In the shadow of Moat Cailin's central tower, Harrold convened a meeting with a group of magicals who had experience in construction and craftsmanship. A mix of stonemasons, bricklayers, and architects stood around a sturdy wooden table, which was covered in rough sketches, notes, and samples of clay bricks. The air buzzed with quiet excitement; this was not just a practical discussion but the first step toward creating a real community.

Harrold began, addressing the group. "We need homes that are practical, durable, and suited to the North's climate. What do you recommend?"

Rymor, a stout bricklayer with years of experience, rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Stone is ideal for its durability, but brick is just as good for retaining heat—especially if we fire it properly. It's cheaper and faster to work with than stone, my lord."

Fenna, an architect from Braavos who had joined Harrold's cause, nodded in agreement. "Brickwork, especially if we salt-glaze it, will give the houses a polished look. No need for plaster or additional layers—it'll be both functional and aesthetically pleasing."

Harrold leaned over the table, examining one of the clay samples they had collected from the nearby deposit. "We already identified a clay pit not far from here that can provide the material. Let's focus on brick as our primary building block. If we salt-glaze them, the homes will look as good as they function."

The group murmured in agreement.

The conversation shifted to the structure of the houses themselves. Jorin, a stonemason, tapped a piece of parchment with his finger. "For insulation during the colder seasons, every house should have a basement. Stone is best for the foundation—it'll help keep the cold out and provide extra storage."

Harrold nodded. "Agreed. A basement is essential. It can be used for food storage, preserving supplies, or even as a safe retreat during storms or emergencies."

Fenna added, "The ground floor should include common spaces—living areas, a dining room, and a kitchen. These can be open-plan for smaller homes or sectioned off for larger ones."

Rymor spoke up. "Sleeping areas should go on the second floor, my lord. It keeps the warmth from the living areas rising through the house, and it provides more privacy."

Harrold gestured for the group to continue. "What about different sizes? Not every family will have the same needs."

Jorin nodded thoughtfully. "We'll need a mix of homes. For larger families, we can design houses with four or five bedrooms. For smaller ones, perhaps two or three. And for singles or couples without children, we should consider apartments—single-bedroom units that are easy to construct and take up less space."

Fenna picked up the thread. "Apartments can be grouped into small buildings, maybe three or four units per structure. It's efficient and keeps the community compact."

Harrold smiled faintly. "Good. A range of options for different needs. Once we've designed the basics, we'll offer them to the people. Let them choose what suits their families best before construction begins."

The discussion turned to logistics. Rymor spoke confidently. "If we set up a proper brick kiln, we can fire enough bricks for dozens of houses within weeks. The clay deposit is more than adequate, and we can supplement with stone for basements and structural reinforcements."

Harrold nodded. "Begin work on the kiln immediately. We'll also need carpenters to craft doors, windows, and beams. I'll see to organizing a team."

Fenna added, "Once we have the basic designs finalized, we can begin training others to assist in the construction. Many of the recruits from Orsus have little experience with building, but they can learn quickly."

Rymor, the experienced bricklayer, tapped the edge of a rough sketch with his finger. "The fire is the heart of a home. Every Northerner will tell you that. We shouldn't lose the fireplaces altogether."

Harrold nodded in agreement, leaning forward. "I'd never suggest eliminating them. But we can't rely solely on open flames, especially in the harshest winters. We need a way to evenly distribute heat throughout each house."

Fenna, the architect, grinned and pointed to a runic design on the parchment. "We've been experimenting with thermal runes back on Orsus. If we carve these into the walls or floors, we can channel heat throughout the structure. The fireplaces can serve as focal points, but the runes will ensure the heat spreads evenly."

Harrold examined the design, nodding thoughtfully. "That could work. The fireplaces remain for comfort and tradition, while the runes provide stability. How will they be powered?"

Alden, a clone who specialized in magical theory, spoke up. "We can anchor them to a central rune stone tied to a heating charm. A small amount of magical energy can sustain the warmth for weeks. We'll need to make it self sustainable using the ambient magic. Thankfully The north has enough of it.."

The conversation shifted to a topic that sparked animated debate: plumbing. Harrold leaned back, crossing his arms, as Maris, a clone who specialized in logistics, laid out her thoughts.

