The Lily glided into the familiar waters of Braavos, its sleek design cutting through the bay as the Titan loomed in the distance. The city welcomed Harrold with its vibrant energy: ships of all sizes crowded the docks, merchants shouted their wares, and the scent of salt mixed with the aromas of exotic spices and freshly baked bread.

For Harrold, this return was not just a stopover—it was an opportunity. The shipyards of Braavos, famed for their craftsmanship, had proven invaluable in building his growing fleet. Now, he had another design in mind, one tailored to the next phase of his plans.

The shipyard's master, Vencarlo Hain, was waiting for Harrold when he arrived. A burly man with hands calloused from decades of labor, Vencarlo greeted Harrold with a respectful nod.

Vencarlo: "Lord Gryffindor, welcome back to Braavos. What new marvels do you have for us today?"

Harrold smiled, appreciating the man's directness. "Something practical this time, Master Hain. I need a ship designed solely for transporting logs."

Vencarlo's brows rose slightly, but he motioned Harrold to follow him into his office, a modest space filled with sketches, models, and the smell of sawdust.

Harrold laid out a rough sketch on the table, his clones standing nearby to assist with details. The design was unconventional, focusing purely on functionality.

Harrold: "This ship will not be for trade or passengers. Its sole purpose is to transport large quantities of logs—timber, unprocessed and heavy."

Vencarlo studied the sketch, stroking his beard. "Interesting. You'll need a flat deck for easy loading and unloading, reinforced to bear the weight. How long are you thinking?"

Harrold: "Eighty to a hundred feet, but it doesn't need a deep hull. It should be sturdy and able to navigate shallow waters if necessary."

Vencarlo nodded slowly, already envisioning the build. "A barge-like design, then, with reinforced planking. We'll use ironwood for the framework—it's costly, but it'll last decades under such strain."

One of Vencarlo's assistants, a younger man named Marco, spoke up, his tone curious. "Forgive me, my lord, but why such a ship? It's not often we get requests for something so... specific."

Harrold's smile was enigmatic. "Let's just say the North has resources that need moving, and efficiency is paramount. A fleet of such ships will make that process seamless."

Vencarlo, nodding: "And how many of these do you plan to commission?"

Harrold: "Start with one. If it performs as I envision, we'll talk about building more."

The conversation shifted to the finer points of the design.

Vencarlo: "We'll need to reinforce the bow and stern to handle rough waters, even if it's primarily for rivers or coastal transport. Do you want sails or just oars?"

Harrold: "Sails, but keep the rigging simple. Speed isn't the goal—stability and capacity are."

Clone Cyric, stepping in: "And make the mast collapsible, in case the ship needs to navigate under low bridges or through dense waterways."

Marco, jotting down notes: "A collapsible mast will require additional reinforcement. It can be done, but it'll add to the cost."

Harrold, with a nod: "Cost is not an issue, as long as it's done right."

Vencarlo leaned back, his expression thoughtful. "A design like this is straightforward enough, but the scale will take time. Three months, at least."

Harrold, his tone firm but not unkind: "Two months. I'll pay extra for expedited work, but I need this ship ready as soon as possible."

Vencarlo considered, then nodded. "It'll take double the labor, but for the right price, we'll have it done."

As the meeting concluded, Harrold shook hands with Vencarlo, sealing the deal.

Harrold: "You've always delivered beyond expectations, Master Hain. I trust this will be no different."

Vencarlo, with a confident grin: "You'll have your ship, my lord, and it'll be the finest log hauler Braavos has ever seen."

As the Hedwig set sail from Braavos, leaving behind the clamor of the city's docks and the towering Titan, Harrold stood at the prow, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The salty breeze tugged at his cloak, but his mind was far from the ship's present course. Instead, he was consumed by thoughts of the next great challenge: securing timber for the North and Orsus.

The rebuilding of Moat Cailin was well underway, but the demands for wood were growing by the day. Harrold had already exhausted much of the local supply, careful not to deplete the surrounding forests completely. While the North was rich in woodlands, he was reluctant to overburden them, knowing that the delicate balance of the ecosystem must be maintained.

In addition, Orsus—a sanctuary for magic and nature—could not afford to lose a single tree. Its unique flora, both mundane and magical, was irreplaceable, and cutting them down was unthinkable. For the burgeoning town and stronghold at Moat Cailin, as well as Orsus's expanding projects, Harrold needed a reliable, external supply of timber.

Harrold's thoughts turned to the Forest of Qohor, one of the largest and most fabled woodlands in Essos. The dark, ancient trees there were legendary, and Qohorik craftsmen were renowned for their skill in shaping timber into works of art or sturdy construction materials. But the forest was under the dominion of the Free City of Qohor, and harvesting its resources was tightly controlled.

Or so they claim, Harrold mused, his lips curving into a faint smile. He knew enough about the world to suspect that illegal logging flourished in the shadows of Qohor's mighty oaks. Smugglers and opportunists would undoubtedly be willing to part with timber for the right price—or under the right persuasion.

However, dealing with Qohor carried its own risks. The city was known for its Black Goat priests, whose rituals were as infamous as their unwavering devotion to their god. Any activity that might draw attention from their ruling council could lead to complications Harrold wasn't eager to face. So he would rather make a deal with the city to legally start logging.

