The journey from Moat Cailin to Winterfell was long but steady, the procession of wagons and soldiers drawing curious glances from smallfolk along the way. Harrold rode at the head of the column, his silver griffin banner fluttering in the crisp northern air. Behind him trailed wagon after wagon, laden with exotic goods, fine foods, and barrels of the finest alcohol from Essos to the Far East.
As Winterfell's towering walls came into view, Harrold couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation. This wasn't just a visit—this was his chance to make an impression on the North's most powerful house and its gathered lords.
The gates of Winterfell were open, and the Stark family stood waiting in the courtyard. Lord Rickard, clad in a heavy woolen cloak, stepped forward first, his sharp eyes scanning the procession with measured curiosity. Beside him were Brandon, his eldest son and heir, Benjen, the youngest, and Lyanna, who was barely containing her excitement at the grand arrival.
Harrold dismounted smoothly, his traveling cloak dusted with the journey but still fine enough to display his status. He approached Lord Rickard with a respectful bow.
"Lord Stark, it's an honor to return to Winterfell."
Rickard, clasping Harrold's arm in greeting, replied with a smile, "And it's an honor to welcome you back, Lord Gryffindor. I see you've brought quite the company."
Harrold glanced back at the wagons as they rolled into the courtyard. "Indeed, my lord. I thought it only fitting to contribute to the feast. A small token of gratitude for your hospitality."
As the wagons came to a halt, the Stark family and their gathered retainers looked on with growing curiosity. The first wagon was uncovered, revealing barrels of wine and spirits—amber liquids glistening in the sunlight. The second wagon followed, packed with dried fruits, nuts, and exotic spices. The third held bags of rice, unusual grains, and cured meats. By the time the fourth wagon was uncovered, laden with intricate kitchen tools and crates labeled in strange Eastern scripts, even the stoic Rickard couldn't hide his surprise.
Rickard, raising an eyebrow: "This is… an extraordinary offering, Harrold. I dare say we've never seen half these goods in the North before."
Lyanna, her eyes wide with excitement, darted closer to the wagons. "Is that silk? And what are these fruits? They're so colorful!"
Harrold, with a slight smile: "Silk indeed, Lady Lyanna. And those are persimmons and dried dragonfruits, brought all the way from the Far East. But these are not just for display. I've brought chefs skilled in preparing dishes from across the known world. They'll assist in making this feast truly unforgettable."
Brandon, crossing his arms, chuckled. "You're certainly raising the bar, Harrold. I hope you don't expect us to serve food like this every winter."
Harrold, with a playful smirk: "Not every winter, Brandon. Consider this a glimpse of what's possible when trade flourishes. The North may be harsh, but it need not be deprived."
Rickard, now studying Harrold closely: "You're not just a lord, Harrold. You're a man of vision. These goods, this display—it's not just generosity. It's strategy."
Harrold, inclining his head: "You honor me, Lord Rickard. Yes, this is strategy as much as it is goodwill. The North's strength lies in its traditions, but we cannot ignore the opportunities beyond its borders. Trade will bring prosperity, and prosperity will bring unity."
As the wagons were unloaded, the chefs began organizing the goods in Winterfell's kitchens, overseen by Harrold's staff. The Stark family continued to inspect the offerings, their curiosity and excitement growing.
Lyanna, holding a delicate scarf of silk: "I've never seen anything like this. Is this what the ladies of Essos wear?"
Harrold: "Indeed, Lady Lyanna. And in some courts of the Far East, it's said that the quality of one's silk reflects their status. I thought it only fitting that the Starks have the best."
Benjen, inspecting a small vial of spices: "What's this, Harrold? It smells strange."
"That's saffron, Benjen. It's worth its weight in gold and can transform even the simplest dish into something extraordinary."
Rickard, with a thoughtful nod: "You've outdone yourself, Harrold. The lords will talk of this feast for years."
Harrold, his expression softening: "That's the hope, my lord. And when they do, they'll speak not only of the food and drink but of Winterfell's place as the heart of a strong, united North."
The Starks led Harrold inside, their genuine warmth evident in every gesture. The preparations for the feast were in full swing, but Rickard took time to guide Harrold through the halls, exchanging thoughts on the gathering ahead.
Rickard, as they walked: "You've given me much to think about, Harrold. These goods, this feast—it's not just generosity. It's a statement."
"And one I hope the lords will hear clearly, my lord. The North's strength lies in its unity, but unity thrives on prosperity. Trade, cooperation, and a bit of ingenuity can achieve that."