Maris: "Chamber pots are out of the question. If we're building a new town, we can't cling to outdated practices. Every house, even the apartments, should have a proper toilet and bathroom."

Rymor, ever practical, raised an eyebrow. "Toilets in every house? That'll require water—and a way to get rid of the waste."

Fenna gestured to a new set of sketches. "Here's what we propose. Each house gets a small water tank installed on the roof or in the attic. We can use an Aguamenti spell tied to a rune stone to refill it automatically. The water flows through clay pipes reinforced with runes to reach faucets in the kitchen, bathroom, and anywhere else we need it."

Harrold's lips twitched in amusement. "And the waste?"

Alden: "We've worked on that too. Wastewater and sewage can flow into underground channels reinforced with runes to prevent leaks or blockages. The waste can be redirected to a central facility—perhaps near the marshlands—where it can be treated or used as fertilizer."

Harrold: "Efficient, but discreet. We can't have waste management becoming a public nuisance."

Maris grinned. "Don't worry. The runes will keep it out of sight and mind."

Harrold glanced between the group, his expression thoughtful. "The fireplaces, the bathrooms, the plumbing—these are ambitious plans. But they must also reflect the North. The people here respect tradition. We'll need to make it clear that these advancements are here to complement, not replace, their way of life."

Rymor: "Aye, my lord. The fireplaces stay. The baths and toilets? Well, I think they'll appreciate those soon enough."

Fenna added with a grin: "And if they don't, I'll take the blame."

The group chuckled, the mood lightening.

Harrold traced a line on the map, his voice calm but commanding. "We'll need to construct these in phases. Start with a dozen homes to house the first wave of settlers. From there, we can expand as the population grows."

Alden: "And the water tanks? Should we prioritize them for all homes at once?"

Harrold nodded. "Absolutely. If we're doing this, we're doing it right. The infrastructure must be in place before the people arrive."

As the meeting wound down, Harrold stood, looking out at the distant horizon. "We're not just building houses or a town. We're building the future. Every detail matters—every rune, every brick, every pipe."

The magicals and clones around him exchanged determined looks, their shared vision of the town solidifying. Harrold's voice softened, but his resolve was unshaken.

"Let's make it a place they'll be proud to call home."

The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows over the crumbled towers of Moat Cailin. Harrold and his closest clones gathered in the old great hall, its ancient stones still bearing the scars of centuries of warfare. The air crackled faintly with a sense of latent power—a feeling Harrold had begun to notice more often since arriving in the North.

Alden, one of Harrold's most observant clones, leaned forward over a table cluttered with maps, diagrams, and rune etchings. "It's unmistakable, my lord. The ambient magic of the North is far stronger than what we've encountered in the South or even on Orsus. It's almost as if the land itself is alive with power."

Harrold nodded, his gaze distant as he recalled his own observations. "I've felt it too. The closer we are to the weirwood trees, the stronger it seems. It's as if they're not just sacred to the old gods but actual conduits for magic itself."

Seraph, the clone responsible for magical research, added, "Weirwoods act as a magical nexus, my lord. They don't just produce magic—they recycle and amplify it. The more magic we use in their presence, the more they generate."

Harrold's brow furrowed, his mind already racing with possibilities. "That means we can tap into this network, expand it, and amplify the ambient magic across the North. But we'll need more weirwood trees."

The room buzzed with energy as the clones began brainstorming. Alden leaned forward, his voice steady. "If we can plant more weirwood trees around Moat Cailin and throughout the North, we could dramatically increase the magical flow. But convincing the northern lords to do the same won't be easy. We can't simply tell them it's for magical amplification."

Seraph smirked. "They'll need to believe it's a divine directive. The old gods are deeply ingrained in their culture. If we tie the trees to their faith, they'll plant them willingly—and zealously."

Harrold's lips curled into a faint smile. "Then we'll give them a reason to believe. A ritual to invoke the old gods' blessings—centered around the planting of a weirwood tree. But we'll tie it to something they can feel. Something tangible."

Alden pointed to a series of runic diagrams etched on a scrap of parchment. "We've already been working on large-area climate wards, my lord. If activated during this so-called ritual, they could raise the temperature slightly and stabilize the climate in the affected area. The lords would feel the change almost immediately."

