Harrold felt a faint flutter of nostalgia as the Titan of Braavos loomed overhead, its colossal bronze face peering down at the passing ships. The wide lagoon stretched before him in shades of gray and silver, reflecting the city's hundred islands and slender canals. It had been months since he last navigated these waters, and while his mind was largely fixed on his looming journey to the North, there were still matters to attend to in this bustling Free City.

A small greeting party awaited on the docks near the Purple Harbor, where stone archways and tall lampposts threw dancing reflections across the water. Among them were several of the magicals he had left behind in Braavos—people gifted with faint or moderate magical sparks who had pledged loyalty to him and Orsus. He disembarked his flagship, adjusting his cloak against the city's damp breeze.

A short woman with cropped brown hair stepped forward, smiling broadly. Lyessa Morin, one of Harrold's earliest Braavosi recruits, bowed in greeting. "My lord, welcome back. We wondered if you'd return before winter set in."

Harrold inclined his head. "I'm glad to see you all well. How have things progressed since I left?"

Lyessa gestured for him to follow. Alongside her walked Averic and Mina, two other magical recruits who had once eked out precarious livings on Braavos's backstreets. Each carried themselves with newfound confidence—Harrold noticed their improved attire and the subtle runic bracelets on their wrists.

Mina spoke eagerly, "We've been busy, my lord. The coin and instructions you provided helped us secure some warehouses near the Fishmarket Canal. We also rented a pair of shops—one by the Ragman's Harbor and another closer to the Iron Bank's district."

Harrold kept pace, his boots echoing on the damp cobblestones. "Warehouses and shops—that's excellent. You've begun facilitating trade routes for Orsus?"

Lyessa smiled. "Yes, exactly. For now we've arranged for local merchants to store goods in those warehouses. We take a small fee on each transaction. Once we have our own products to sell and store, we have space and shops."

They led Harrold past winding canals and slender bridges, the city's soft twilight casting reflections of flickering lanterns on the water. At a modest warehouse near the canal steps, Harrold paused. The wooden doors bore the mark: a stylized griffin etched in Midnight blue.

Lyessa pulled the doors wide, revealing a cavernous interior lined with crates. Workers bustled about, tallying goods or re-stacking sacks of dried fish and barley. The acrid smell of brine and sawdust filled the air.

Averic gestured proudly to the bustle. "We will handle shipments from your routes—ships that come to Braavos with produce and other trade goods."

Harrold gave a nod of approval.

They walked on, exiting the warehouse to follow a narrow footbridge toward an office building—one of the small shops they rented. On the way, Harrold glanced at the quieter streets, turning to Lyessa. "And the recruits? Those magical talents who might want refuge in Orsus… how fares that endeavor?"

A flicker of unease touched her face. "That's… slowed, my lord. In your absence, we scouted every corner of Braavos—taverns, back alleys, even rumored enclaves of hedge-wizards. Many were either uninterested in leaving or—" She hesitated. "We found them too late. Some vanished or ended up at the mercy of local crime lords."

Averic let out a sigh, arms folded. "We've all but recruited everyone who'd say yes. The city's changed—word spread that we were searching for people with odd gifts, so those left are either in deep hiding or unwilling to trust us."

Harrold processed this quietly, an undercurrent of disappointment mingling with acceptance. "It was bound to happen. You did well to gather as many as you did. Perhaps future trade missions will yield better leads. For now, if no new magicals emerge, shift focus to stabilizing these businesses."

Mina nodded. "Yes, my lord. We'll do just that."

Inside the dining room of Harrold's mansion, they settled around a large table covered with receipts and ledgers. A single lantern illuminated the space, revealing Braavosi script scrawled in notebooks, a half-finished pot of tea, and a rough chart of the canals.

Harrold placed a hand on the table, meeting each recruit's eyes. "Our next ships should arrive soon, bringing more goods from Orsus and beyond. Keep an ear out for potential sabotage. Braavos is a city of secrets—someone might try to extort or muscle in on these warehouses."