From Qohor, Harrold's mind shifted to the untamed continent of Sothoryos, a land shrouded in mystery and danger. Everything he had heard about the place made it sound like a blend of Central Africa and the Amazon rainforest from his old world—a vast, inhospitable expanse of dense jungles, swamps, and rivers teeming with life, both wondrous and deadly.

Sothoryos was said to be a land of gigantic lizards, venomous insects, and disease-ridden marshes. Expeditions often returned with tales of its bounty, but few escaped its perils unscathed. The jungles there were undoubtedly rich in timber, but harvesting it would require specialized crews, fortifications, and magic to withstand the continent's hostile environment.

The log ship he had commissioned in Braavos was a step toward solving these challenges. It wasn't just a tool for transporting wood—it was a vessel of opportunity. With the ship, Harrold could explore both options, securing timber for the North and Orsus without depleting local resources.

The North's forests are valuable but finite, Harrold thought. We need to look outward, to places where the world's bounty is untapped—or mismanaged.

The waters around Orsus were calm as the Hedwig approached its harbor, its midnight blue flag emblazoned with a silver griffin fluttering in the breeze. Harrold stood at the bow, his eyes scanning the shoreline with satisfaction. The town was flourishing, its carefully planned layout and thriving docks reflecting the vision he had set in motion.

As the ship docked, several clones and magicals awaited Harrold, their faces alight with anticipation. One of the senior researchers, Alaric, stepped forward, his expression barely containing excitement.

Alaric, bowing slightly: "Welcome back, my lord. There is much to show you, particularly our progress on the gunboat project."

Harrold's brow arched with interest. "Let's not keep me waiting, Alaric. Lead the way."

Harrold was escorted to the testing grounds, a stretch of rocky shoreline just beyond the main harbor. At the center of the area sat the newly completed gunboat, sleek and nimble, its reinforced hull glinting in the sun. Mounted on the deck was a peculiar contraption—a rotating scorpion, its polished arms gleaming with runic carvings.

Alaric, gesturing to the weapon: "This, my lord, is what we've devised in place of traditional cannons. While the cannons have their merits, the scorpions are lighter, easier to maintain, and better suited for precision."

Harrold stepped closer, examining the intricate mechanism. The scorpion's base was mounted on a reinforced swivel, allowing it to rotate a full 90 degrees, and its massive arms were tensioned with runic enhancements to increase power.

Harrold, intrigued: "And the ammunition? These are not ordinary bolts, I assume."

Alaric motioned to a nearby table, where four-foot-long arrows lay. Each arrow was inscribed with glowing runes, their faint hum suggesting latent magical energy.

Alaric, proudly: "These arrows are rune-scribed to detonate on impact. The explosion is small but devastating, capable of breaching hulls or destroying enemy equipment."

Harrold watched as a crew of magicals prepared the scorpion for a demonstration. A target—a large wooden raft reinforced to mimic a ship's hull—was set afloat several hundred yards from the shore.

Alaric, standing beside Harrold: "Observe, my lord. The scorpion's range, power, and precision are unparalleled."

The crew loaded an arrow into the scorpion and adjusted the angle. One magical placed his hand on the runes etched into the weapon, activating its enchantments. With a sharp twang, the arrow launched into the air, a streak of light as it arced toward the target.

When it struck, the impact was followed by a deafening explosion, splintering the raft into fragments that rained down into the water.

Harrold's lips curved into a small smile. "Impressive. The accuracy alone is worth the investment."

Alaric, with enthusiasm: "And the lighter weight means we can mount multiple scorpions on a single ship without compromising its speed or maneuverability."

Harrold stepped closer to the weapon, running his fingers along the runes etched into its frame. His mind raced with possibilities. This changes everything. A fleet equipped with these could dominate both river and coastal battles.

Harrold, turning to Alaric: "You've outdone yourselves. However, I want more tests—against moving targets, in harsher conditions. Rain, wind, choppy seas. We need to know its limits."

Alaric, nodding eagerly: "Of course, my lord. We'll push it to the extremes."

Harrold, with a thoughtful pause: "And the arrows—how difficult are they to produce?"

Alaric: "The runes take time to inscribe, but with more hands, we can scale up production."

Harrold: "Then see to it. Every gunboat in our fleet should have at least two scorpions, and I want a stockpile of arrows ready for deployment."

Harrold walked through the bustling streets of Orsus, the air thick with the scent of saltwater and the clamor of industry. The town had grown remarkably since his last visit, but it wasn't just the buildings or docks that impressed him. It was the ingenuity and ambition driving its development. Today, his clones and magical researchers had promised him a glimpse into the latest breakthroughs—a testament to Orsus's potential to reshape the known world.

The glass factory was the first stop. Situated near the harbor, its towering chimneys released thin plumes of smoke, a sign of its ceaseless activity. Inside, the air was warm, filled with the hum of enchantments and the rhythmic clinking of tools against molten glass.

Master Glasier Arlen, the lead researcher on the project, approached Harrold with a proud grin. "My lord, we've taken what we learned from the Myrish glass workers and refined the process further. Allow me to show you."

Arlen led Harrold to a table laden with glass sheets, jars, bottles, and intricate containers. Each piece was a marvel—smooth, durable, and crafted with precision.

Harrold, inspecting a sturdy glass jar: "These jars, Arlen... do you realize their potential?"