Harrold's eyes gleamed with approval. "They'll attribute the milder climate to the old gods' blessings, not to our magic. And once they see the benefits, they'll clamor to invoke these blessings on their own lands."

Seraph chuckled. "It's a clever trick. The old gods get the credit, and we get a network of magical amplifiers across the North."

As the clones continued refining the details, Harrold leaned back in his chair, lost in thought. The North's ambient magic was a gift, but it was also a responsibility. If properly harnessed, it could secure the future of his people and make the North a bastion of strength unlike any other.

But Harrold knew there was risk in deception. "We're walking a fine line," he said aloud, drawing the clones' attention. "The northern lords are proud, and their faith in the old gods is absolute. If they ever discover the truth…"

Seraph interrupted gently, "They won't, my lord. As long as we're careful, they'll see only what we want them to see."

Harrold nodded slowly. "Let's hope you're right. For now, we focus on Moat Cailin. Begin planting the first batch of weirwood saplings immediately. We'll test the climate wards here before presenting them to the lords."

The meeting had stretched late into the evening, the warm glow of torches casting flickering shadows across the great hall of Moat Cailin. Harrold stood at the head of the table, his clones and magical advisors gathered around him, their attention fixed on his every word. The discussion had turned to the weirwood planting ritual, and Harrold was about to reveal a crucial element to their plan.

Harrold placed a small, glittering crystal on the table, its surface shimmering faintly with an inner light. "This," he began, "is the key to making our ritual both convincing and efficient. A magical seed."

The group exchanged curious glances, one of the magicals leaned closer, his brow furrowed. "A magical seed? I've never heard of such a thing. What is it, my lord?"

Harrold smiled faintly, a flicker of nostalgia crossing his face. "It's a technique I learned in my old world from a dear friend, Neville Longbottom, one of the greatest herbologists I've ever known. Some magical plants don't produce seeds—or, if they do, the seeds are so rare they're nearly impossible to find. To solve this, Neville developed a method to create a 'seed' using the essence of a magical plant."

The room fell silent as Harrold explained. "The process begins with a magical crystal, like this one." He gestured to the glittering object on the table. "Using a ritual, you capture the essence of a magical plant or tree and bind it to the crystal. The crystal then acts as a seed."

"And when you plant this 'seed,' it grows instantly?" Another magical asked.

Harrold nodded. "Precisely. The tree sprouts within moments of planting. Its growth depends on how much magic you feed it. A small burst of magic might give you a sapling a few feet tall, but with enough power, you could grow a fully mature tree—thirty, fifty, even a hundred feet tall."

The group murmured in awe, and Rymor, the practical bricklayer, scratched his chin. "That's… incredible. But how do we control the growth?"

Harrold tapped the crystal lightly. "The ritual used to bind the essence includes safeguards. Once the seed is planted, you channel the magic into it intentionally. It grows exactly as much as you want and no more."

Harrold straightened, his tone shifting to one of command. "We'll create magical seeds for the weirwood trees. During the fake ritual to invoke the old gods' blessings, we'll plant these seeds. The trees will sprout instantly, their growth tied to the magical energy we channel into them."

Alden grinned, his mind already racing ahead. "The lords will see it as nothing short of a divine miracle."

Seraph added, "And if we activate the climate wards at the same time, the temperature shift will solidify the illusion. The lords will have no doubt that the old gods have blessed their lands."

Harrold nodded. "Exactly. The combination of the immediate weirwood growth and the tangible change in climate will make it impossible for them to deny. They'll be begging us to perform the ritual on their lands."

Fenna, the architect, raised a question. "How long does it take to create a magical seed? Can we make enough for this plan?"

Harrold's expression remained calm. "The process is intricate but not slow. With the crystals we have and the ambient magic of the North, we can produce enough seeds for our immediate needs within a week. The clones will oversee the rituals."

Rymor asked, "What about the lords' lands? If they want their own trees, will we need to create more seeds?"

Harrold smirked. "That's the beauty of the plan. Once they see the results here at Moat Cailin, they'll spread the word themselves. By the time we visit their lands, we'll have produced more seeds."