Lyessa crossed her arms. "We're prepared, my lord. We have illusions, some wards on the shop's doors, and a handful of loyal watchers. And we Thank you for the two suad of soldiers you are leaving here."

Averic tapped the ledger. "We've also started forging quiet alliances with a few lesser Braavosi merchants—those who dislike the bigger fish controlling the major trade markets. They pay small fees to store goods under our protection. Everyone benefits."

Harrold found himself genuinely impressed. "Excellent. As for the magicals you have already recruited, I assume they departed for Orsus by the last ship?"

Mina gestured in affirmation. "Yes, a few months ago. They were eager to leave the city behind. We hear they're doing well, learning from your clones."

Harrold allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. At least that part of the plan thrives. "Continue focusing on trade expansions, but remember, we don't overreach. Maintain a low profile, ensure the Iron Bank remains neutral.

"You've done marvelously," Harrold said softly. "Maintain what you've built. If circumstances change—if new opportunities for recruitment arise—send word through the runic communication system."

Mina bowed. "We'll keep at it, my lord, and wait for more instructions from Orsus or from you personally."

A brisk morning breeze off the Braavosi lagoon heralded yet another day of negotiations. Harrold stood on the waterfront, gazing across at the line of timber-framed shipyards. A tangle of tall masts and half-finished hulls dominated the skyline, their skeletal forms silhouetted against the rising sun. He smoothed his cloak, glancing at a small roll of parchments tucked under his arm—drawings and notes he had sketched out overnight.

Standing nearby, Master Teravo, a seasoned shipbuilder with graying hair, gestured for Harrold to follow him into a spacious workshop. Sawdust and the tang of freshly cut wood hung in the air. Two other shipwrights—Nimmur and Desron—fell into step behind, exchanging puzzled glances at the unusual hush of this early-morning meeting.

"Lord Gryffindor," Teravo began, a polite tilt of his head acknowledging Harrold's name. "Welcome back. We've heard you have new ideas for a vessel… though the details are sparse."

Harrold nodded, unrolling his parchments onto a low work table. "I'd like you to build me a small ship—fifty feet in length, nimble, capable of swift maneuvers. Something akin to a sloop, but with a stronger frame."

The shipbuilders exchanged curious looks, eyes drifting to the simplistic outlines on the parchments. The design was peculiar: the deck layout was reinforced, with curious bulkheads that didn't align with normal cargo needs.

Desron's brow furrowed. "And you're certain you want only fifty feet on the keel? Usually, for any armed or specialized vessel, you'd go bigger for stability."

Harrold cleared his throat, choosing his words with care. "It must remain small and agile. My… ventures require speed over large cargo capacity. I need a shallow draft, too, so it can navigate rivers or tighter waters if necessary."

Nimmur traced a finger over the blueprint. "You've indicated a reinforced beam at both bow and stern… but no elaborate cabin space. There's extra bracing along the gunwales—" He paused, casting Harrold a perplexed glance. "Are you certain? This looks like you're planning to mount something heavy up front and back. Cargo, is it?"

Harrold's lips tightened. "Yes, cargo. Tools, you might say. I'd like the deck to be open, with enough space for a crew to move freely. Focus on structural reinforcement at the bow and stern. And please, no questions about the final fittings."

Teravo's eyes narrowed with professional curiosity. "This is an unusual request. We typically add some kind of mast for a sail, yes? But you want rigging that can handle quick tack changes and—these are the specs you gave us… it looks almost overbuilt for a ship of this size."

Harrold raised a hand gently, halting further probing. "Your job is to build it exactly as I specify. I'll handle the rest. Trust me, if it sails well, you'll have done your part."

The three builders exchanged uneasy glances. They'd constructed merchant cogs, caravels, even a few specialized war galleys for Braavosi merchants, but never anything quite like this. Yet Harrold's coin spoke volumes, and they had no cause to refuse a paying client. Besides, Braavos encouraged open-mindedness in maritime matters—or at least, it tolerated them if the gold was good.