Arlen, nodding eagerly: "We've been experimenting with preservation techniques, my lord. These containers, when sealed properly, can store food for months—perhaps even years."

Harrold's mind raced. Long winters have always been a curse upon Westeros. These jars could change that. Preserved food, stockpiled during the harvest, could mean survival for countless families.

Harrold: "Great work. For now focus on producing the glass sheets. We need those for windows and greenhouses. Lets see if we can start a factory in Westeros to produce glass containers. But that's for another time."

Arlen bowed deeply. "As you wish, my lord."

Next, Harrold was escorted to the paper mill, where Clone Elenna oversaw the operation. The researchers had taken inspiration from eastern methods but had adapted them to create thicker, whiter, and sturdier paper.

Elenna, holding up a freshly made sheet: "This is our latest batch, my lord. It's far superior to what you'd find in Yi Ti or even Myr. Perfect for books, records, and even trade contracts."

Harrold, running his fingers over the sheet: "Impressive. With parchment being so limited and expensive, this will revolutionize how knowledge is preserved and shared."

Elenna led him to another corner of the workshop where a team of magicals tinkered with a printing press, its gears and rollers partially assembled.

Elenna: "The press is halfway complete, but the progress has been promising. Once operational, we'll be able to mass-produce books and documents."

Harrold smiled faintly. Knowledge is power, and power lies in spreading it efficiently.

Harrold: "Prioritize its completion. We will need to see what type of books we need to start with."

The following day, Harrold made his way to the dry docks, where his flagship, the Lily, was undergoing a significant transformation. Researchers and magicals scurried around the ship, focusing their efforts on the stern, where a rune-powered propeller was being attached.

Clone Thalen, who had overseen the project, greeted Harrold with a gleam of pride. "My lord, this has been months in the making. The propeller, powered entirely by runes, will revolutionize naval travel."

Harrold inspected the device—a sleek, enchanted propeller inscribed with intricate runes that pulsed faintly with magical energy. It was both elegant and functional, a testament to Orsus's ingenuity.

Harrold: "What's the expected performance?"

Thalen, grinning: "At full power, the Lily can reach speeds of fifty miles per hour. That means White Harbor to Braavos in one day. White Harbor to Orsus in five."

Harrold's eyebrows rose. "That's... extraordinary. But I assume there are limitations?"

Thalen: "Yes, my lord. Powering it will require a crystal full of magical energy. You will need a fully charged crystal to travel from White harbor to Orsus. Possibly with one on standby. To charge the crystals, it require at least 6 months in a magically saturated location. Or ¾ of your magical reserves. And you need one of the clones to operate it."

The crew ran a test for Harrold. The Lily, anchored securely, began to hum as the runes activated. The propeller spun with increasing speed, creating a powerful vortex in the water. Harrold watched as the ship surged forward slightly, despite its mooring.

Harrold, smiling: "This will give us an edge—speed and stealth combined. Make sure the engineers document every detail. This might not be suited for everyday use but can be used in an emergency. Strat creating crystals. I have a feeling that the Weirwood trees can help us with charging them."

The Lily glided through the calm waters of the Narrow Sea, its rune-powered propeller humming softly beneath the waves. The journey from Orsus to White Harbor had taken six days—a fraction of the time it would have taken a traditional ship. Harrold stood at the prow, the wind tugging at his cloak as he watched the familiar coastline of the North emerge from the morning mist.

As the Lily neared White Harbor, Harrold's thoughts turned inward. Six days... This ship is a marvel of ingenuity and magic. The journey could have been completed even faster, but secrecy remains paramount. To flaunt such speed would raise too many questions.

He glanced at the crew bustling about the deck. The clones and magical sailors had proven themselves invaluable, working seamlessly to manage the new propulsion system. The Lily represents more than just speed—it's a symbol of what Orsus can achieve. And soon, its innovations will fuel the growth of Moat Cailin and the North.

The bustling harbor of White Harbor was alive with activity as the Lily approached the docks. The massive walls of the city stood as a testament to the Manderlys' wealth and influence, their banners fluttering in the breeze. A small contingent of guards waited at the dock, alongside a representative of Lord Wyman Manderly.

As the ship moored, Ser Alaric Wain, one of Manderly's trusted knights, stepped forward to greet Harrold.

Ser Alaric, bowing slightly: "Lord Gryffindor, welcome back to White Harbor. Lord Manderly sends his regards and awaits you at New Castle."

Harrold, with a warm smile: "Thank you, Ser Alaric. It's good to be back in the North."

Accompanied by Ser Alaric, Harrold made his way through the bustling streets of White Harbor. Merchants called out their wares, sailors exchanged tales of the sea, and the smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the air. Harrold noted the vibrancy of the city, a stark contrast to the harsher, more remote settlements of the North.

At New Castle, Harrold was greeted warmly by Lord Wyman Manderly, his jovial demeanor as welcoming as ever.

Lord Manderly, clasping Harrold's hand: "Lord Gryffindor, your return is a pleasant surprise. I trust your voyage was successful?"

Harrold, with a slight nod: "Indeed, my lord. The East has been most fruitful. I bring news, ideas, and innovations that will benefit both White Harbor and the North."

They shared a brief meal, during which Harrold hinted at some of the advancements made in Orsus, carefully omitting the more revolutionary aspects. He promised to share more details during his next visit, leaving the Manderly lord intrigued but satisfied.