To demonstrate, Harrold retrieved a second crystal from his satchel. He gestured for the group to follow him outside, into the open courtyard of Moat Cailin. The night air was crisp, and the ruins loomed around them as Harrold knelt in the center of the yard.

He placed the crystal in a shallow hole he had prepared earlier, then stood, raising his hands. "Watch closely."

With a focused gesture, Harrold channeled a steady stream of magic into the crystal. The air shimmered, and the ground trembled slightly. Within seconds, a sapling weirwood shot up from the earth, its white bark and red leaves glowing faintly under the moonlight. Gasps rippled through the group.

Alden muttered, "That's… incredible. A weirwood, just like that."

Harrold turned to face them, his expression calm but triumphant. "This is what the lords will see during the ritual. And when we activate the climate wards, the North will truly feel the old gods' blessing."

As they returned to the great hall, Harrold placed the remaining crystals back on the table. "This isn't just about tricking the lords. It's about strengthening the North. The weirwoods are more than symbols—they're magical nexuses. By planting more, we're creating a network that will amplify the North's magic and secure its future."

Seraph nodded. "And with the lords believing they're invoking the gods' blessings, they'll protect these trees with their lives."

Harrold smiled faintly. "Exactly. The old gods will grow stronger, and so will we. Now, let's get to work. We have a lot of seeds to make."

The group dispersed, their minds buzzing with the monumental task ahead. Harrold lingered by the newly grown weirwood sapling, its leaves whispering softly in the breeze. In its reflection, he saw not just a tree, but the foundation of a new North—one that would thrive under his guidance.

Standing on the gently sloping land northeast of Moat Cailin, Harrold surveyed the vast space where the new town would soon rise. The fortress would take years to rebuild, its stones heavy with history and its walls demanding meticulous restoration. But the town? That was immediate—a necessity to house his people, create a thriving community, and establish the foundation for his plans. Harrold's thoughts turned inward, envisioning his own place in this burgeoning settlement.

Harrold stood with Alden and Seraph, pointing to a flat patch of ground marked for his future residence. His mind buzzed with ideas, not of grandeur, but of practicality and comfort. The castle will be a symbol, a fortress for the ages. But I need a home—a place to live, work, and plan while the larger project unfolds.

The house he envisioned would be both functional and reflective of his aspirations: a stately yet understated residence nestled within the new town. Large enough to accommodate his needs, yet not so grand as to overshadow the town itself. A space for leadership, research, and rest.

Over the next few days, Harrold sketched his ideas onto parchment, refining them with each iteration. His clones watched as he poured over details, their own input shaping the practicality of the structure.

The Basement

In his private moments, Harrold considered the basement. "It will house my workshop," he murmured to himself, drawing out the dimensions. I need a space to conduct experiments, craft runes, and store magical artifacts. And storage rooms—for supplies, documents, and rare materials brought from Orsus.

His quill scratched against the parchment as he added cooling runes for one storage room, intended to preserve potions and perishables.

Harrold imagined the first floor as the heart of the house, a space for work and community.

Library and Study: This will be where I think and plan, he mused. The library would house the books and scrolls he had collected—knowledge from both Orsus and the East. The adjoining study, connected by a single arched doorway, would be a quiet retreat, perfect for poring over maps or drafting plans.

Formal Dining Room: "For hosting the northern lords," Harrold explained to Alden. "When the time comes, appearances will matter."

Informal Dining and Kitchen: The informal dining area would be adjacent to a large, functional kitchen. A place for comfort, Harrold thought. Not every meal needs ceremony.

Living Room: He pictured it warm and inviting, with a grand fireplace at its center. "This room," Harrold said aloud, "will remind visitors that we're building more than walls and fields—we're building a community."

Staff Rooms: Behind the kitchen, Harrold designated a small but efficient area for the house staff, ensuring they had comfortable quarters and a separate entrance.

The second floor was where Harrold allowed himself a touch of indulgence.

Owner's Suite: His bedroom would include a private sitting room, a walk-in closet, and an en suite bathroom equipped with magical fixtures. A space to recharge and think, he thought, sketching out the proportions. The sitting room would double as a private retreat for quiet evenings.