Harrold unrolled an additional parchment, showing more intricate cross-sections. "I want enough deck space and bracing at the bow for a heavy mount, and similarly at the stern. Reinforce the keel from midship to sternpost. I'd like an aft cabin, but minimal—just enough for a handful of men to bunk, plus some supplies."

Nimmur peered at the drawings. "You realize a short deck might hamper normal cargo stowage, or hamper rowers if you plan oars—"

Harrold shook his head. "No oars. This is primarily sail-driven, with an additional method of propulsion I'll install later." He cleared his throat quickly, deflecting the line of thought. "Focus on the hull's integrity and minimal draft. I'll see to the, ah, specialized additions at a separate facility."

Teravo frowned but nodded. "We'll do as you say, Lord Gryffindor. We can start laying the keel once we finalize your timbers. Are you certain about using that lighter oak for the hull? Most warships use heavier wood for durability."

Harrold forced a tight smile, carefully picking his words. "Yes. Speed is priority. Lighter oak—reinforced at strategic points. We can incorporate some runic enhancements once it's afloat." The mention of runes typically raised eyebrows among ordinary craftsmen, but Teravo and his companions had heard rumors of Harrold's magical dabblings. They simply nodded warily.

They spent the next hour scrawling notes, measuring possible beam widths, discussing sail rigging. The shipwrights pressed questions about why the design called for minimal crew quarters or how many men Harrold expected to operate the vessel. He remained vague, giving half-answers about "elite teams" or "quick missions." Finally, the three shook their heads with bemused acceptance.

Desron rubbed his chin. "This is the strangest commission I've had in years, my lord, but if your coin is good, we'll craft it to your demands. You'll have your fifty-foot hull, reinforced bow and stern, swift rig, and shallow draft."

Harrold exhaled, relieved. "Good. I appreciate your willingness to do this without prying further. The plans for the top deck… they're final, no modifications needed."

The master builder, Teravo, gave a curt nod. "We prefer to understand a vessel's purpose for best results—but we'll keep our peace. We'll begin construction within the week." He eyed the blueprint again, still uneasy. "Though I must say, if you're using it for any, ah, typical maritime tasks, you might find the design… unusual."

Harrold's smile was tight. "I'm sure we'll manage. Once it's done, I plan to transport it to my facilities for finishing touches."

Once outside the workshop, Harrold breathed in the fresh sea air. Two of his clones—Clone Seraph and Clone Alden—had quietly lingered by a neighboring pier, waiting for him to conclude. Their eyes flicked with curiosity as they saw the builders leave in a swirl of hushed murmurs.

"Did they suspect your plan to mount cannons, my lord?" Alden asked quietly, keeping his voice low so no Braavosi passersby would overhear.

Harrold shook his head. "No. They suspect it's for some specialized purpose, but cannons are hardly a known standard here in Braavos—especially not 24-pounders on a mere fifty-footer. Once it reaches Orsus, we'll handle the final fittings with cannons and munitions. Let them think it's a fast courier or some outrider vessel."

Seraph tilted her head. "You're certain a pair of 24-pounders won't weigh it down too much?"

Harrold's gaze hardened slightly. "We'll have to balance the deck and craft runic wards to handle the recoil. But it's crucial. We need a nimble, powerful gunboat—especially if we're venturing into more dangerous waters or facing piratical threats on short notice."

A flicker of understanding sparked in the clones' expressions. No more words needed to be exchanged: the Orsus mission demanded every tactical advantage. Cannons on a swift boat might just be the edge they needed against bigger but slower opponents.

That evening, from a discreet vantage point on the docks, Harrold watched as the shipbuilders set to work, hauling lumber onto the slipway. Their confusion about the design lingered in the air, but gold greased every hesitation. Within days, the frame would rise—a skeleton of timber and iron, waiting to be transformed into the small yet formidable gunboat Harrold envisioned.

He turned to his clones with a subtle nod. "We'll send it to Orsus once it's ready. Then we'll fit her with the cannons."

The clones simply nodded in quiet agreement, eyes reflecting shared confidence in their carefully withheld secret. As the moon rose over the Titan, Harrold and his companions vanished into the Braavosi streets, their hearts set on forging yet another tool to protect Orsus's rising power—and preparing, bit by bit, for whatever storms the future might bring.