As Harrold traveled from White Harbor to Moat Cailin, the rhythmic clatter of hooves on the rugged northern roads provided a soothing backdrop for his thoughts. The North stretched endlessly around him—wild, untamed, and brimming with potential. His mind, however, drifted to the Bite, the great bay that curved along the eastern edge of the Neck.

Harrold's thoughts turned practical. Moat Cailin's position is unmatched for controlling the passage into the North, but its strength is land-based. The North needs a maritime foothold as well. A harbor on the Bite would solidify defense, and supply lines for Moat Cailin.

Harrold's brows furrowed as he considered the challenges. The coast of the Bite is largely untamed—rocky shores, unpredictable tides, and harsh weather. Building a functional harbor there will require engineering on a scale the North has never seen.

His mind turned to the runic innovations being developed in Orsus. Wards and magical reinforcements could stabilize the terrain, protect against erosion, and ensure the harbor's longevity. The same techniques we've used to strengthen Orsus's docks could work here.

That evening, as the group camped near a forested clearing, Harrold gathered his clones around the fire to discuss his vision.

Harrold, spreading a map of the Bite on the ground: "We need a harbor here, east of Moat Cailin. It will serve as the North's connection to the rest of the world."

Clone Cyric, studying the map: "The terrain isn't ideal, my lord. The coast here is rocky, and the waters are shallow in some places."

Clone Elenna, nodding: "But the strategic value is undeniable. A harbor here would cut travel time for goods heading to Moat Cailin by more than half."

Harrold, his tone firm: "Exactly. And with runic wards and careful planning, we can overcome the terrain's challenges. We've done it in Orsus; we can do it here."

The discussion turned to specifics as the fire crackled and shadows danced around them.

Clone Cyric, pointing to the map: "We'll need to survey the coastline thoroughly. Identify natural inlets and areas where the land can be reinforced without disturbing the surrounding ecosystem too much."

Clone Elenna: "Runic wards can stabilize the foundations, but we'll also need stone from nearby quarries. The harbor walls must be strong enough to withstand the storms off the Shivering Sea."

Harrold, nodding: "And we'll design it with trade and defense in mind. Warehouses, docks large enough for Hedwig-class ships, and lookout towers equipped with scorpions. This will be more than a harbor—it will be a fortress. I know we promised not to add competitions to White Harbor. For the moment we will use the harbor for our own ships only. But I have a feeling with additional Trade, soon, white harbor either need to expand or let us use our harbor for trade. We can sweeten the deal by getting one of his nephews as the steward. I think there are 2-3 with Magic."

The clones exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of excitement and determination.

As his companions retired for the night, Harrold remained by the fire, gazing into the flames. The North is changing, evolving. The old ways will always have their place, but progress cannot be ignored.

He thought of the Starks, their ancient lineage rooted in the land and their unyielding loyalty to tradition. Even they must see the value of this harbor. It's not just for trade or defense—it's a promise of the North's future.

The flames crackled softly, and Harrold's mind turned to Orsus, where innovation was a way of life. If the North can embrace even a fraction of Orsus's vision, it will stand unshaken against any storm.

With that thought, Harrold closed his eyes, the image of a bustling harbor on the Bite etched firmly in his mind. Tomorrow, the journey to Moat Cailin would continue, but the seeds of another grand project had already been sown.

The island loomed ahead, its jagged cliffs rising like sentinels from the sea. Harrold stood at the prow of the Lily, his gaze fixed on the dark silhouette of Skagos. The air was sharp with the tang of salt, and a cold wind whipped through the sails.

Clone Elenna, standing beside him: "Not exactly welcoming, is it?"

Harrold, with a faint smile: "No, but that's part of its charm. There's potential here, hidden beneath the surface."

As the Lily approached the rugged coastline, a small contingent of Skagosi warriors awaited them at a makeshift dock. Clad in rough leathers and furs, their expressions were wary but not hostile.

Harrold, stepping ashore with a few trusted clones and legionnaires: "I am Lord Harrold Gryffindor of Moat Cailin. I seek an audience with the lords of Skagos."

One of the warriors, a broad-shouldered man with a jagged scar across his cheek, nodded. "They are expecting you. Follow us."

The journey inland was harsh, the rocky terrain demanding careful navigation. Eventually, they arrived at a stone hall, austere yet imposing, nestled at the base of a towering peak. Inside, the three major houses of Skagos awaited: House Crowl, House Magnar, and House Stane.

The lords were as rugged as their land—tall, broad, and unyielding in demeanor. Lord Harlon Crowl, the most senior of the three, stepped forward.

Lord Crowl, gruffly: "You've come far for this meeting, Lord Gryffindor. What business brings you to Skagos?"

Harrold, bowing slightly: "The North grows stronger, and Moat Cailin is rising from the ruins. To build this future, I seek resources—iron, silver, and perhaps even gold. Your island is known for its untapped wealth beneath the surface."

The three lords exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable.

The lords led Harrold and his group to a long wooden table in the hall. A fire roared in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls.

Lord Magnar, leaning forward: "Skagos is no place for soft men. Our lands are harsh, our people hardened. Mining here would not be easy."

Harrold, with confidence: "I wouldn't expect it to be. But I bring more than men—I bring tools, magic, and knowledge that can overcome these challenges."