Rickard paused, his eyes meeting Harrold's. "You may yet shape the North, Harrold. Let's see how the lords react."
As Harrold settled into Winterfell, he couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation. The feast would be more than a celebration—it would be the stage for the next step in his plans. And with the Starks' growing support, the foundation for his vision was stronger than ever.
The arrival of lords from across the North brought a flurry of activity to Winterfell. Over the next several days, Harrold observed as banners of wolf, bear, moose, and countless other sigils fluttered over the gates. Each arrival brought with it a procession of retainers, guards, and supplies—reminders of the vastness of the North and its diverse houses.
For Harrold, this was more than a feast. It was an opportunity to study, understand, and ultimately influence the northern lords, many of whom he had yet to meet.
The first arrival of note was Lord Jeor Mormont of Bear Island, a towering man with a no-nonsense demeanor. His armor bore signs of wear, and his entourage was modest compared to others.
As Lord Mormont entered the great hall, Harrold approached, offering a respectful nod. "Lord Mormont, it's a pleasure to finally meet you."
Jeor's piercing gaze settled on Harrold. "So you're the Gryffindor we've heard so much about. Your ships and people brought wealth for us. I am grateful. Brandon, when he visited few months ago spoke highly of you."
Harrold smiled faintly. "I'm honored. Bear Island's reputation precedes it. I trust your journey was uneventful?"
Jeor grunted. "The sea was kind this time, and the roads held firm. But tell me, Gryffindor—what brings a man from the South to the North?"
Harrold met his gaze steadily. "The North's strength. Its people, its traditions, and its future. I believe we can build something here that will endure for generations."
Jeor gave a slight nod, his expression unreadable. "Words are easy, Lord Gryffindor. Let's see if your actions match them."
Harrold's curiosity was piqued when the banners of Skagos appeared—a mammoth head on a field of stone gray. Lord Magnar Crowl, a stoic and somewhat intimidating figure, entered Winterfell with a small group of men who carried themselves with quiet ferocity.
Harrold greeted him with genuine interest. "Lord Crowl, it's rare to see a lord from Skagos at a gathering like this."
Crowl's voice was deep and deliberate. "The Starks called, and we answered."
Harrold observed the man closely, noting the primitive yet steadfast nature of his dress and demeanor. "Your lands are said to be among the most rugged in the North. I admire your people's resilience."
Crowl gave a small nod, his sharp eyes assessing Harrold. "Resilience is born of necessity. And you? You're an outsider, yet you claim the North. Why?"
Harrold's reply was measured. "Because I see what the North can become—not just a collection of lords, but a unified force that can shape the future."
Crowl's lips curled into a faint smile. "We shall see, Gryffindor. Words are the seeds; actions are the roots."
The arrival of Lord Roose Bolton sent a shiver through the gathered retainers. The pale lord, with his calm and unnervingly polite demeanor, dismounted with a grace that belied his reputation.
Harrold greeted him cautiously. "Lord Bolton, welcome to Winterfell."
Bolton's pale eyes studied Harrold with interest. "Lord Gryffindor, I've heard tales of your travels. An intriguing man with intriguing ideas."
Harrold maintained a calm exterior. "And I've heard of the Dreadfort's storied history. Your house's reputation for precision and discipline is admirable."
Bolton's thin smile betrayed little. "Flattery is a southern art. Tell me, Gryffindor, do you plan to bring your southern ways to the North?"
Harrold's smile didn't falter. "No, my lord. Only the best of what I've learned from beyond these borders. The North's strength lies in its traditions, but every sword needs a sharp edge."
Bolton tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "Indeed. I look forward to seeing how sharp yours is."
As Harrold moved among the lords, his mind cataloged their personalities, alliances, and potential. Each of them is a piece of the puzzle, he thought. Jeor Mormont's strength, Wyman Manderly's resources, Galbart Glover's practicality—they all bring something unique to the table.
Yet, his greatest focus remained on the upcoming ritual. The northern lords' faith in the old gods was his key to binding them together under a unified vision. This feast will be more than a celebration—it will be the first step in shaping the North into a force that can stand against any threat.
As the last banners were raised and the great hall filled with the clamor of northern voices, Harrold felt a surge of determination. The stage was set. Now, it was time to act.
The great hall of Winterfell was alive with the sounds of celebration: roaring fires crackled in the hearths, the clash of mugs and platters echoed, and the low hum of conversation filled the air. Long tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, fresh bread, exotic fruits, and barrels of ale and wine from across the known world.