Guest Bedrooms: Harrold added three additional bedrooms, each with its own bathroom. For visiting dignitaries or trusted companions, he thought. Practicality dictated that these spaces would also serve as temporary accommodations for anyone requiring them during the construction of the town.

Harrold stood back, studying his design. "We'll build it with brick, salt-glazed to reflect the Northern aesthetic," he said to Seraph, who had joined him. "The roof will be steep to shed snow, and we'll reinforce the walls with runic heating to keep the cold out."

Seraph glanced at the sketch. "And plumbing? Auguamenti tanks?"

Harrold nodded. "Every fixture will have running water—kitchen, bathrooms, and workshop. The runic wards we discussed will regulate temperature and ensure the pipes don't freeze in winter."

Harrold's vision extended beyond his own home. "This house isn't just for me," he explained to his clones. "It's a model. A symbol of what this town can become. Functional, efficient, and resilient against the Northern winters."

Alden grinned. "You're setting the bar high."

Harrold chuckled. "Would you expect anything less?"

As the design was finalized, Harrold felt a sense of satisfaction. The house wasn't just a building; it was a statement of purpose. This is where I'll plan the North's future, where alliances will be forged, and where knowledge will grow.

The looming ruins of Moat Cailin reminded him of the long road ahead, but his home-to-be symbolized the present: the first tangible step toward his vision. A home to anchor the future.

Harrold disembarked from the Hedwig as it docked in the bustling harbor of Braavos, its masts gleaming in the morning sunlight. He was greeted by the familiar hum of shipbuilders hard at work, the scent of salt and wood mingling in the air. This visit was critical—he was here to inspect the newly completed gunboat he had commissioned and to oversee other burgeoning projects that would propel his vision forward.

In the sprawling shipyard, Harrold approached the builders responsible for crafting his newest vessel. The ship was a sleek 50-foot gunboat, its polished hull painted a deep navy blue, trimmed with silver accents that mirrored the aesthetic of Orsus's growing fleet. Its narrow design and reinforced structure screamed speed and durability.

Master Shipwright Callen, a grizzled man with a weathered face, gestured proudly to the boat. "There she is, my lord. Built exactly to your specifications."

Harrold ran a hand along the smooth wood of the hull, inspecting every inch with a critical eye. "She looks perfect, Master Callen. Narrow enough for speed, but stable enough to handle the seas?"

Callen nodded. "Aye. She'll cut through the water like a blade. And we reinforced the stern and bow for whatever heavy equipment you're planning to add."

Harrold's eyes flickered with approval. "Good. She'll serve well. But you've left space for the modifications I requested?"

Callen hesitated, curiosity brimming behind his professional demeanor. "We did, but I must admit, we're all wondering what purpose she's meant for. No ship we've built has had a design quite like this."

Harrold smiled faintly. "Let's just say she'll be an integral part of my fleet's future operations. Nothing more you need to worry about."

Callen chuckled, shaking his head. "As long as she sails true, that's all I care about."

Harrold stepped back, nodding in satisfaction. "Excellent work, Callen. I'll be sending this ship for final fittings. And I'd like to place an order for nineteen more just like her."

The shipwright's eyes widened. "Nineteen, my lord?"

Harrold's tone was firm but encouraging. "I know it's ambitious, but your team has proven capable. I'll expect them all delivered over the next year."

Callen straightened, his pride evident. "Consider it done, my lord. We'll get to work immediately. Now that we have built the prototype, we can build 2 ships per month."

After inspecting the gunboat, Harrold made his way to a modest but well-kept office building in the heart of Braavos, where his employees oversaw various business ventures. He entered the main room, where Eldin, the head administrator, greeted him with a respectful bow.

"My lord, welcome back. Everything is progressing as planned," Eldin said.

Harrold nodded, motioning for Eldin to join him at a nearby table covered in ledgers and reports. "Good. But there's a matter I want us to prioritize—paper production."

Eldin raised an eyebrow. "Paper, my lord? The world seems content with parchment."

Harrold leaned forward, his tone thoughtful yet decisive. "Content doesn't mean efficient, Eldin. Parchment is expensive, time-consuming to produce, and limited in scale. Paper is cheaper, faster, and more versatile. With proper paper, we could revolutionize communication, documentation, and education."