Lord Stane, skeptical: "And what do you propose in return?"

Harrold, evenly: "A fair deal. I will oversee the mining operations and provide the labor, tools, and expertise. In return, your houses will receive twenty-five percent of all resources extracted."

The lords murmured among themselves, their voices low.

Lord Crowl, finally speaking: "Twenty-five percent is fair, but know this—we will not tolerate trespassers or deceit. Your men will respect our land and our people, or there will be consequences."

Harrold, with a nod: "You have my word. This partnership will benefit us all."

After the agreement was formalized, Harrold requested permission to explore parts of the island to identify potential mining sites. With a few guides provided by the Skagosi lords, he and his clones began their survey.

The island's rugged beauty struck Harrold—dense forests, jagged peaks, and hidden valleys gave Skagos an almost otherworldly feel. The locals pointed out areas rumored to contain iron and silver veins, as well as tales of gold in the higher elevations.

Clone Cyric, inspecting a rocky outcrop: "The iron here is plentiful. With the right tools, we could set up a mining operation in weeks."

Clone Elenna, examining a streambed: "Silver too. The locals weren't exaggerating."

Harrold, gazing at the terrain: "This island is a treasure waiting to be unlocked. But we'll need to tread carefully—this partnership is fragile."

The rugged peaks of Skagos loomed high as Harrold and his retinue made their way back to the stone hall of House Crowl. The request from the lords had come shortly after their initial meeting: they had heard tales of the blessing ritual performed at Winterfell and wanted the same for their lands.

Harrold had anticipated this. He had come prepared, bringing ten magical seeds from Orsus, enchanted to replicate the ritual's effects.

The chosen site for the ritual was a clearing deep within the island's forest, near one of the few weirwood trees on Skagos. It was smaller and less ancient than the one in Winterfell's godswood, but its presence was potent, a faint aura of magic radiating from its white bark and red leaves.

Harrold and his clones spent the day preparing. The ten magical seeds were carefully placed in a circular pattern, and the rune-inscribed wards were discreetly carved into the surrounding stones. The process mirrored what they had done in Winterfell, though the harsher terrain of Skagos added an extra layer of complexity.

At sunset, the lords of Skagos—Lord Harlon Crowl, Lord Magnar, and Lord Stane—arrived with their retainers. Clad in furs and leather, their presence was imposing against the backdrop of the island's untamed wilderness.

Lord Stane, his voice low: "I have heard much of this ritual, Lord Gryffindor. If the gods can bless Winterfell, surely they can favor Skagos as well."

Harrold, with a calm nod: "The gods' blessings are boundless, my lord. This ritual is a bridge—a way to connect with their ancient power. Tonight, Skagos will feel their favor."

As the final rays of sunlight faded, Harrold stood at the center of the clearing, surrounded by the planted seeds. His clones took their places at the edges, ensuring the wards were primed for activation.

Harrold raised his hands, his voice ringing out in ancient Latin, the words flowing with the cadence of power:

"Benedicite nobis, dei antiqui, vitam et fortunam his terris concedite."
(Bless us, ancient gods, grant life and fortune to these lands.)

The seeds began to hum faintly, their magic responding to the incantation. Harrold traced intricate gestures in the air, weaving the ritual's energy together.

As the chanting reached its peak, the first seed sprouted. A weirwood tree began to grow, its pale trunk twisting upward, branches stretching skyward as its red leaves unfurled. One by one, the other seeds followed, until ten young weirwoods stood tall, their presence filling the clearing with an otherworldly glow.

As Harrold watched the reactions, his expression remained serene, but his mind churned with satisfaction. The ritual has served its purpose. The trees will increase the island's magical flow, strengthening both the wards and the land itself. And now, the lords of Skagos are bound to me—not just through a contract, but through faith.

He glanced at the ten weirwoods, their presence a powerful symbol of the old gods' favor. The North will see this as a divine act. What they don't know is that it's as much magic as it is strategy.

As the lords and their retinue dispersed, still marveling at the transformed clearing, Lord Crowl approached Harrold.

Lord Crowl, his tone reverent: "You have given Skagos a gift beyond measure, Lord Gryffindor. These trees will stand as a testament to your bond with the North."

Harrold, with a slight bow: "The gods' blessings are for all who honor them, my lord. Skagos has long been a steadfast part of the North. Tonight, the gods have recognized that."

The lords departed with renewed respect and gratitude, leaving Harrold and his clones alone in the clearing.

As Harrold and his team returned to their camp, the clones discussed the success of the ritual.

Clone Cyric, grinning: "It went smoother than I expected. The lords were eating out of your hand by the end."

Harrold, with a faint smile: "Faith is a powerful tool, Cyric. Never underestimate its ability to unite—or to control."

Clone Elenna, nodding: "The trees will serve as a constant reminder of your influence here. Skagos is firmly in your grasp now."

Harrold's gaze turned back to the clearing, now glowing faintly in the moonlight. The North's strength lies in its unity. And step by step, I am weaving that unity into something unbreakable.

With that thought, he turned toward the next phase of his journey, confident that Skagos would play its part in the greater tapestry he was creating.