The Lily, Harrold's flagship, sailed smoothly into the harbor at White Harbor under a crisp autumn sky. Its banner—midnight blue with a silver griffin—fluttered proudly above the deck. Harrold stood at the prow, his cloak rippling in the wind, surveying the bustling port below. Behind him marched ten squads of legionnaires, their discipline evident in their silent, orderly movements as they prepared for disembarkation.

Ronin, Harrold's Ambassador to Winterfell, walked beside him, adjusting his own travel cloak. "You're sure this many guards aren't too ostentatious?" Harry asked, his tone teasing.

Harrold smirked. "If the gold doesn't get there, Rickard Stark might reconsider our deal. Besides, the North respects strength."

Upon docking, Harrold and his entourage were welcomed by a small party led by Lord Wyman Manderly. The lord's portly figure exuded warmth as he embraced Harrold in greeting. "Lord Gryffindor! It is good to see you again. White Harbor has been abuzz with news of your return."

Harrold smiled, clasping Manderly's hand. "It's been far too long, my lord. I bring gold for the Starks, as promised, and a few stories of my travels."

As they walked toward the Manderly manse, the two men exchanged pleasantries. Over a meal of fresh fish, stewed venison, and sweetened bread, Lord Manderly leaned in, curiosity alight in his eyes. "Your ships—how fare they? And your ventures? Rumors swirl, though I know how much truth they often lack."

Harrold chuckled lightly, carefully crafting his response. "The ships have proven their worth. We've sailed to far-off lands—places of great beauty and wealth. We've traded silks, spices, and other wonders. The world is vast, my lord, and the opportunities endless."

Manderly's eyes sparkled with interest. "Perhaps one day I'll see these marvels myself. You must show me one of your ships in detail when time permits."

Harrold inclined his head. "Of course. But first, duty calls—I must reach Winterfell and fulfill my promises."

The journey northward was uneventful, with the ten squads of legionnaires ensuring their safe passage. As Harrold's party approached Winterfell, the towering walls of the ancient keep rose like a protective guardian against the rugged northern landscape.

The Stark household greeted Harrold with warmth. Rickard Stark, ever dignified, offered a firm handshake. "Lord Gryffindor, you honor us with your return."

Harrold bowed slightly. "Lord Stark, it is my pleasure. I come bearing gifts—and, of course, the promised gold."

Lyanna, her youthful energy evident, peeked curiously at the chests carried by the legionnaires. "Is it true you've been to faraway lands with silks and spices? Did you bring any for us?"

Harrold laughed warmly. "Patience, Lady Lyanna. All in good time."

That evening, in the Great Hall of Winterfell, Harrold unveiled his gifts to the Stark family:

For Rickard, a set of decorative daggers with jeweled hilts and scabbards of embossed leather, alongside fine Yi Tish silks in Stark colors. For Brandon, an intricately carved hunting bow from the forests of Yi Ti, along with a quiver of arrows tipped with obsidian. For Benjen, a small blade designed for a boy of his age, its craftsmanship blending beauty and practicality. For Lyanna, a collection of exotic jewelry, including necklaces of jade and silver, and an elegant Yi Tish silk dress.

Lyanna clutched the silk with wide eyes. "It's so soft—it doesn't even feel real!" She twirled, imagining how it might flow as she danced.

Rickard inspected the daggers with a keen eye. "These are remarkable, Harrold. You've outdone yourself."

Harrold inclined his head. "It is only fitting for the family who will soon call me their vassal."

After the gifts, Harrold and Rickard retired to the solar to discuss the upcoming feast to announce Harrold's lordship.

Rickard leaned forward, hands clasped. "We'll summon all the northern lords. It'll take time for some of the farther families to arrive—we should give at least three months' advance notice."

Harrold nodded. "That timeline works well. That gives me enough time to start work on Moat Cailin. And I will bring Food, drink and Cooks so that we can introduce the lords to many exotic flavors of the east."