At the high table, Lord Rickard Stark stood, his presence commanding as he raised a hand to silence the hall. The lords and ladies of the North turned their attention to him, their respect for the Warden of the North evident in their quiet deference. Harrold sat to Rickard's left, his expression composed but inwardly brimming with anticipation.
Rickard's voice carried easily across the hall, firm and steady. "Lords and ladies of the North, welcome to Winterfell. Tonight, we gather not only to feast but to celebrate our unity and our strength. It is rare to see so many of you under one roof, and for that, I thank you."
He paused, letting his words settle before continuing. "But tonight, we also celebrate a new addition to the North—a man who has already proven his worth, his loyalty, and his vision for our lands."
The lords exchanged curious glances as Rickard gestured to Harrold. "Lord Harrold Gryffindor of Moat Cailin. It is time to formalize what has long been discussed."
Rickard stepped forward, his voice steady and ceremonial. "By the authority vested in me as Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell, I proclaim Harrold Gryffindor the rightful Lord of Moat Cailin, in perpetuity. Let all here bear witness: his lands and title are recognized and protected under the banners of House Stark."
The hall erupted into applause, though a few lords exchanged cautious looks. Harrold stood, bowing his head respectfully to Rickard before stepping forward.
Harrold dropped to one knee before Rickard, his voice strong and clear as he spoke. "I, Harrold Gryffindor, hereby swear my fealty to House Stark, to Winterfell, and to the North. I pledge my loyalty, my sword, and my lands to the service of the North and its people. May the old gods bear witness to my oath."
Rickard unsheathed his sword—an ancient blade passed down through generations—and rested it lightly on Harrold's shoulder. "Rise, Lord Harrold of Moat Cailin, sworn bannerman of House Stark."
As Harrold stood, the hall burst into cheers. Mugs were raised, and cries of "For the North!" echoed through the air.
With the formalities concluded, Rickard raised his cup high. "To Lord Harrold! May his rule bring strength and prosperity to the North."
"To Lord Harrold!" the lords and ladies echoed, and the feast began in earnest.
Harrold stepped forward, raising a hand to call for quiet. The hall gradually fell silent, all eyes turning toward him. The flickering light of the hearth cast long shadows, highlighting his calm yet determined expression.
"My lords and ladies," he began, his voice steady, carrying effortlessly across the room, "it is an honor to stand before you tonight. I know that for many of you, I am still an unknown—a name whispered in courtyards and halls. A southern name, tied to a southern past."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "But I am here, not as an outsider, but as a man who has chosen the North as his home. I stand before you, not to demand trust, but to earn it. Through my actions, my loyalty, and my service to Winterfell and the North."
The lords exchanged glances, some nodding, others watching Harrold intently. He pressed on.
"I have sworn fealty to House Stark, to Winterfell, and to the old gods who watch over us. My loyalty is absolute, and my purpose is clear: to see the North prosper. To ensure that every man, woman, and child who calls these lands home can share in its success."
Harrold gestured toward the gathered lords. "If any of you find yourselves in need—be it trade, resources, or aid—know that Moat Cailin will stand as a bastion of support. I offer deals that will benefit not just my lands, but yours. For the North is strongest when united, when every house and every banner works together."
The hall remained silent, the weight of his promise settling over the gathering like a northern snowfall.
"I ask for your trust, not freely given, but earned through deeds. And in return, I promise that the North will rise. Together, we will prosper, and every house will have its share of that prosperity."
With his speech concluded, Harrold stepped back and gave a slight bow. The hall erupted in applause, some lords clapping cautiously, others more earnestly. Harrold then turned to the gathered lords and ladies with a smile.
"But words are not enough," he said, a note of humor lightening his tone. "Allow me to offer you something tangible."
At a signal, his retainers brought forth chests and bundles, each carefully marked with the sigils of the houses present. Harrold began distributing the gifts personally, taking a moment to address each lord or lady as they accepted their offering.
To Lord Mormont, a greatsword of exquisite craftsmanship, its hilt carved with bears in homage to his house. "A blade for a lord who knows the weight of steel," Harrold said.
To Lady Donella Hornwood, a set of silks and finely crafted jewelry, befitting her dignity and station. "For a lady whose strength lies in her grace," Harrold remarked.
To Lord Wyman Manderly, a selection of rare spices,wines, silk and dye from Essos. "For White Harbor, where trade and hospitality thrive."
To Lord Bolton, a set of finely wrought steel armor, unadorned but impeccably crafted. "For a lord who values precision and strength."
The gifts continued, each chosen with care, ensuring no house felt overlooked or undervalued. The lords and ladies, even the most skeptical, accepted their offerings with murmurs of appreciation.
