The chambers of Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King, were a stark contrast to the glittering opulence of the Red Keep. Functional and austere, they reflected the man himself. A desk cluttered with correspondence dominated the room, its surface lined with scrolls, wax-sealed letters, and a raven's feather freshly dipped in ink.

A letter bearing the Stark sigil lay open before Tywin, its contents simple but profound: Lord Rickard Stark had officially declared a new lord—Harrold Gryffindor of Moat Cailin. Tywin's green eyes narrowed as he reread the proclamation, the weight of its implications settling in his mind.

Tywin leaned back in his chair, his face impassive, though his mind churned with thoughts. A Gryffindor… an unheard-of name. And yet, Rickard Stark has handed him the key to the North's defenses, the ancient and strategic Moat Cailin.

He glanced again at the description of the new lord's banner: a silver griffin in flight against a midnight blue background. The sigil was unknown to him, a fabrication perhaps, but clearly chosen to evoke a sense of authority and mystique.

What did Harrold Gryffindor offer Rickard Stark for such a prize? Gold? Ships? Influence? Tywin's lips pressed into a thin line. The North does not make such decisions lightly.

Reports had already crossed his desk about Gryffindor's ships and the budding trade network emerging along the coasts of Westeros and Essos. A rich lord rising in the North is no small matter, Tywin thought grimly. The Starks are gaining more than a bannerman—they are gaining resources, power, and possibly alliances beyond the North.

The throne room was dimly lit, the Iron Throne casting jagged shadows across the walls. King Aerys II Targaryen slouched on his imposing seat, his once-handsome face marred by the creeping madness that had begun to fester over the years. His long silver hair fell around his shoulders, his violet eyes gleaming with suspicion.

Tywin approached, his steps measured and deliberate. He bowed briefly before addressing the King.

"Your Grace, I have received news from the North that warrants your attention."

Aerys straightened slightly, his fingers drumming against the armrest of the throne. "The North? What nonsense do the Starks send us now?"

Tywin extended the letter. "Rickard Stark has declared a new lord—a man named Harrold Gryffindor—installed as the ruler of Moat Cailin."

Aerys snatched the letter, his eyes scanning its contents. "Gryffindor? I've never heard the name. Who is this… peasant the Starks have elevated?"

"Unknown, Your Grace. Reports suggest he commands a fleet of ships and has established profitable trade routes. He appears wealthy, resourceful, and ambitious."

Aerys's lips curled into a sneer. "The North with a rich lord? The wolves grow bold. What does Rickard Stark plan with this Gryffindor? Rebellion?"

"There is no indication of disloyalty, Your Grace. However, Gryffindor's rise deserves scrutiny. He has been granted Moat Cailin, a position of great strategic importance. It would be prudent to summon him to the capital."

Aerys's face twisted into a malicious grin. "Yes. Summon him. Let us see this Gryffindor who dares rise so high. If he is a threat, he will learn what it means to defy the dragon."

Tywin inclined his head. "I will send a raven immediately, Your Grace. Lord Harrold Gryffindor will be summoned to King's Landing to account for his rise."

Aerys's voice dropped to a whisper, his eyes gleaming with paranoia. "If he refuses…"

Tywin finished the thought silently, his expression unreadable. Then we will deal with him as we have dealt with others who dared defy the Iron Throne.

Outwardly, he said only, "We will handle it, Your Grace."

As Tywin left the throne room, his mind raced. This Gryffindor is a man of resources and ambition. Whether he is a threat or an asset remains to be seen. But one thing is certain: the North's new lord will not go unnoticed in King's Landing.

A raven would fly north by morning, bearing the summons of the Iron Throne. Harrold Gryffindor's rise was only the beginning, and Tywin would ensure the game was played with precision.

The morning sun barely pierced the mist hanging over Moat Cailin when a raven arrived, its black wings cutting through the gray skies. Harrold stood at the parapet of a crumbling tower, looking out over the swamplands to the south, when one of his clones, Aedric approached with the message.

"A raven, my lord. From King's Landing."

Harrold turned, taking the scroll with a nod. His expression remained calm as he broke the seal and read the contents. The summons was curt and formal, as expected:

"Lord Harrold Gryffindor of Moat Cailin is hereby summoned to King's Landing to present himself before King Aerys II Targaryen and his court."

