleek Hedwig-class ships. Harrold stood at the pier's edge, cloak fluttering in the light breeze, surveying the vessels that were soon to define Orsus's budding trade network. The sound of gulls mingled with the murmur of dockworkers, and the distinct tang of salt air settled over everything.

Behind Harrold gathered a small crowd: ship captains, first mates, clones, and a handful of legionnaire squads stationed for security. Each vessel's banner—midnight-blue sails bearing the silver griffin—snapped crisply overhead, a testament to the unity they'd forged on this once-hidden island.

Harrold turned, addressing the assembled group with a clear, resonant voice. "Friends, we stand on the threshold of the next phase in Orsus's growth. Today, we set forth new trade routes based on the lessons learned with initial voyages that will connect us to every corner of the world—and secure not just our island's future, but also the future of our Northern stronghold."

A soft chorus of excitement rippled among the legionnaires, each clad in their new legionnaire armor, while the captains exchanged measured looks. Harry, his first clone and now steward of Orsus, hovered at Harrold's flank, a quiet confidence in his gaze despite the weight of command on his shoulders.

Heeding Harrold's gesture, Elissa—the captain of the Hedwig—and Thoren—captain of the Helena—stepped forward, joined by the captains of the other ships. Behind them waited the first mates, eyes scanning clipboards of routes and cargo manifests, while the legionnaires stood poised to board.

Clearing his throat, Harrold began outlining the upcoming deployments, his tone steady and purposeful:

"Elissa, you'll take command of the route from Orsus to Braavos," Harrold said with a nod. "We trust you to manage the West Coast of Essos—stops at other cities if needed. Braavos remains key for banking ties and exotic goods. A small legionnaire squad will accompany you."

Elissa's sharp eyes flicked across the deck. "Understood. I'll chart a direct path to Braavos first."

Harrold's gaze landed on a tall, broad-shouldered new captain of the ship Godric, Garen, who had proven adept at handling colder waters. "Garen, you will take Godric, linking us to Bear Island and Western Westeros. Watch for pirates and rough seas. We also suspect the Mormonts might be open to trading fish, furs, and wood"

Garen saluted, a wry grin tugging at his lips. "Aye, I've heard the western storms are fierce. We'll manage."

"Next is White Harbor" Harrold said looking at the papers.

A calm-faced woman, Captain Mira, the captain of the ship Prongs raised her hand. "That's mine, correct?"

Harrold nodded. "Yes. This route focuses on Eastern Westeros, docking at White Harbor for direct trade with the North. You'll likely liaise with the Starks' or Manderlys' agents. We have new grain and fresh orchard produce they might want."

Harrold gestured to two ships at the easternmost berth. "Orion and Remes will resume voyages into the Jade Sea, Qarth, and beyond. We've gleaned much from prior expeditions—now it's time to capitalize on that knowledge and bring back even more seeds, riches, and potential magical recruits."

He paused, letting the moment sink in. "And that leaves Helena with Thoren—for emergencies, training new sailors, and defence if trouble arises."

A soft murmur of relief spread through the crowd; many recognized the necessity of a guard ship.

Finally, Harrold Pointed at the designated flagship from which he had once traversed Qarth, Yi Ti, and beyond. "I'll retain the Lily," he announced, "to sail north, accompanied by those who volunteered to join me in rebuilding Moat Cailin."

Harrold explained that each route would carry typical trade cargo—grain, fruit, medicine —and cultivate relationships built during earlier voyages.

Harry stepped forward, staff in hand, to finalize the legionnaire squads for each route. "Two squads per ship, rotating out every few months," he said. "In case you face trouble—pirates, local politics gone sour—you won't be alone."

Captains and first mates nodded, scanning rosters.

"I think our Rune Researchers have some exiting news to share" Harrold

Harrold nodded for Alvin to begin. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he held up a slim metal band etched with intricate runes. "We've been pushing the boundaries of what our bracelets can do," he announced, glancing around the group. "You're all aware they can send an SOS signal—a silent call that pings every wearer. But we've added something new: voice-recording and messaging."

A murmur of surprise spread. Captain Elissa lifted an eyebrow. "Voice messages? Like… illusions of someone talking?"

Alvin shook his head, tapping a glowing rune near the band's inner edge. "Not exactly illusions. Think of it as capturing a snippet of your voice using runic magic, storing it briefly inside the bracelet, and then sending it to another bracelet keyed into the same network. The other bracelet can replay the message."

Harrold stepped forward, examining the softly glowing symbol. "Go on and demonstrate."

Alvin's smile widened. He raised the bracelet to her mouth, speaking clearly: "Testing the new voice feature… the day is bright, and we have much to do."

As soon as his words ended, a faint shimmer pulsed across the runes. He pressed a different symbol—an interlocking swirl of lines—and a soft hum emanated from the bracelet. Moments later, Harry, who stood beside Harrold, felt his own bracelet glow.