Finally, Harrold turned to the Starks, who watched the proceedings with curiosity. The room grew quiet as Harrold's retainers brought forward a chest draped in a rich velvet cloth. Harrold approached the high table and spoke directly to Lord Rickard Stark.
"My lord, my service to the North begins with its heart. To the Starks, I bring a gift of great significance—a symbol of the North's strength and legacy."
He lifted the cloth to reveal the Crown of Winter, its hammered bronze circlet gleaming in the firelight, the black iron spikes wrought in the shape of longswords casting long shadows. Gasps rippled through the hall as the lords recognized the ancient artifact.
Rickard rose slowly, his eyes wide with disbelief. "The Crown of Winter… how is this possible?"
Harrold placed the crown reverently before Rickard and inclined his head. "My lord, after King Torrhen knelt to Aegon the Conqueror, the crown was surrendered. Though it was returned, it was stolen in the years that followed. It passed from hand to hand, lost to the North."
Rickard's voice was low but firm. "And how did you come to possess it?"
Harrold met his gaze evenly. "My ancestors, like yours, were loyal to the North. One of them recovered the crown during his travels. It has remained with my family ever since. But now that the Gryffindors have returned to the North, it is only right that the Starks, the true rulers of the North, hold it once more."
Rickard's hand rested on the crown as he studied Harrold, his expression thoughtful. "This is no small gift, Harrold. This crown is a symbol of the North's strength and its sovereignty."
Harrold inclined his head. "And it belongs with the Starks, my lord. A reminder of what was and what can be again—a North united and strong."
Rickard lifted the crown, its weight palpable, and placed it carefully on the table before him. "The North will not forget this, Harrold Gryffindor. Nor will I."
The hall erupted into cheers, the lords raising their cups to the Starks and the Gryffindor who had returned the North's heritage. Harrold allowed himself a small smile. This was more than a gesture—it was a statement. The North's past, present, and future were now intertwined, and Harrold had cemented his place within it.
The great hall of Winterfell was alive with the clatter of plates, the low hum of conversation, and bursts of laughter from lords and ladies enjoying the bounty of the feast. Long tables were laden with an array of dishes and drinks that were a feast not just for the body but for the senses—exotic spices filled the air, unfamiliar fruits gleamed under the firelight, and vibrant drinks were poured into goblets.
As the feast continued, Harrold made his way among the tables, engaging the northern lords and ladies, explaining the origins and flavors of the offerings they had never encountered before.
Harrold stopped near Lord Wyman Manderly, who was examining a goblet of spiced mead with a raised eyebrow. The drink shimmered faintly, infused with golden hues.
"What is this, Harrold? Mead I know, but this… it tastes of warmth and fire."
Harrold, smiling: "That's Essosi spiced mead, Wyman. It's infused with cinnamon, clove, and a rare herb from the Summer Isles. Perfect for northern winters—warms you from the inside out."
Manderly took another sip, his eyes lighting up. "It's remarkable. Do you think White Harbor could acquire more?"
Harrold nodded. "Easily, my lord. Consider this the start of a flourishing trade route."
Lady Hornwood, seated nearby, raised her goblet of ruby-red wine. "And this? It's sweeter than any wine I've tasted before."
Harrold gestured to the wine. "That's volantene red, made from grapes that grow under the warm sun of Essos. It pairs well with roasted meats and spiced dishes."
She sipped thoughtfully. "Perhaps too sweet for every day, but a treat nonetheless."
At another table, Brandon Stark grinned as he held a small glass of clear, potent liquor. "Now, Harrold, this drink—what did you call it? 'Arak'?"
Harrold chuckled. "Arak, yes. It's distilled from palm sap in the Far East. Strong, isn't it?"
Brandon nodded appreciatively, his grin widening. "Strong enough to make you forget the cold for a while."
Harrold made his way to the tables where the platters of unfamiliar foods were drawing curious glances. He stopped beside Lord Glover, who was poking at a pile of bright yellow grains on his plate.
Lord Glover: "Harrold, what is this? It's… different."
"That's saffron rice, my lord. The saffron is a rare and costly spice from Essos, prized for its color and flavor. The rice itself is from the Far East, a staple there."
Glover took a tentative bite and blinked in surprise. "It's… fragrant. Almost floral."
Harrold nodded. "It's a delicacy in the East, but I have plans with Lord Reed to introduce it to The North as they grow in flooded fields. The neck and the surrounding area is perfect for them."
Nearby, Lyanna Stark was examining a plate of vividly colored fruits—purple dragonfruit, golden persimmons, and vibrant red pomegranate seeds.