Harrold's brow furrowed as he folded the parchment. So, the South finally noticed.

In the central hall of the makeshift town they were constructing, Harrold gathered his clones and trusted magicals to discuss the summons. The room was spartan but functional, its walls adorned with maps of Westeros and Essos, and a large table at the center held markers indicating trade routes, construction plans, and other strategic details.

Harrold placed the raven's message on the table. "The Iron Throne has summoned me to King's Landing."

The room fell silent, tension thick in the air.

Clone Myric, ever pragmatic, broke the silence. "The timing is suspicious. Why now? The Starks announced your lordship weeks ago."

Clone Elenna, who oversaw the agricultural projects, frowned. "Tywin Lannister. He must be behind this. He doesn't strike me as the kind to leave anything unchecked."

Harrold, with a wry smile: "And he wouldn't want a wealthy new lord rising in the North without knowing the price Rickard Stark paid."

Clone Thalen, leaning forward: "Do we ignore it? We could send a polite refusal. The North is under Stark jurisdiction, not the Crown's."

Harrold shook his head. "No. Refusal will only draw suspicion—and hostility. Aerys is paranoid, and Tywin is methodical. Ignoring them would paint me as a threat."

The group delved into a heated discussion, each clone and magical contributing their thoughts.

"We should tread carefully. Aerys is unstable, and we cannot predict how he'll react to you. If he sees you as a rival, he could turn this into a death sentence."

Harrold, nodded. "Agreed. But we also can't afford to seem weak. The North relies on Moat Cailin to hold the Neck. If the Crown doubts my ability to hold this position, it could jeopardize everything."

"Should you go alone? If they see you with a large retinue, they may see it as a show of strength—or a challenge."

"I'll take a small escort. Two squads of legionnaires for protection—enough to show I take security seriously but not enough to seem threatening."

The clones voiced their concerns more directly as the meeting continued.

Clone Thalen, his voice low: "You know Tywin will be watching your every move. He's already likely pieced together your growing trade routes. He'll want to know more. And the King? If Aerys's paranoia takes hold, he may see your wealth and independence as a threat. The last thing we need is to draw his ire."

Harrold leaned forward, his hands resting on the table. "Which is why I will present myself as nothing more than a loyal bannerman of House Stark. My wealth, my trade—all of it will be framed as serving the North's needs. Tywin can suspect, but he'll have no proof."

The magicals, seated to one side, listened intently before offering their own counsel.

Magical Healer Anya Veloro, her tone cautious: "What if they try to detain you, my lord? Or worse? The Iron Throne is not known for its kindness to those it views as different."

Harrold, meeting her gaze: "I've considered that. If it comes to that, I'll rely on magic and subtle enchantments. But we need to avoid using overt magic unless absolutely necessary. The South is already wary of the North's old ways. I don't want to add more fuel to their fire."

Magical Artificer Bryndis, speaking thoughtfully: "And what of the legionnaires you take with you? Should we arm them with enhanced weapons or simple steel?"

Harrold shook his head. "Simple steel. We want no suspicion of magic. But I'll ensure their bracelets have enhanced protections. If anything happens, they'll be ready."

The room quieted as Harrold stood, his decision made. "We will answer the summons. I'll travel to King's Landing with a small retinue—two squads of legionnaires, a few trusted clones, and enough gifts to placate even the greediest courtier."

He paused, his expression resolute. "While I'm gone, the rest of you will continue the work here. The North must see progress at Moat Cailin, even in my absence."

Clone Myric, smirking faintly: "And what if the King decides he likes you so much he doesn't let you leave?"

Harrold's smile was sharp. "Then we'll make sure he regrets it. But until then, we'll play the loyal lord, and we'll play it well."

As the meeting concluded, the clones and magicals dispersed, each assigned tasks to prepare for Harrold's journey. Harrold remained by the table, his thoughts turning inward.

The South is a snake pit, he thought. But every step forward requires risk. Let them summon me. Let them watch. The more they see, the more they'll underestimate the true strength of Moat Cailin—and what lies beyond.