Rickard's eyes twinkled with approval. "I trust you've thought of every detail."

During his weeklong stay at Winterfell, Harrold joined Brandon for several excursions into the Wolfswood. They rode through the dense, ancient forest, tracking game beneath towering pines.

Brandon grinned as he loosed an arrow, felling a stag in one clean shot. "You've traveled the world, Harrold. Surely the northern woods seem tame by comparison?"

Harrold dismounted, inspecting the stag. "Tame, perhaps. But there's a rugged beauty here—a purity the rest of the world has forgotten." He paused, glancing at Brandon. "And if we're to protect it, Moat Cailin must stand strong."

Brandon nodded, his expression briefly serious. "We'll make it strong. The North is proud, and we don't take promises lightly."

By the end of the week, Harrold had cemented his place among the Starks. As he prepared to leave, Rickard clasped his hand firmly. "You've impressed me, Harrold. The North is stronger for your presence. I'll ensure the lords see the same."

Lyanna waved enthusiastically as the legionnaires began their march south. "Don't forget to bring back more stories next time!"

Brandon and Benjen stood side by side, nodding their farewells, the older brother offering a small grin. "Next time, we'll hunt something bigger."

As Harrold's party turned toward the south, he allowed himself a moment of quiet satisfaction. His plans were falling into place. Moat Cailin, the key to the North, waited ahead. With Rickard Stark's trust and the loyalty of the northern lords on the horizon, the future felt as solid as Winterfell's ancient walls.

The journey southward from Winterfell to Moat Cailin was uneventful but solemn. The towering ruins of the ancient fortress came into view as Harrold's party crossed the treacherous causeway that wound through the Neck's marshy expanse. Fog hung low over the swamps, and the scent of wet earth filled the air. The haunting remnants of twenty ruined towers, with only three still standing, loomed over the landscape—a stark reminder of the North's long and bloody history.

At the edge of the fortress, a group of Crannogmen awaited. Their leader, Lord Edrin Reed, stood at the forefront. He was a wiry man of middling height, his green-gray eyes sharp and observant, clad in simple but well-made leather armor adorned with subtle swamp motifs. His people, known for their resourcefulness and stealth, regarded Harrold and his legionnaires with quiet curiosity.

As Harrold dismounted his horse, Edrin stepped forward, extending a hand in greeting. "Lord Gryffindor, welcome to Moat Cailin. It is a great day for the North to see these walls granted new purpose."

Harrold clasped his hand firmly, his grip respectful but strong. "Lord Reed, your welcome is most appreciated. Moat Cailin is a symbol of the North's resilience, and it will stand strong again, I assure you."

Edrin's lips curled into a faint smile. "The castle has guarded the North for centuries, but its strength has waned. I trust you'll restore it to its former glory."

Harrold glanced at the fortress, its jagged stones and moss-covered walls bearing the weight of time. "I will. With the blessings of the old gods and the help of the North, this will once again be the impenetrable gateway it was meant to be."

After the formalities, Harrold and Edrin walked along the swampy perimeter, their boots sinking slightly into the marshy ground. The Crannogmen followed at a respectful distance, their quiet presence a testament to their discipline.

"Edrin," Harrold began, "the Crannogmen have long been guardians of the Neck. Your people's loyalty and tenacity are unmatched. I would like to offer something in return—something to strengthen your position here."

Edrin tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his gaze. "And what would that be?"

Harrold gestured to the marshlands surrounding them. "Crops. Your lands are rich with water, perfect for cultivating rice—a grain that thrives in marshy soil. I have acquired seeds from distant lands, ones that grow abundantly in such conditions. With proper guidance, your people could have a reliable food source, one that sustains and strengthens."

Edrin's eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of skepticism mingling with intrigue. "Rice… an unusual offer. But the Crannogmen have always made the most of their resources. If it is as you say, it could transform our way of life."

Harrold nodded. "It will. My people will provide you with the knowledge needed to cultivate it. In time, the Crannogmen will not only defend the North but feed it as well."