"Harrold, these fruits—they look like jewels."
Harrold, smiling: "They're as precious as jewels in the East, Lady Lyanna. That's dragonfruit, known for its sweetness. The golden one is persimmon, soft and honeyed. And the seeds are pomegranate, tart and refreshing."
Lyanna picked up a slice of dragonfruit, her eyes widening as she tasted it. "It's like nothing I've ever had. Sweet but… light."
As the feast progressed, Harrold stopped to explain the preparation of some dishes, drawing the attention of the gathered lords and ladies.
At the head table, Rickard Stark gestured to a platter of spiced roasted lamb. "This lamb is exceptional, Harrold. What makes it so different?"
Harrold leaned forward, his tone engaging. "It's the marinade, my lord. A blend of yogurt, garlic, and spices from the Dothraki grasslands. The yogurt tenderizes the meat, and the spices infuse it with flavor."
Rickard nodded thoughtfully. "I see why the East values its spices so highly."
Meanwhile, Harrold found Benjen Stark staring at a platter of small, golden fried balls. "Harrold, what are these? They're… strange."
Harrold laughed softly. "Those are samosas, Benjen. They're filled with spiced vegetables or minced meat, wrapped in thin dough, and fried until crisp. Try one."
Benjen bit into one and grinned. "Crispy on the outside, soft and warm on the inside. I like these."
As the night wore on, Harrold moved effortlessly between the tables, answering questions, sharing stories of his travels, and offering insights into the dishes and drinks. For many of the northern lords, it was their first encounter with the wider world's flavors—a testament to Harrold's vision of bringing prosperity and diversity to the North.
As Harrold observed the hall—lords laughing over goblets of wine, ladies marveling at silks and spices, and young knights daring each other to try the strongest liquors—he felt a sense of satisfaction. This is how it begins, he thought. With food and drink, bonds are forged, and barriers fall. The North is a land of tradition, but tonight they see a glimpse of what the future could hold.
The feast was more than a meal; it was a statement, one Harrold knew would linger long after the last cup was drained. The North was beginning to open its doors, and Harrold Gryffindor intended to be the one guiding them into a new era.
As the feast at Winterfell began to wind down, the lively clamor of the great hall softened into a comfortable hum of conversation. The warmth of the hearths glowed brightly against the shadows creeping across the stone walls, and the lords and ladies of the North leaned back in their chairs, sated and relaxed.
Harrold stood from his seat at the high table, his presence commanding as he gestured for attention. The hall quieted, and all eyes turned toward him. Rickard Stark, seated beside him, gave a small nod of approval, signaling his support for what was to come.
Harrold's voice carried easily over the subdued crowd, steady and rich with purpose.
"My lords and ladies, as we bring this magnificent feast to a close, I wish to share something deeply meaningful to me and my family—a tradition that has been passed down through generations."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the gathered lords and ladies, their faces a mixture of curiosity and intrigue.
"My family, though long absent from the North, has always retained the old traditions and rituals of this land, even those from the time of the Marsh Kings, who once ruled the Neck. These rituals were not mere superstition but acts of faith—ways to honor the old gods and seek their blessings in times of need."
Harrold's tone deepened, his words imbued with reverence. "The North has always been a harsh land, its winters long, its soil unyielding. But our ancestors believed that through rituals, they could invoke the blessings of the old gods to make their lives easier. To ensure better harvests, to soften the bite of winter, to protect their farms and herds, and to bless their people with fertility and health."
A ripple of whispers spread through the crowd as the northern lords exchanged glances, intrigued by the idea of such ancient practices.
Harrold continued, his voice unwavering. "I have spoken with Lord Rickard Stark, and he has graciously given his permission for me to perform one such ritual of blessing here at Winterfell. This is not merely for show—it is a call to the old gods, to honor them and to seek their favor for the lands and the people of the North."
Harrold's gaze softened as he spread his arms wide. "And so, I invite each of you—lords and ladies, sworn swords, and kin—to witness this ritual at sunset tomorrow. We will gather beneath the heart tree in Winterfell's godswood, where the presence of the old gods is strongest."
He paused, letting the significance of his words sink in. "Let us honor the traditions of our ancestors, not as a gesture of the past, but as a commitment to the future. Let us ask for blessings for the North—for its fields and flocks, its winters and waters, and for all who call it home."
The hall erupted into a mix of murmurs and quiet nods of approval. Some lords, like Jeor Mormont, leaned forward with genuine interest, their respect for tradition evident. Others, like Roose Bolton, remained impassive, their expressions unreadable.