He straightened, his resolve firm. The game was underway, and Harrold Gryffindor was ready to play.

The Lily, Harrold's flagship, sailed into Blackwater Bay under the warm light of the midday sun. The gilded sprawl of King's Landing came into view, its red-brick walls and towering gates casting a stark contrast against the glittering sea. The city was alive with activity: fishermen unloading their catch, merchants haggling on the docks, and the smell of salt mingling with the stench of the capital's less savory corners.

As the ship approached the docks, Harrold stood at the bow, flanked by two of his trusted clones and a squad of legionnaires in plain armor. His flag, a silver griffin in flight on a midnight blue background, fluttered in the breeze, catching the attention of dockworkers and guards alike.

Waiting on the docks was a tall, austere man dressed in the crimson and gold livery of the King's court. His presence was unmistakable—Lord Qarlton Chelsted, the Master of Laws, had come personally to receive Harrold.

As the Lily docked, Harrold descended the gangplank with measured steps, his expression calm but observant. Chelsted stepped forward, his sharp eyes scanning Harrold and his small retinue.

Lord Chelsted, with a curt nod: "Lord Harrold Gryffindor of Moat Cailin, I presume?"

Harrold, offering a polite bow: "Indeed, my lord. An honor to meet the Master of Laws."

Chelsted's tone was formal, but there was a hint of curiosity in his gaze. "The honor is mine. King's Landing has heard much of your rise in the North. The Iron Throne has summoned you to present yourself before the King."

Harrold, his tone smooth: "And I am here to honor that summons. I trust the King's court is as grand as the tales suggest?"

Chelsted allowed himself a faint smile. "It is… formidable, as you will soon see. Come, my lord. We have prepared accommodations for you within the Red Keep."

The procession through the streets of King's Landing was both an introduction and a test. Chelsted led the way, flanked by gold cloaks, while Harrold and his retinue followed, drawing curious glances from the crowded streets.

Harrold took in the city as they walked, his keen eyes noting the chaotic sprawl of mud-brick houses, the reek of the gutters, and the bustle of trade. His inner thoughts churned.

This city could be great, he mused, but its potential is buried under filth and mismanagement. The North may be harsh, but at least it is clean.

Chelsted glanced back, perhaps noticing Harrold's scrutiny. "King's Landing is the beating heart of the realm, though it has its imperfections."

Harrold, with a polite smile: "A heart that beats strongly, my lord. Imperfections can be remedied with the right guidance."

Chelsted raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the remark but said nothing further.

The Red Keep loomed above them as they approached, its red stone walls imposing against the clear sky. Harrold's steps slowed slightly as he took in the sight of the Iron Throne's seat of power.

Inside the keep, Chelsted led him through winding corridors to a set of modest but comfortable chambers prepared for him. The room overlooked the city, the Blackwater Bay gleaming in the distance.

Chelsted, gesturing to the room: "These will be your quarters for the duration of your stay, Lord Gryffindor. The King's court will meet tomorrow, where you will present yourself before His Grace."

Harrold, inclining his head: "My thanks, Lord Chelsted. Your courtesy is appreciated."

Chelsted gave a small nod, his expression unreadable. "A word of advice, my lord. The King's court is… unpredictable. Speak carefully, and tread lightly."

Harrold's gaze sharpened. "Wise words, my lord. I shall keep them in mind."

Once Chelsted departed, Harrold turned to his clones, who had quietly taken in every detail of the journey.

Clone Aedric, his tone low: "The city is a cesspool, my lord. Yet its power is undeniable."

Clone Thalen, with a smirk: "And its court will be no different, I suspect. The King's summons is a game, and we've just been placed on the board."

Harrold moved to the window, gazing out over the sprawling city. His voice was calm, but his thoughts were sharp. "King's Landing may think it summoned me, but I came to see them—to understand the players and the board. Let them watch, let them suspect. The North will remain strong, and so will we."

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Harrold's resolve hardened. Tomorrow, he would face the court of the Iron Throne. The game had begun, and Harrold Gryffindor intended to play it well.

Clone Aedric, his voice low and firm: "The King is unpredictable, my lord. Even with Tywin Lannister whispering in his ear, Aerys's paranoia could turn on you at any moment."