Harrold's journey to the mountain clans of the North was marked by rugged paths and biting winds, a testament to the resilience of these hardy people. The clans—known for their independence and fierce loyalty to the Starks—greeted him with a mix of wariness and curiosity. In their simple but sturdy halls, Harrold presented his proposal: mining rights for the rich veins of iron and silver hidden within their peaks. In exchange, he promised tools, trade goods, and fair compensation in both coin and finished products. The clan elders, after lengthy discussions, agreed to the deal, sealing the pact with a solemn nod and a shared cup of bitter mead. Harrold left knowing he had tapped into yet another source of strength for the North.

The windswept shores of Bear Island were as fierce as its people, the women and men of House Mormont known for their indomitable spirit. Harrold arrived with a simple proposition: access to the island's famed oak forests for crafting barrels essential to trade and storage. In return, he offered shipments of Food and other essentials, along with tools and expertise to improve the island's livelihood. Lord Mormont, a man of stern demeanor, appreciated the practicality of the deal and agreed, provided the arrangement benefited his people directly. The agreement marked another step in Harrold's growing network, the barrels destined to carry the North's bounty across the seas.

Harrold arrived at Winterfell under a bright sky, the familiar chill of the North settling comfortably on his shoulders. This visit felt different, heavier with the decision he had made to share more of his secrets with the Starks. He had carefully weighed the risks and rewards, concluding that fostering trust with Rickard, Brandon, and Benjen was essential to his long-term plans for the North.

Rickard, Brandon, and Benjen sat with Harrold in the Great Hall, the warmth of the hearth contrasting with the weight of the conversation.

Harrold, leaning forward: "I have something to tell you, something I've kept from most of the world. The Gryffindor family has always been... different. We carry magic in our blood, a gift passed down through the generations. And this magic is not just stories or tricks—it's real and powerful."

Rickard raised an eyebrow, his expression carefully neutral. Brandon leaned back in his chair, clearly intrigued, while Benjen's eyes widened with curiosity.

Rickard, measured: "You've hinted at this before, Harrold, but why share this now?"

Harrold, with a steady gaze: "Because the Starks, too, have ties to magic, especially through the old gods and your bloodline. Benjen has untapped potential. Brandon does too, though his magic is not as strong. And I believe you deserve to know more to see how this can help the North."

Harrold turned to Benjen, his tone encouraging. "You, Benjen, are young enough to be trained. Magic is like a muscle—it grows with use. With proper guidance, you could learn to wield it."

Benjen shifted in his seat, his excitement barely contained. "What can I do? Will I be able to move things, like in the old tales?"

Harrold, smiling: "Perhaps, but we must start small. First, we'll see the extent of your magic. It will take time, patience, and effort."

Turning to Brandon, Harrold's tone softened. "Brandon, your magic is there, but it's not as strong as Benjen's. Still, it's enough to use enchanted items. If you visit me in London in a few months, we can see what you might be capable of."

Brandon smirked, ever the adventurer. "London? That sounds like an excuse for an adventure. I'll take you up on that, Harrold."

Rickard remained silent for a moment, his piercing gaze locked on Harrold. Finally, he spoke, his voice low but resolute. "You're trusting us with a great deal, Harrold. And now, you wish to take my youngest son into your care?"

Harrold inclined his head. "Yes, my lord. I'll ensure Benjen is safe and that he learns all he can. This knowledge will benefit not just him, but Winterfell and the North."

Rickard nodded slowly. "You've proven yourself trustworthy, Harrold. If Benjen agrees, I'll allow it."

That evening, preparations were made for Benjen's journey. Harrold assured Rickard and Brandon that he would protect Benjen as if he were his own. As Benjen packed, Brandon approached Harrold in the courtyard.

Brandon, clapping Harrold on the shoulder: "Take care of the lad, Gryffindor. He's a Stark through and through, but he's young and eager. Don't let him get into too much trouble."

Harrold, chuckling: "I'll keep an eye on him. And when you visit, we'll see what the Gryffindor bloodline can unlock in you."

Brandon grinned. "You'd better. I'll hold you to that."

The next morning, Harrold and Benjen departed Winterfell. Benjen was full of questions, his youthful enthusiasm contagious.

Benjen, as they rode: "What will I learn first? Can I use a sword with magic? Or maybe I'll learn to light fires with a flick of my hand?"

Harrold, amused: "Patience, Benjen. The first step is understanding your potential. But I promise you this—you'll learn things that no one else in the North has ever dreamed of."

As Winterfell disappeared behind them, Harrold felt a surge of satisfaction. The Starks are my allies, but more importantly, they are family in this endeavor. Benjen's journey is only the beginning.

With the Lily waiting at White Harbor, Harrold and Benjen set sail for London, a new chapter unfolding for the young Stark and the magical lord who had reshaped the North.

The icy wind cut through the air as Harrold stood atop the Wall, gazing out at the vast, desolate expanse of the lands beyond. The Night's Watch had welcomed him hesitantly, recognizing him as a lord of the North but wary of his magical reputation. For Harrold, this journey wasn't about politics—it was about understanding the mysteries that lingered in the North's most uncharted reaches.

Walking along the Wall, Harrold ran his hand across the frozen stone, his magical senses tingling faintly. Embedded deep within its structure, he felt the remnants of an ancient ward.

Harrold's Inner Thoughts: This ward... it's anti-necromancy. Weak, but still present. It feels old—perhaps thousands of years old. Could this be the work of the Children of the Forest? If so, they must have had a reason. The Wall wasn't just built to keep men out.