Lord Glover chuckled good-naturedly, raising his goblet. "A blessing to keep the cold at bay? I'll not miss that."
Lord Mallador Locke, ever practical, spoke softly to her neighbor. "If the old gods truly bless the land, it could mean hope for next year's harvest."
Even Lyanna Stark seemed caught up in the moment, her young face alight with curiosity. "Is this something our ancestors truly did, Father?" she whispered to Rickard.
Rickard, his gaze steady on Harrold, nodded solemnly. "The North remembers, Lyanna. And so do the Gryffindors, it seems."
Harrold raised his hands once more, the room quieting again. "Tomorrow, as the sun sets, we will gather. Bring your families, your banners, and your faith. Together, we will honor the old gods and seek their blessings. Until then, rest well, my friends. The North thrives on unity, and together, we shall ensure its strength endures."
The hall erupted into a round of applause and cheers, the anticipation of the ritual adding a sense of purpose and excitement to the evening. Harrold returned to his seat, his face calm but inwardly brimming with satisfaction. The stage is set. The North will see the strength of tradition—and the power we bring to uphold it.
Tomorrow's ritual would be more than a spectacle; it would be a turning point.
As the sun began its slow descent, the gathered lords and ladies of the North made their way to the godswood of Winterfell. The crisp northern air carried a sense of anticipation, the sky streaked with hues of orange and purple. Harrold had chosen a small clearing not far from the ancient weirwood, ensuring the heart tree remained a silent witness to the ritual.
The atmosphere was heavy with reverence, the old gods seeming to watch through the rustling branches.
Harrold stood at the center of the clearing, flanked by several clones and magicals who had assisted in the preparation. Each wore simple robes adorned with runic symbols representing the old gods and the elements—earth, air, water, and fire. In Harrold's hands was the magical seed, a small crystal glowing faintly in the twilight.
The gathered lords formed a wide circle around the clearing, their faces a mixture of curiosity and solemnity. Even the more skeptical among them, like Roose Bolton, stood quietly, watching intently. The godswood was silent, save for the rustling of leaves in the cool breeze.
Harrold stepped forward and raised his hands, his voice carrying across the clearing.
Harrold: "We gather here today to honor the old gods, as our ancestors once did. We seek their blessings—for the land, for the North, and for all who call it home."
He turned to the clones and magicals, who began to chant softly in Latin, their voices rising and falling like waves.
Chanting: "Benedictio deorum antiquorum ad terram nostram veniat. Fertilitatem et abundantiam nobis dona."
("Blessings of the old gods, come to our land. Grant us fertility and abundance.")
Harrold moved with practiced precision, his gestures deliberate and imbued with meaning. He walked to each of the four cardinal points, sprinkling a mixture of enchanted water and crushed herbs onto the ground. At each point, he spoke an invocation.
"To the North, the cold and the unyielding, we ask for strength."
"To the East, where the sun rises, we ask for renewal."
"To the South, where warmth is born, we ask for growth."
"To the West, the end of all journeys, we ask for peace."
As he returned to the center, the magicals stepped forward, marking the ground around the seed with glowing runes carved into the earth. The crowd watched in hushed awe as the runes shimmered faintly, pulsating with life.
Harrold knelt at the center of the clearing, holding the magical seed aloft. His voice rose, filled with authority and reverence.
Harrold: "Oh, gods our ancesstors, nameless deities of stream, forest, and stone, hear our call. Accept this offering, and grant your blessings to the land and its people."
He pressed the glowing crystal into the soil, then cut his palm and let the blood pour into the seed. The chanting grew louder, the runes flaring brighter as Harrold poured his magic into the seed. The ground trembled lightly, and then it happened.
A small shoot burst forth, growing rapidly before the astonished eyes of the gathered lords and ladies. Within a few minutes, it had become a 10-foot weirwood tree, its pale bark and blood-red leaves gleaming in the fading sunlight.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Some lords stepped back in awe, while others, like Lord Reed, fell to their knees, whispering prayers. Lyanna Stark, wide-eyed, clutched her father's arm, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's a miracle."
As the tree's growth slowed and the chanting ceased, Harrold stood, sweat glistening on his brow. He extended a hand toward the tree, tied the ward to the weirwood tree. The runes around the clearing flared one final time as the weather wards activated.
The air shifted immediately. A gentle, warm breeze swept through the clearing, and the temperature increased noticeably, a stark contrast to the evening's earlier cold. The northern lords and ladies shivered, not from discomfort but from awe.
Lord Glover, feeling the change, exclaimed, "By the gods, it's as if summer itself has blessed us!"