With a curious tilt of his head, Harry tapped the matching swirl on his band. A warm, disembodied recording of Alvin's voice played back for all to hear: "Testing the new voice feature… the day is bright, and we have much to do."

A ripple of startled delight spread among the listeners. Thoren, one of the ship captains, let out a low whistle. "In all my travels, I've never seen something quite like that. No more scribbling letters or illusions we can't store. We can hear the person's voice, exactly as they spoke."

Alvin cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention back to him. "The process is simple but relies on a set of new runes—ones I adapted from illusions, memory runes, and the communication wards we established. It's a short-term recording, meaning you can't store messages forever. But each message can linger for about a day if you don't 'open' it. Once you do, the runes release it in audio form."

"Can it be sent anywhere?" Captain Elissa asked, looking pointedly at Harrold. "Or must we be close to each other?"

Alvin spread his hands. "Range is limited by the Magical Nodes, but since we've connected all these bracelets through Orsus's nexus, as long as you're not too far from one of the ships,you can send a message because we now have the Crystal Brain installed on all ships. We're Planning to expand the Magical Nodes throughout Essos, Westeros and Far East. We are developing crystal nodes just for communication purposes. Right now we only have two of those. Those are to be installed in Braavos and Moat Cailin."

Harry tested the feature again, tapping the swirl rune to respond. "This is Harry speaking. Thank you for your demonstration, Alvin." A moment later, Alvin's bracelet glowed and played his voice back.

Harrold let a measured satisfaction show on his face. "This feature will be invaluable for our trade routes. Imagine you're out at sea near Bear Island, and you spot a suspicious vessel—rather than sending only an alarm, you can provide details. Or if you discover a great potential trade deal in Braavos, you can share it immediately in your own words."

Elissa folded her arms, considering it. "This saves us from second-guessing handwriting and illusions. Could be a game-changer, especially if we run into, say, pirate trouble or find unexpected opportunities."

A low murmur of agreement followed, many glancing at their own bracelets with new respect.

Alvin rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "One note: each message can only be about a minute long. After that, the memory runes run out of space. And you have to be mindful that you can only have two or three unplayed messages stored at once. So don't spam the network with idle chatter."

He paused, shooting a quick, knowing grin at a few grinning first mates. "Also, if the wards in your area are disrupted, the sending might fail. The message will just fizzle."

Harry nodded, absorbing the details. "We'll train the crews to be concise, then. Keep it short and necessary. The last thing we need is a backlog of half-finished messages."

As dawn's first light spread across Orsus's sky, each captain led their crew aboard, with legionnaire squads forming neat lines along the piers. The gentle roar of waves against the hulls set a subtle, anticipatory rhythm. One by one, they sailed out:

Harrold stood on the pier, the salty wind ruffling his hair. He exchanged a final handshake with Harry, feeling both pride and a hint of sorrow.

"Take care of them," Harrold murmured, eyes flicking to the departing vessels.

Harry gripped his staff with newfound resolve. "We will. They'll take care of us, too."

For a moment, Harrold glimpsed clones and crew members leaning over the rails, offering waves, some with anxious faces, others brimming with excitement. The legionnaires glowed with discipline, ready for whatever seas might bring.

One final ship—Harrold's own—remained waiting for him at the end of the pier. The flagship was prepared for its course to the North, sails furled and cargo stowed. Onboard, a select cadre of clones and loyal sailors awaited his signal. In the morning's hush, he turned to the small crowd left behind—Orsus's administrators, the magical recruits, and legionnaires who had no sea assignments.

As Harrold ascended the gangplank of his flagship, Captain Elissa could be seen in the distance, scanning the horizon while her ship vanished. A legionnaire on Harrold's deck whispered concerns about rumored pirates near Bear Island, but Harrold only reassured him with a quiet confidence.

Harry lingered on the pier, staff in hand, exchanging a final nod with Harrold—an unspoken promise to protect Orsus. The other clones beside Harry cast sidelong looks at the leaving vessel, some betraying anxious hopes that the new trade web and Harrold's northern ambitions would knit the entire realm closer together.

With dawn fully broken, Harrold's flagship hoisted its anchor. Slowly, it drifted away from Orsus's harbor, leaving behind the newly minted network of ships fanning out across Essos, Westeros, and beyond. The banners, bright in the sunlight, signaled unity, determination, and the promise of a better future carried upon the seas.

"Set course for the North," Harrold commanded softly to his clone at the helm, steeling himself for the journey ahead. "And may Orsus stand strong in our wake."

As the last glimpses of the island's wards faded behind him, Harrold felt both the weight of responsibility and a spark of anticipation. The North awaited—Moat Cailin's ruin beckoned to be reclaimed and fortified, fulfilling the vow that brought him across these seas in the first place. The horizon opened wide, and Harrold, confident in the new trade routes and the caretaker he left behind, sailed forth into the next grand chapter of his ever-evolving legacy.

However, his first step before going back to the North is – Braavos.

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.