He thought of the White Walkers, the mythical Others said to command the dead and bring eternal winter. Stories like that rarely come from nothing. If the Wall was warded against necromancy, it means someone feared it—and likely fought it.

Determined to explore further, Harrold ventured beyond the Wall with a small group of clones. The vast wilderness was harsh and unforgiving, but it held a stark beauty that spoke of an untamed world.

Among the wildlings, Harrold's magical senses buzzed faintly. There's magic here, he realized. A higher percentage of these people carry latent magical potential than those in the South.

He observed the wildlings from a distance, their rugged lives a testament to resilience. Harrold felt a pang of regret. There's so much potential among them, but bringing them south would only invite chaos. The North is barely ready for the magicals I've introduced. The wildlings would break it.

As Harrold's group pushed further into the wilderness, he felt something shift. A subtle but distinct sensation prickled at the edges of his awareness—magic, but unfamiliar.

Clone Elenna, her voice cautious: "Do you feel that? We're being watched."

Harrold nodded, following the faint trail of magic through the snow-laden forest. The trail grew stronger, leading them to a hidden grove.

The Children of the Forest emerged silently from the shadows, their diminutive forms blending seamlessly with the ancient trees. Their eyes glowed faintly, exuding an aura of power and ageless wisdom.

Harrold, carefully: "I've heard tales of your kind. To see you in the flesh is... unexpected."

The Children didn't speak but gestured for him to follow. His clones exchanged wary glances but obeyed his signal to stay back. Harrold followed alone, deeper into the forest until they reached a cavern hidden beneath a gnarled weirwood tree.

Inside the cavern, Harrold encountered the Three-Eyed Raven, seated on a throne of roots intertwined with the living weirwood. His eyes were distant yet piercing, as though he saw far beyond the confines of the present.

Three-Eyed Raven, his voice a low rumble: "Your presence here was not foreseen. You've changed the weave of time."

Harrold, intrigued but cautious: "What has changed? What do you see?"

The Raven's lips twitched into a faint, cryptic smile. "The future is no longer a certainty. You are a pivot, a force that defies the currents."

Frustrated by the vague response, Harrold reached out with his mind, attempting to read the Raven's thoughts. A sharp pulse of magic rebuffed him, leaving him momentarily disoriented.

Harrold, narrowing his eyes: "If you won't tell me what has changed, then why bring me here?"

The Raven simply said, "You'll find your answers in time, if you look within."

Before Harrold could press further, the Children of the Forest activated a ward. A surge of power surrounded him, and in the blink of an eye, he found himself outside the cavern. The magical trail that had led him there was gone, as though the grove had been cloaked in an impenetrable Fidelius-like ward.

Harrold tried to retrace his steps, but the land offered no clues. It was as if the Children and the Raven had vanished entirely.

As he returned to his clones, Harrold's thoughts churned. The Wall's ancient wards, the magical potential of the wildlings, and now the cryptic warnings of the Three-Eyed Raven. The North holds more mysteries than I imagined.

He cast one last glance at the frozen expanse of the North before heading back to the Wall. The Children of the Forest and the Raven are watching, but why? And what did he mean about changing the weave of time?

The answers eluded him, but Harrold knew one thing: the forces beyond the Wall were stirring, and he had unwittingly become a part of their story.

Harrold returned to Winterfell with a sense of unease that refused to fade. The encounter with the Three-Eyed Raven and the Children of the Forest had left more questions than answers. He knew he couldn't navigate this alone.

Harrold was met by Rickard Stark in the courtyard, the lord's piercing gaze taking in Harrold's grim expression.

Rickard, concerned: "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Harrold, dismounting: "Something worse, my lord. I need to speak with you—privately."

Rickard nodded, gesturing for Harrold to follow him into the keep.

In the warmth of the solar, with goblets of spiced wine between them, Harrold recounted his journey beyond the Wall. He described the faint necromantic wards embedded in the Wall, the latent magic of the wildlings, and the unsettling presence of the Children of the Forest.

Harrold, leaning forward: "And then there was the Three-Eyed Raven. He spoke of changes, of the weave of time being disrupted by my presence. But he refused to explain. Then the Children expelled me with some ward, and now I can't find them, as if they've vanished entirely."

Rickard's face darkened as he listened, his fingers drumming on the armrest of his chair.

Rickard, gravely: "The Three-Eyed Raven... That's a name I've only heard in passing, in tales my father told. But if the Children of the Forest are involved, this is no mere story. We need to know more."

The next morning, Harrold and Rickard descended into the Winterfell library, a sprawling chamber filled with ancient tomes and crumbling scrolls. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment and leather bindings.

Rickard, scanning the shelves: "The Stark line has always kept records, though much has been lost over the centuries. If there's anything here about the Children, the Long Night, or the Three-Eyed Raven, it will be buried in the oldest texts."

Harrold and Rickard set to work, joined later by a maester and Brandon Stark, who brought fresh energy to the search. They sifted through brittle pages and fading ink, piecing together fragments of the past.

Over the course of several days, they began to unearth scattered references:

The Long Night: Accounts of a time when darkness covered the world, and the Others—white as ice and deadly as winter—waged war on the living. The Wall was built to keep them at bay, and the Children of the Forest aided the First Men with their magic.