Lord Jeor Mormont, his voice gruff yet reverent, murmured, "The old gods walk among us tonight."
Even Roose Bolton, ever composed, looked up at the new weirwood with a flicker of something akin to respect in his pale eyes.
One by one, the gathered lords and ladies fell to their knees, bowing their heads toward the heart tree and the newly grown weirwood. Whispers of prayer filled the air, mingling with the rustling of leaves.
Rickard Stark stepped forward, his voice steady but filled with reverence. "The old gods have blessed us tonight. Let this tree stand as a reminder of their favor and a symbol of the North's strength."
As Harrold watched the scene unfold, satisfaction settled deep within him. They believe, he thought. The North's faith in the old gods is its foundation, and now they see me as part of that foundation. The wards will protect this land, but the belief in their power will unite its people.
As the lords and ladies slowly rose, their expressions filled with wonder and reverence, Harrold stepped forward once more.
"This is but the beginning. The blessings of the old gods will flow through the North as we honor them with our faith and actions. Let this night be remembered as a turning point, where tradition and unity paved the way for prosperity."
The crowd erupted into quiet murmurs of agreement and admiration. Harrold knew he had not only cemented his place among the northern lords but had also laid the groundwork for a future where belief and magic intertwined seamlessly.
As the days passed following the ritual at Winterfell, Harrold found himself inundated with requests from northern lords, their awe and enthusiasm palpable. The ritual had been a resounding success, sparking both reverence and ambition among the gathered nobility. For Harrold, it was a triumph, but it also presented new challenges—and opportunities.
Sitting in the guest chambers provided by the Starks, Harrold gazed out the frost-covered window, the faint sounds of Winterfell bustling below. His mind churned as he replayed the last few days.
They believe, he mused, a small smile playing on his lips. The miracle of the weirwood tree and the sudden drop in temperature have convinced them. Faith is a powerful tool, but now it's a double-edged sword. Their belief has turned into expectation.
He had barely left the godswood after the ritual when the first lord approached him. Lord Glover, his face flushed with excitement, had grasped Harrold's hand and asked, "Lord Gryffindor, could you bring such blessings to our lands? Our fields could thrive, and our people would sing your praises."
Others soon followed: Lady Hornwood, Lord Bolton, and even Lord Crowl of Skagos. Each sought the same ritual for their lands, eager to bring what they now saw as the old gods' favor to their domains.
Harrold leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming on the armrest. It's tempting to say yes to them all, to spread the network of weirwood trees across the North immediately. But haste is dangerous. I cannot overextend my resources or expose too much of the magic behind the miracle.
His gaze shifted to the magical seed on the nearby table, its faint glow a reminder of the work and energy involved in creating such wonders. The ritual at Winterfell was easier because of the heart tree. Its ancient power amplified the magic, making the weather wards seamless. But few, if any, other places in the North have a weirwood as old or powerful.
Harrold had spent the last few days in quiet meetings with various lords, carefully managing their expectations while maintaining their enthusiasm.
Lord Locke found Harrold while he was breaking fast the next day: "Lord Gryffindor, my people would flourish under the old gods' blessings. If you could perform the ritual there, our fields would yield bounty even in the harshest years."
Harrold, with a warm smile: "My lord, I would gladly help bring the old gods' favor to your lands. But the ritual here at Winterfell was uniquely effective because of the ancient heart tree. It carries centuries of power that amplified the blessings."
Lord Locke frowned slightly. "And without such a tree?"
Harrold leaned forward, his tone thoughtful. "We would need to plant more weirwoods—many more. Perhaps even hundreds. Their roots would intertwine, creating a network of power similar to the heart tree here. But such an undertaking will take time."
Lady Donella Hornwood had approached him after a dinner, her expression both hopeful and calculating. "Lord Gryffindor, you've given hope to the North. Imagine what your blessings could do for the Hornwood lands."
Harrold nodded respectfully. "Lady Hornwood, your lands are vital to the North's prosperity. I would gladly assist. However, the strength of the old gods' blessings is tied to their trees. For your lands to feel the same effect, we would need to establish a foundation of weirwoods."
She arched an eyebrow. "How long would such a foundation take?"
"Years," Harrold admitted. "But once established, the blessings would endure for generations."
Even the usually reserved Lord Roose Bolton had voiced interest, his pale eyes studying Harrold intently during their conversation.
"You've stirred the North, Lord Gryffindor. If you were to perform such a ritual at the Dreadfort, it could solidify your position among the lords."