Harrold, leaning back in his chair: "Which is why we're not leaving it to chance. The bracelet will ensure we have a measure of control."

He reached into a small velvet pouch and withdrew a bracelet, its surface adorned with glimmering black crystals. The stones caught the light like shards of night, each one meticulously carved and set into an intricate design.

Clone Thalen, inspecting the bracelet: "It's convincing. Anyone who sees it will believe it's crafted from the rarest black diamonds. The Far East explanation will hold—no one in Westeros would know otherwise."

Harrold, nodding: "It's not just convincing; it's essential. The King must wear it willingly, and once he does, the enchantments will take hold."

Clone Elenna, her tone cautious: "The runes and charms are layered carefully, my lord. The bracelet will encourage trust—enough that Aerys will view you as a valuable ally, even if others try to poison his mind against you."

Clone Aedric, adding: "More importantly, it will make him ignore any whispers against you. Anyone trying to sway him against you will find their words falling on deaf ears."

Harrold, thoughtfully: "And it won't push him too far? The goal isn't to control him outright—just to ensure he doesn't become a problem."

Elenna, reassuring: "The enchantments are subtle. They won't alter his paranoia, but they'll direct it away from you and yours. It will seem as though the King's own instincts guide him."

Thalen, smirking: "Getting him to wear it will be the real challenge. Aerys isn't exactly known for his willingness to accept gifts."

Harrold, his tone confident: "We'll appeal to his vanity. A piece this rare, this exotic—it will be irresistible. I'll present it as a token of my respect and loyalty to the Iron Throne. Aerys is a man who craves adoration. This gift will play to that."

Aedric, his voice cautious: "And if he doesn't accept it?"

Harrold, smiling faintly: "Then we'll adapt. But trust me, he will. The King is as predictable in his ego as he is unpredictable in his moods."

The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of the plan settling over them. Harrold's gaze swept across his clones, his voice steady.

Harrold: "This isn't just about me. This is about protecting everything we've built. If the King or Tywin sees us as a threat, the consequences could ripple through the North and beyond."

Elenna, quietly: "The North depends on Moat Cailin. The people of Orsus depend on you. This must work."

Harrold, his tone firm: "And it will. The King will wear this bracelet, and with it, we'll ensure our future."

As the discussion wound down, Harrold carefully placed the bracelet back into its pouch, his mind already running through the events of the next day.

The Iron Throne summons, but I hold the cards, he thought. They don't know the lengths I'll go to ensure our survival. I will burn the Red Keep with them in it before I let them threaten my plans.

He extinguished the lamp and dismissed the clones, leaving himself alone in the darkened room. The sounds of the bustling Red Keep faded into the background as he prepared for the coming day.

Tomorrow, he would meet the King. And with the bracelet in hand, Harrold Gryffindor intended to turn even the Mad King into an unwitting ally.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was filled with an oppressive grandeur, its high ceilings echoing with the faint murmur of courtiers and the shuffling of armored guards. At the far end of the hall sat King Aerys II Targaryen, his silver hair falling in disheveled waves around his pale face. His violet eyes gleamed with suspicion and curiosity as Harrold Gryffindor approached.

Harrold walked with measured confidence, flanked by two of his legionnaires, their simple but polished armor reflecting the torchlight. His demeanor was calm and respectful, his every step calculated. In his hands, he carried a small wooden box lined with gold trim, the bracelet hidden within.

The lords and courtiers murmured as Harrold approached, their curiosity piqued. Few in the South had heard of this new lord of Moat Cailin, and even fewer expected such a display of composure in the face of the Iron Throne's scrutiny.

Stopping at the appropriate distance, Harrold bowed deeply. "Your Grace, I, Harrold Gryffindor of Moat Cailin, offer my gratitude for this audience and the opportunity to serve the realm."

Aerys leaned forward slightly, his expression caught between boredom and intrigue. "And what service do you think the realm needs, Lord Gryffindor?"

Harrold smiled faintly, his tone polished. "Strength, Your Grace. The North is a bastion against chaos, and Moat Cailin stands as its shield. My service is to ensure that shield remains unbroken, for the protection of the realm and the honor of the Iron Throne."