The Children of the Forest: Described as mysterious and reclusive beings, deeply tied to the old gods and the weirwood trees. They wielded powerful magic, but their numbers dwindled after the First Men came to Westeros.

The Three-Eyed Raven: Mentioned in cryptic references as a seer or oracle, tied to the old gods and the weirwoods. One text hinted that the Raven was both a person and a conduit for something far greater.

Rickard, frowning over a passage: "Here. This suggests that the Raven's purpose is to guide, to see all paths and ensure balance. But it doesn't explain what that means."

Harrold, his tone sharp: "Balance between what? Life and death? The living and the Others?"

Brandon, reading another scroll, chimed in. "If the Raven is tied to the gods, then it's no surprise he avoided answering your questions. The gods deal in mysteries, not clarity."

As they poured over the texts, Harrold's mind churned. The Raven claimed I changed the weave of time. Was it my presence here? My magic? Or was it something larger—Orsus, the ships, the alliances?

He looked at Rickard, whose face was lined with concern. The Starks are tied to this land, to its magic. If the North is to survive what's coming—and I have no doubt something is coming—we must be prepared. And that means understanding these forces before they overwhelm us.

In the solar of Winterfell, with a roaring fire warding off the chill, Harrold and Rickard Stark sat across from one another. The hours of pouring over ancient texts had taken their toll, but Harrold's mind was alive with ideas. The fragmented knowledge of the Children of the Forest, the White Walkers, and the Long Night had painted a grim picture of the past—and potentially, the future.

Harrold leaned forward, his expression serious.

Harrold, resolutely: "The Wall was built to keep something out. Those ancient necromantic wards may have weakened, but I can strengthen them—and replicate them. Not just for the Wall but for the North's castles and settlements."

Rickard's brow furrowed. He set down the goblet of spiced wine in his hand.

Rickard: "You're certain of this? The Wall's wards are ancient, older than the Stark line itself. How would you replicate something crafted by the Children of the Forest?"

Harrold, with a faint smile: "Magic evolves. While we don't have the full knowledge of the Children, I've studied their remnants and their use of nature-bound magic. I can craft runes and wards that serve the same purpose. Think of it as weaving their methods into something new—something suited for our times."

Rickard stroked his chin thoughtfully, the firelight casting sharp shadows on his face.

Rickard: "If you can truly do this, it could change the North's defenses. What exactly are you proposing?"

Harrold, confidently: "First, I will reinforce the Wall. The wards there are barely functional, but with runic enhancements, I can restore their power and expand their reach."

Rickard raised an eyebrow.

Harrold, continuing: "Then I'll craft ward arrays for the North's major castles and settlements—Winterfell, White Harbor, Bear Island, and even the mountain clans. These wards would serve two purposes: to protect against necromancy and to shield against magical intrusions."

Rickard leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Rickard: "You're suggesting a web of protection across the North."

Harrold, nodding: "Exactly. The Wall alone is not enough. If the Wall is ever breached, the North must be ready to hold against whatever lies beyond."

Rickard's silence stretched for a moment before he finally spoke, his tone cautious.

Rickard: "And the Wall itself? What would that require?"

Harrold, thoughtfully: "Time and resources. I'll need to inspect the Wall more thoroughly and establish rune arrays at key points. The Night's Watch would need to cooperate, of course."

Rickard, with a faint smirk: "The Watch is sworn to defend the realms of men. If they know their Wall is failing, they'll have no choice but to listen."

The conversation shifted to the settlements and castles of the North.

Harrold, gesturing to the map of the North spread across the table: "Each settlement will need a customized ward. Winterfell, for instance, already has strong ties to the old gods through its weirwood tree. I can anchor the wards here to that tree's magic. Other settlements may need additional weirwoods or magical foci to make the wards effective."

Rickard, tapping the map: "And places like White Harbor? They don't follow the old gods."

Harrold, smiling faintly: "That complicates things, but it's not insurmountable. I can create artificial magical anchors—runic totems—to serve the same purpose. It won't be as strong as a weirwood connection, but it will suffice."

Rickard studied the map, his expression contemplative.

Rickard: "If you succeed in this, the North will owe you a great debt. This isn't just about protecting Moat Cailin or Winterfell—it's about ensuring the survival of all the North."

Harrold, firmly: "I swore my loyalty to the Starks, to the North. This is not just my duty—it's my purpose."

Rickard's gaze softened slightly, a rare moment of warmth breaking through his usual stoicism.

Rickard: "You're an unusual man, Harrold Gryffindor. The North has always had strength, but you've brought something else—something we didn't know we needed."

By the end of the meeting, they had outlined the next steps:

Harrold would return to the Wall to begin reinforcing its wards.

Winterfell would serve as the testing ground for the settlement wards, with Harrold anchoring the protections to its ancient weirwood tree.

Rickard would send ravens to the other Northern lords, preparing them for the implementation of these wards.

As Harrold left the solar that night, his thoughts were filled with determination. The North will be ready. Whatever comes—be it White Walkers, necromancers, or something worse—we will not fall.

The flickering light of Winterfell's torches illuminated his path, but Harrold's mind was already on the ancient magics he would soon wield, the protections he would weave into the very fabric of the North.

AN – Corrected the issue with Lord Reed's name in Chapter "Back to Westeros". Thanks holdingoff for pointing it out.

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.