Harrold met his gaze calmly. "The Dreadfort's lands are resilient, my lord. But without a heart tree of significant age, we would need to create the power ourselves. Planting weirwoods would be a start, but it would take patience."
Roose's lips twitched into a faint smile. "Patience is something the Boltons are well acquainted with."
Harrold had taken care to speak with Lord Rickard Stark and his family about the growing interest in the ritual. Over a quiet dinner, he explained the situation.
Rickard, his tone thoughtful: "You've awakened something in the North, Harrold. Faith is not easily stirred, but once it is, it demands answers."
"The old gods' blessings are tied to their trees, my lord. Winterfell's heart tree amplified the ritual, but other lands will not have that advantage. I've told the lords that we will need to plant weirwoods—many of them."
Brandon, ever pragmatic: "That will take time."
Harrold, nodding: "Years, yes. But with patience and unity, the North will be stronger for it. I'm willing to guide this effort, but it must be done carefully."
Lyanna, her curiosity evident: "Why plant so many? Can't the old gods work through one tree?"
Harrold smiled faintly. "The more trees we plant, the more their roots intertwine. It's like a web, growing stronger with each thread. The old gods' power flows through it, reaching every corner of the land."
When Lord Wyman Manderly approached him. The jovial lord of White Harbor had been one of the more outspoken and enthusiastic participants in the festivities, but now his expression was thoughtful, even hesitant.
With a goblet of wine in hand, Manderly gestured for Harrold to join him at a quieter corner of the hall.
"Lord Gryffindor, may I have a word?"
Harrold, intrigued, nodded. "Of course, my lord. What's on your mind?"
Manderly took a sip of wine before speaking. "This ritual you performed—the blessing of the old gods. It was… impressive, to say the least. The temperature shift, the tree—it's stirred the hearts of many lords."
Harrold smiled faintly. "That was the intention. To honor the old gods and remind us all of the strength of tradition."
Manderly hesitated, swirling his wine. "And yet, White Harbor does not follow the old gods."
Manderly met Harrold's gaze squarely. "I'll be frank, Lord Gryffindor. While my people follow the Faith of the Seven, White Harbor remains an essential part of the North. Our fields, our harbor, our trade—they're vital to every house represented here."
Harrold nodded, sensing where the conversation was heading.
"So, I must ask—can this blessing, this ritual of yours, be invoked at White Harbor? Could the old gods' favor extend to our lands?"
Harrold's expression shifted to one of careful consideration. "Lord Manderly, your question is a fair one, and I respect your honesty. The ritual can be performed at White Harbor, yes—but it will not be without challenges."
Manderly raised an eyebrow. "Challenges? What sort of challenges?"
Harrold took a moment, choosing his words carefully. "The blessings of the old gods are tied to their presence. The weirwood trees and the followers. White Harbor lacks both."
Manderly nodded slowly. "Because we follow the Seven."
Harrold inclined his head. "Indeed. The old gods' power flows through their weirwoods, their roots forming a network across the North. At White Harbor, that connection is… tenuous."
Manderly's tone was thoughtful. "So, it can be done, but with less certainty."
Harrold leaned forward slightly, his voice steady. "Precisely. It would require time, effort, and the planting of weirwood trees to establish a connection. Even then, I cannot guarantee the ritual will bear the same fruit as it did here. And then don't forget the objections you have to deal with when we suddenly starts planting weirwood trees from your septs."
Manderly leaned back, stroking his chin. "A pragmatic answer, Lord Gryffindor. White Harbor is no stranger to challenges. If it means better harvests or warmer winters, it's worth considering."
Harrold smiled faintly. "Your lands and people are vital to the North, my lord. I will do everything in my power to assist, but I must be honest about the limitations."
Manderly raised his goblet. "Honesty is a rare thing among men who perform miracles. For that, you have my gratitude."
Harrold clinked his goblet against Manderly's, his mind already calculating the logistics of introducing weirwoods to White Harbor. The Faith of the Seven complicates matters, he thought. But the North needs unity, and every effort must be made to include White Harbor in the blessings.
As Manderly departed to rejoin his family, Harrold watched him go, a mix of respect and curiosity in his gaze. The Faith of the Seven may stand apart from the old gods, but even they cannot deny the power of belief. If the people of White Harbor see the blessings as real, they may come to accept the old gods in time.
The conversation left Harrold with much to consider. He knew that unity in the North meant accommodating its differences, but it also reinforced his belief that the old gods would be the cornerstone of the North's future.
AN – In the next chapter, I am planning to explore the south. At some point the King and the other lords of the south will hear of what's happening in the North. Harrold will have to answer the summon of the king.
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.