The King's lips curled into a faint smile, but his gaze remained sharp. "A silver tongue, this one. But words mean little without actions."

Harrold lifted the box and opened it, revealing the bracelet, its black crystals shimmering like fragments of the night sky. The courtiers gasped softly at the sight, and even Aerys's eyes widened.

Harrold: "Your Grace, I bring you this gift—a token of my loyalty and reverence for the Iron Throne. This bracelet, it is said, once belonged to a dragonlord of Valyria, forged in the fires of their forges and imbued with their magic."

The King's fingers twitched with greed as he leaned forward. "A dragonlord's bracelet, you say? And how do I know this is not some trinket conjured to curry favor?"

Harrold stepped closer, his voice steady. "Your Grace, I would never insult your wisdom with falsehood. Allow me to demonstrate its authenticity."

Turning to the Kingsguard, Harrold addressed Ser Arthur Dayne, whose reputation as the Sword of the Morning preceded him. "Ser Dayne, if you would honor me by testing the bracelet's strength?"

Arthur glanced at the King, who gave a small nod of approval. Taking his sword, Arthur raised it high and brought it down on the bracelet with a sharp crack. The sound echoed through the hall, but when the blade lifted, the bracelet remained unscathed.

The King's eyes gleamed with fascination. "Again."

Arthur struck once more, his legendary strength behind the blow. Again, the bracelet emerged unmarked. The crowd whispered in amazement as the King rose from his throne, descending the steps with an unsettling eagerness.

Aerys took the bracelet from the box with trembling hands, inspecting its intricate design. His greed and vanity were evident as he turned it over, the black crystals glinting in the torchlight.

Aerys: "A gift worthy of a King. Tell me, Lord Gryffindor, what makes this bracelet so impervious?"

Harrold inclined his head. "The Valyrian dragonlords were said to imbue their creations with the strength of their dragons, Your Grace. Such artifacts are nearly indestructible, their secrets long lost to the Doom."

The King slipped the bracelet onto his wrist, its size adjusting subtly to fit perfectly. Aerys's face lit up with satisfaction. "Yes, it suits me well. The dragonlords were wise to create such treasures."

Turning to the court, Aerys's voice rang out, sharp and commanding. "This Lord Gryffindor has brought a gift of worth and spoken with loyalty. I confirm his rise as the Lord of Moat Cailin, in perpetuity. Let it be known that Harrold Gryffindor serves the realm with honor."

The hall erupted in murmurs of approval and curiosity. Harrold bowed deeply once more, his expression one of humble gratitude.

Aerys, now in a strangely jovial mood, waved a hand. "Tonight, we feast! Let this be a celebration of loyalty and strength. Lord Tywin, see to it."

From the corner of his eye, Harrold caught Tywin Lannister's stoic expression. The Hand of the King gave a brief nod, but his calculating gaze betrayed his dissatisfaction with this turn of events.

As the King returned to his throne, Harrold straightened, his mind racing. The bracelet is on his wrist, and the enchantments are already at work. He'll trust me now, ignore the whispers of others. The game is turning in my favor.

Looking around the hall, he noted the expressions of the courtiers—some curious, others envious, and a few openly suspicious. Let them wonder, he thought. For now, the Iron Throne's favor is mine.

As the court prepared for the feast, Harrold allowed himself a small, private smile. Moat Cailin is secure. The North is secure. And soon, so much more will follow.

The feast hall of the Red Keep was alive with music, the clatter of goblets, and the hum of voices as courtiers, lords, and ladies reveled in the King's honor for Harrold Gryffindor. Lavish platters of roasted meats, exotic fruits, and spiced wine from Essos graced the tables, the splendor befitting the Iron Throne. At the head of the hall, seated next to King Aerys II, Harrold Gryffindor found himself in the heart of power.

The King, resplendent in a tunic embroidered with golden dragons, toyed with the bracelet on his wrist, turning it over and inspecting its intricate details. His violet eyes gleamed with curiosity as he leaned closer to Harrold, his voice sharp but not unkind.

Aerys: "Lord Gryffindor, this bracelet you've gifted me… its strength, its design—it is unlike anything I've seen. Tell me, how did you come to possess such a treasure?"