Eldin stroked his chin. "And how would we produce it? Parchment relies on animal hides, but paper…?"

Harrold gestured toward a sketch he had prepared earlier. "Paper is made from wood pulp. The discarded wood from shipbuilding, sawmills, and even construction could be repurposed. Braavos already has the infrastructure—we just need to refine the process."

Lyssa, one of the staff members who had been quietly listening, interjected, "My lord, if we're producing paper, could this also pave the way for… printing?"

Harrold smiled. "Exactly. That's the long-term goal. Once we have a reliable paper supply, we can begin designing printing presses. Imagine the power of books, ledgers, and even newspapers becoming widely available."

Eldin's eyes lit with understanding. "This could change everything, my lord. But we'll need capital to start the operation."

Harrold waved a hand. "You will have it. Start small and we can scale up as the demand grow."

Harrold returned to Moat Cailin under the soft glow of a setting sun, the marshes bathed in hues of gold and green. The progress on the new town was evident—foundations had been laid, and bricks for the first houses were already being fired in the makeshift kilns. But his thoughts were focused on the upcoming feast at Winterfell and the opportunity it presented to solidify his influence over the North.

The next morning, Harrold stood in the central hall of Moat Cailin, now partially restored, addressing a select group of legionnaires, clones, and magicals. The two squads of legionnaires, clad in their newly designed armor suited for the North, stood at attention. The magicals and clones, each handpicked for their skills and loyalty, listened intently.

"The feast at Winterfell will be more than a celebration. It's an opportunity to showcase our strength, our unity, and, most importantly, the blessings of the old gods."

Alden, one of the senior clones, stepped forward. "You're planning to perform the ritual there, aren't you?"

Harrold nodded. "Exactly. With all the northern lords in attendance, this is our chance to set the foundation for the North's magical network. The ritual will involve planting a weirwood tree, and during that time, we'll activate the climate wards around Winterfell. The lords must see and feel the blessings firsthand."

The discussion turned to logistics. Cassian, the officer in charge of the legionnaires, asked, "How many should accompany us, my lord?"

Harrold: "Two squads will suffice for protection. We don't want to seem too militarized, but we also can't appear vulnerable."

Seraph, the clone managing magical operations, added, "We should also bring the magical seeds and the rune stones for the wards. I've already prepared a set tailored for Winterfell's geography."

Harrold nodded in approval. "Good. The selected clones and magicals will carry the supplies discreetly. This ritual must appear completely natural to the lords—an act of divine intervention, not of magic."

Over the next few days, the group prepared for the journey. Supplies were packed, the rune stones carefully stowed in enchanted containers, and the magical seed for the weirwood tree placed under heavy guard. Harrold personally inspected every detail, ensuring nothing was left to chance.

On the morning of departure, the group assembled in the newly established courtyard of Moat Cailin. The legionnaires, in their pristine armor, stood in formation. The magicals and clones carried themselves with quiet confidence, their robes and cloaks blending with the muted colors of the North.

Harrold addressed them: "This journey is more than a visit. It's the first step in shaping the future of the North. Remember, every move we make, every word we speak, will be watched. Let them see the strength and purpose we bring."

With that, the company set off, their banners—silver griffins on midnight blue—fluttering in the wind.

The journey to Winterfell was uneventful but deliberate. Harrold used the time to review the ritual with his team, ensuring every detail was perfect. Around campfires at night, they rehearsed the chants and symbolic gestures that would convince even the most skeptical northern lord of the old gods' blessings.

The group passed through small villages, where curious eyes watched their procession. Harrold made it a point to stop and speak with the locals, offering small gifts and words of encouragement. Every interaction counts, he thought. The North must see us as allies, not outsiders.

As Winterfell's towering walls came into view, Harrold felt a spark of anticipation. The Starks had already begun preparations for the grand feast, and ravens had spread word of his arrival. This was the moment he had been planning for—an opportunity to unite the North under the banner of progress while paying homage to its traditions.

The ritual would be the cornerstone of his efforts, a carefully crafted blend of magic and theater. And with the northern lords gathered, the seeds of his vision would finally take root. Harrold tightened his grip on the reins of his horse, his resolve firm. This is where the North's true future begins.

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.