As they walked, their conversation shifted to more spiritual matters. They stopped near an ancient weirwood tree, its white bark gleaming in the fading light, its red leaves rustling gently in the breeze. Edrin placed a hand on the tree, his expression solemn. "We are a people of the old gods, Lord Gryffindor. The North's strength lies in its faith, in the whispers of the weirwoods."

Harrold mirrored Edrin's reverence, bowing his head slightly. "As are we. My family, though far-flung and shaped by distant lands, never abandoned the old ways. We still observe the rituals, honor the trees, and seek the old gods' guidance."

Edrin's gaze sharpened, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. "Few outside the Neck or Winterfell can claim such faith. The old gods do not often find their followers in foreign places."

Harrold's voice softened, carrying a note of conviction. "The old gods are everywhere, their whispers carried on the wind, their blessings given to those who keep faith. I have seen their power, Edrin. They are not silent. They perform miracles for those who honor them."

Edrin regarded him for a long moment, the weight of Harrold's words settling like mist over the marsh. "Then perhaps the old gods have blessed the North in sending you here. Moat Cailin will need their guidance—and yours."

They continued their walk, entering the central tower where a handful of Crannogmen had set up a temporary base. Harrold noted the cracks in the walls, the sagging beams, and the damp stone floors. He turned to Edrin.

"Rebuilding this will take time and effort," Harrold said. "But it can be done. With stone, timber, and magic, we'll make it stronger than ever."

Edrin nodded. "The Crannogmen will aid where we can. Our resources are limited, but our loyalty is not."

"You've already done much," Harrold replied. "Your people's expertise will be invaluable, especially in mapping and securing the surrounding swamps."

That evening, under the light of the setting sun, Harrold and Edrin stood together in the courtyard of the central tower. The Crannogmen gathered in a solemn circle, their faces lit by the flickering glow of torches.

Edrin handed Harrold a ceremonial key forged from blackened iron. "With this, I formally grant you Moat Cailin, as promised by Lord Rickard Stark. May it stand as the North's shield and your legacy."

Harrold accepted the key with a bow of gratitude. "It will stand, Lord Reed. And with the old gods as our witness, it will become a bastion of strength and hope for all of the North."

That night, as the Crannogmen prepared to depart, Harrold stood atop the central tower, gazing out at the vast marshlands stretching toward the horizon. The fortress was in ruins, its walls crumbling and its towers weathered, but in Harrold's mind's eye, he saw it rebuilt—strong, unyielding, and alive with purpose.

The Crannogmen had left their mark on this place, and Harrold vowed to honor their legacy. Moat Cailin would not only guard the North but serve as a bridge between its people—a symbol of unity and resilience.

Harrold paused at the edge of the ruins, his gaze turning southward. The swamps of the Neck extended as far as the eye could see, their waters glistening in the sunlight. The land to the west was no better—marshy and unstable, unsuitable for farming or building. Only the headwaters of the Fever River, some twenty miles away, offered potential for trade or transportation, but even that would require significant effort to make usable.

His eyes shifted north and east. There, the land began to rise, giving way to firmer ground to build a town, farmland, and other necessary infrastructure. He now control the land east of Moat Cailin until the shores of the Bite. If the Crannogmen had thrived in these challenging conditions for centuries, then so could he and his people.

In the great hall—or what remained of it—Harrold gathered his clones, along with the officers of the legionnaires. A map of the region was spread across a makeshift table, weighted down by stones to keep the corners from curling in the humid air.

Harrold tapped the map with his finger. "The castle will take years to rebuild, even with magic. We cannot afford to wait that long to bring our people here. But the land to the north and east—" He gestured to the area just beyond the castle ruins. "—is solid and fertile enough to support a town and farmland. That must be our priority."

One of the legionnaire officers, a seasoned man named Cassian, furrowed his brow. "You're suggesting we build the town first, my lord? Before the castle?"

Harrold nodded. "Exactly. The town will house our people and serve as a hub for trade and agriculture. Moat Cailin will rise again, but it must happen in stages. First, the foundation for a thriving community—farmland, homes, markets. Then, the fortress."