Harrold set down his goblet, his expression calm and respectful, though inwardly he relished the opportunity. Curiosity is a double-edged blade, Your Grace, he thought, his mind already crafting the tale.

Harrold: "Your Grace, it was during my travels to Qarth, the Queen of Cities. I encountered a man who claimed to be a descendant of the ancient dragonlords of Valyria."

Aerys tilted his head, intrigued. "A descendant of the dragonlords? Few escaped the Doom."

Harrold nodded solemnly. "Indeed, Your Grace. He was a man of peculiar presence, surrounded by relics of Valyria—scrolls, trinkets, and this very bracelet. He spoke of his lineage with pride, though his circumstances suggested he had fallen on hard times."

The King's lips curled into a faint sneer. "A descendant of greatness, reduced to a merchant?"

Harrold, with a faint smile: "The Doom spared no one, Your Grace. Even the greatest bloodlines were scattered and broken. Yet, this man possessed knowledge—fragments of the old ways."

Aerys's fingers drummed on the table. "What knowledge?"

Harrold leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping just enough to draw the King's attention further. "He spoke of the ancient methods of enchanting, practiced by the dragonlords. He claimed this bracelet was forged in those traditions, imbued with power through rituals invoking the blessings of the Fourteen Flames, the gods of Valyria."

The King's expression shifted, his eyes narrowing. "The Fourteen Flames. My ancestors left those gods behind when they fled Valyria. We embraced the Seven."

Harrold nodded, his tone thoughtful. "And perhaps, Your Grace, that is why such enchantments were lost. The man from Qarth suggested that the power of these relics came not only from the craftsmanship of Valyrian forges but also from the blessings of the gods they revered."

Aerys's gaze darkened, his fingers tracing the black crystals on the bracelet. "Are you suggesting, Lord Gryffindor, that my ancestors' choice to abandon the gods of Valyria weakened our bloodline?"

Harrold hesitated, crafting his response carefully. "Not weakened, Your Grace—changed. The strength of your blood remains undeniable. The dragons themselves answer to your house. But certain… arts may have faded when the traditions tied to the Fourteen Flames were left behind."

Aerys's eyes gleamed with something between fascination and anger. "The Targaryens ruled Westeros with dragons and fire. If these enchantments could be reclaimed, we could surpass even the glory of old Valyria."

Harrold inclined his head, his voice calm. "It is possible, Your Grace. The methods of the dragonlords were steeped in secrets and ritual, much of which was lost to the Doom. But the knowledge may still linger, scattered across the lands of Essos."

The King's tone sharpened. "And this man from Qarth—did he speak of how to forge such artifacts?"

Harrold allowed a faint sigh. "Only in fragments, Your Grace. The rituals he described were complex, requiring ancient tools and the blessings of the Fourteen Flames. He seemed to believe that without those gods, the methods could not be replicated."

The King sat back, his face a mask of thought. "The Seven… they brought us peace in Westeros, but they are no gods of fire and blood. Perhaps the old gods of Valyria held power we have yet to understand."

Tywin Lannister, seated farther down the table, watched the exchange in silence, his expression unreadable. Harrold caught the flicker of calculation in the Hand's gaze. Let him wonder, Harrold thought. Let him suspect but find nothing.

Aerys turned back to Harrold, his mood lightening. "You've brought me a gift of great worth, Lord Gryffindor. You've given me much to ponder. Your loyalty to the Iron Throne will not be forgotten."

Harrold inclined his head. "Your Grace, it is my honor to serve. The North stands with the Iron Throne, now and always."

The King raised his goblet. "To Moat Cailin and its new lord! May his service bring strength to the realm."

The hall erupted in cheers, though Harrold noted the careful eyes of the courtiers and the lingering skepticism of Tywin Lannister. He raised his own goblet, smiling faintly. The seeds are sown, he thought. Now, we wait to see what grows.

As the feast continued, Harrold allowed himself a moment of reflection. The King's vanity is his weakness, and the bracelet has already begun its work. Trust will blind him, and his paranoia will turn to others. The Iron Throne is a dangerous place, but it can be swayed.

His gaze flicked to Tywin, who was watching him with calculating eyes. And you, Lord Lannister, are a lion guarding your den. But even lions can be think you can mess with me ? How do you like my gift ? you can now try to avoid a war between the crown and the seven. Before I leave, I am going to fan the fire and let you deal with the aftermath.

The feast carried on, but Harrold's mind was already at work, planning the next steps in his ever-evolving game.

The streets of King's Landing were a labyrinth of chaos and opportunity. Harrold had spent his first day in court navigating the political intrigue of the Iron Throne, but he knew there was more to be gained beyond the Red Keep. With his clone Myric, a trusted and pragmatic agent, at his side, Harrold set out to explore the sprawling city.

Harrold's small retinue, including a few legionnaires for security, moved through the bustling streets. The air was thick with the scent of spices, roasted meats, and unwashed bodies, a sharp reminder of the city's extremes—wealth and squalor living side by side.

As they passed through Fishmonger's Square, Myric glanced at the vendors hawking their goods. "The docks are teeming with activity, my lord. The warehouses here could serve well for trade, especially with imports from Orsus."

Harrold nodded, his gaze scanning the area. "The docks are promising, but we'll need more than just storage. Shops in the higher districts will give us visibility and access to the wealthier clientele."

They turned onto the Street of Silk, where the city's famed establishments catered to its elite. Harrold observed the opulent facades with interest. "This district is too public for us to establish a base, but we can place high-end goods here for visibility."

Stopping at a quieter corner near Rhaenys's Hill, Harrold turned to Myric. "You'll remain in King's Landing as my agent. Your tasks are straightforward but critical."

Myric, with a small smile: "Let me guess. Establish trade, find magicals, and keep an ear to the ground?"

Harrold chuckled. "Precisely. First, secure a mansion in a respectable district—one that can serve as both your residence and a discreet meeting point for our interests."

Myric nodded. "And warehouses? The docks have ample space."

Harrold considered. "Yes, but ensure they're secure and unassuming. Use local intermediaries to avoid suspicion."

Myric: "Understood. Shops?"

Harrold gestured to the bustling streets. "Select locations in high-traffic areas. Start with goods from Orsus—spices, silks, and runic trinkets. Build demand before introducing more."

As they strolled past the Great Sept of Baelor, Harrold's tone grew more serious. "Your second task is more delicate. King's Landing hides everything—from secrets to its people. Somewhere in this city, magicals are living in the shadows."

Myric, his expression sharpening: "You want me to recruit them?"

Harrold nodded. "Carefully. Use the enchanted bracelets to detect magicals. Approach only those you're certain won't betray us. Remember, this city is a den of whispers. If anyone suspects, it could endanger us all."

Myric, smirking: "I've learned subtlety from the best, my lord."

Few days later, they toured several mansions in the northern district of the city, closer to the Red Keep but far enough from prying eyes. Harrold finally settled on a two-story property with high stone walls, an expansive garden, and several outbuildings that could serve as storage or workshops.

Myric, inspecting the grounds: "It's ideal. Secure, unassuming, and close to the action."

Harrold agreed. "Perfect for our needs. Ensure the interior is outfitted with wards—privacy, intrusion alarms, and, of course, the communication runes."

As the sun set over King's Landing, Harrold and Myric stood on the mansion's balcony, overlooking the bustling city below.

Harrold: "You have everything you need. Trade routes, storage, and a foothold in the city. Build slowly but deliberately. This is not just for profit—it's to ensure we always have a presence here."

Myric, with a rare note of seriousness: "And the magicals? What if the warlocks or others take an interest?"

Harrold's gaze hardened. "Then you send word immediately. The enchanted bracelets will ensure you're never truly alone. But exercise caution. King's Landing may be a den of opportunity, but it's also a viper's nest."

Myric nodded, his expression resolute. "I won't let you down, my lord."

As Harrold returned to his chambers in the Red Keep, his mind turned over the day's work. King's Landing is both a risk and an opportunity. Myric will be the anchor here, ensuring our trade network flourishes and our reach extends into the heart of Westeros.

With that thought, Harrold prepared for the next steps in his ever-expanding game, knowing that the seeds he planted today would bear fruit in the future.

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.