The morning sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the rugged expanse north and east of Moat Cailin. Harrold rode at the head of a small group of his clones, their horses carefully picking their way across the uneven terrain. The marshes to the south were a stark contrast to the firmer ground they now traversed. The clones spoke in low, thoughtful tones as they surveyed the land that would one day support a thriving town.

Clone Seraph, a meticulous planner with a penchant for practicality, gestured to the open fields ahead. "This area is promising. The soil is workable, and it slopes gently enough to allow for natural drainage. We can start the farmland here."

Harrold nodded, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon. "Agreed. The first priority is food. Without it, no town can survive. But we'll need irrigation to make this work."

Clone Alden, their resident expert on magical applications, tapped his chin thoughtfully. "I've been refining the design of the runic water cubes we used in Orsus. If placed strategically, they can draw moisture from deep underground to create permanent water springs. It would eliminate reliance on the Fever River entirely."

Harrold tilted his head in approval. "Good. If we're drawing water from the ground, we can avoid disrupting the marsh ecosystem. Position the cubes near the farmlands, and we'll use canals to channel the water where it's needed."

Clone Maris, who specialized in agriculture, chimed in as they reached a small clearing. "The climate here is harsher than Orsus, but it's manageable. We can construct greenhouses like we did back on the island, but we'll need stronger wards to protect against frost."

Harrold dismounted, crouching to run a handful of soil through his fingers. It was damp but rich—promising for crops. "The greenhouses will be crucial, especially for the seeds we brought from the East. Start with staples: grains, tubers, and hardy vegetables. Once we've stabilized food production, we'll experiment with the more exotic crops."

Clone Seraph added, "We should also consider weather wards—runic arrays to control the temperature and prevent the worst of the frost. If we can extend the growing season by even a few months, it will make a world of difference."

Harrold stood, brushing his hands off. "Make it a priority. The North's winters are long and unforgiving. If we're to thrive here, we'll need every advantage magic can offer."

As they rode further north, the land began to rise gently, offering a better vantage point. Harrold gestured for the group to stop, and they dismounted, surveying the area below.

"This is where the town will go," Harrold said, his voice steady with conviction. "We'll start small, but it must be built to grow. I won't have another King's Landing on my hands."

Clone Alden raised an eyebrow. "What have we heard about King's Landing, anyway?"

Clone Seraph scoffed. "Overcrowded, filthy, and disease-ridden. Waste disposal is nonexistent, and the streets are a maze of chaos. It's a testament to poor planning."

Harrold crossed his arms, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "We'll avoid those mistakes. The town must be clean, efficient, and expandable. Use runes to manage waste—create conduits to remove it from the town and repurpose it as fertilizer for the farms."

Clone Maris added, "We should also include wide streets and proper drainage systems. The last thing we need is flooding or stagnant water breeding sickness."

Harrold turned to face his clones, his tone thoughtful. "This town will be more than a place to live. It will be a hub of education, governance, and health."

Clone Seraph nodded. "A town hall at the center, then. It can serve as an administrative hub, a meeting place, and a record-keeping archive."

Clone Alden added, "We'll need a hospital—not just for emergencies, but to train healers. With the knowledge we've brought from Orsus and what we'll learn here, it can become a beacon for medical advancements."

Harrold's lips curved into a faint smile. "And a school, to ensure the next generation has the knowledge to continue what we've started. Literacy, history, magical training for those who can use it. The future of the North will be shaped here."

As the group remounted and began their journey back toward Moat Cailin, Harrold allowed himself a moment of quiet reflection. The land before him was raw and untamed, much like the North itself. But in his mind's eye, he could already see it transformed—a thriving town nestled against the fortress's shadow, its people safe, fed, and educated.

He turned to Clone Alden, his voice firm. "We start immediately. Allocate resources, begin drafting plans, and prepare the runic arrays. This will take time, but we have magic, knowledge, and determination on our side."

Alden nodded, determination gleaming in his eyes. "It will be done, my lord."

As the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the land, Harrold felt a spark of anticipation. This was more than a town—it was the foundation of a legacy.

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.