In the end, it was not a difficult decision. After two centuries of existence, the world that once brimmed with mysteries now seemed dimmed, its secrets long since unraveled. Though Harrold bore the title of Master of Death, it had come to feel less like a crown and more like a shackle. Immortality was no gift—it was a curse that left him watching the passage of lives he could no longer fully share. Friends, lovers, rivals all slipped through time's embrace while he remained.
He had tried, in those early decades, to mimic the appearance of aging, crafting spells to mask his unchanging form. But what good was a facade when his heart had already grown weary? Magic itself was dying, fading like a candle guttering in its final hours. The great beasts of old—the unicorns, dragons, and phoenixes had vanished into myth. Fewer magical children were born each year, and the wizards and witches who remained could barely summon the simplest spells. Even the Patronus, that ancient guardian of light, had become a legend no one could recreate.
So, when Death came to him with an offer—an escape, a new adventure—Harrold accepted without hesitation. It was not sentiment that swayed him but the sheer absence of reason to refuse. Death allowed no baggage; he could bring nothing from hiay world but the Hallows, which had long since fused into his being. The wand was his will, the cloak his flesh, the stone his spirit. To others, Harrold might seem a man, but he had become something else entirely.
Death came without ceremony. One moment he stood beneath the fading light of the world; the next, he was torn away. The transition was not unlike a portkey but far worse—an endless abyss, black and screaming, until he fell, gasping, into a new land.
When Harrold regained his senses, he stood alone. The air was crisp and cold, and the land stretched wide and barren before me, hills rolling like the backs of slumbering beasts. No sign of man or settlement reached his eyes, and his extended senses confirmed the emptiness. So, he walked, feet crunching through frost-kissed grass, heading toward the nearest hillcrest to better survey his surroundings.
Hours passed before he saw them—a small group of men gathered around a campfire, their voices low and gruff. They were armed, clad in furs and leather, with swords strapped to their hips. Their horses were tied nearby, pawing on the frozen ground.
Invisible, he approached. The leader among them was easy to spot—a youth barely out of boyhood yet carrying himself with the weight of command. His features were sharp, his dark hair tousled by the wind, and his cloak bore a sigil: a gray direwolf on a field of white. His name, Harrold learned as he slipped into young lord's thoughts, was Brandon Stark, heir to a castle called Winterfell.
Their world unfolded in pieces as Harrold delved into the boy's memories. Westeros, they called it—a land fragmented into seven great regions, ruled by one king but simmering with rivalries and old grudges. The Vale, where they now stood, was one such region, a mountainous expanse ruled from a castle perched upon a precipice. But Brandon was no child of the Vale. He was of the North, a land of harsh winters and harder men. He journeyed south from the Eyrie, where his younger brother was fostered, to return to his ancestral home.
The voices of his companions cut through Harrold's meditation, sharp with alarm. Bandits—or rather, mountain clansmen—descended upon the camp, their crude weapons glinting in the firelight. Brandon and his men drew their swords, but they were outnumbered, their attackers wild with hunger and desperation.
Old habits die hard. Harrold has a "Saving people thing" as his friends used to say. He conjured a blade and leapt into the fray, the invisibility of the cloak falling away like mist. The mountain men faltered at the sight of him, their surprise buying precious seconds. Steel clashed on steel as they fought, a chaotic dance of life and death. The Northerners were skilled, but numbers and fury worked against them. One by one, they fell dead or wounded, defending their young lord.
In the end, it was Brandon and Harrold against three of the brigands. The young lord fought with reckless determination, his sword flashing like lightning, while Harrold wielded his conjured blade with deadly precision. Together, they brought them down, but not without cost. Brandon collapsed, blood soaking his tunic from a wound at his side.
Harrold knelt beside him, his hands pressing against the injury. Magic surged beneath his fingertips, stemming the bleeding and sealing the worst of the damage. But Harrold did not heal Brandon fully; such miracles would raise too many questions. Instead, he tore strips from the cloaks of the dead and bound the wounds as best he could.
The survivors of his retinue were few, their injuries grave. They would not survive long without aid. Reluctantly, Harrold used magic, weaving subtle spells to mend their bodies and cloud their minds. When they awoke, they would remember nothing of the severity of their wounds or the power that had saved them.
When Brandon's eyes fluttered open, Harrold offered him a reassuring smile.
"Easy there," he said, his voice low and calm. "You've taken a nasty blow. Don't try to move just yet."
Brandon's gaze sharpened, wary. "Who are you?"
"I am Harold Gryffindor." he replied smoothly. "I was passing through when I saw the attack. I couldn't just stand by."
"Where do you hail from, Harold?"
Harrold paused, crafting the lie carefully. "From everywhere honestly. But my ancestors are from the North, like you. My family once held land there, long ago. We were wanderers for many generations, but I have come to reclaim my roots."
Brandon's eyes narrowed, but he nodded. The Starks were an honorable lot, but honor often came with a dose of pragmatism. Harrold used a little bit of magic to make Brandon trust him.
They rested a day to recuperate and then slowly marched to the Crossroads Inn. From there, Brandon sent words to Darry, summoning aid. Days passed at the inn where they rested, and in that time, Harrold wove his story more firmly. He spoke of his lineage, of ancestors who had ruled the Moat Cailin before it fell into ruin.
When asked why he was there with just a sword and no horse of supplies, Harrold told a story of his horse dying and having to abandon most of his supplies since he cannot carry them. He managed to transfigure money based on what he has seen. He made enough to buy himself a horse and some clothes including a cloak.
The day after they left The Crossroads inn with hired swords and few guards from Castle Darry, Harold found himself riding alongside Brandon who was eager to talk, his curiosity as sharp as his blade, and Harold, ever careful with his words, knew this was an opportunity to further cement his story.
The morning was crisp, the chill in the air biting but refreshing. The smell of pine and damp earth filled the air as their small party moved along the worn dirt path northward. Brandon, despite his injuries, seemed to carry himself with a measure of pride and resilience that Harold found commendable.
"Harold," Brandon began, his voice steady but tinged with curiosity. "Tell me more about your family. Gryffindor, was it?"
Harold nodded, adjusting his cloak against the cool wind. "Yes, the Gryffindors. My ancestors hailed from the marshes of the Neck, thousands of years ago. We were marsh kings then, as your family history no doubt tells you. But when the Laughing Wolf conquered the Neck, my ancestor saw an opportunity rather than a defeat. He sought the world beyond the North—he was a restless soul, much like me, I imagine."
Brandon tilted his head, intrigued. "And he just... left? Abandoned his lands?"
"Not abandoned," Harold corrected, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "He sought his lord's blessing first. He believed that the North, while his home, could only provide so much. And so, with his family and a small group of followers, he set sail for Essos, leaving behind the cold marshes of Moat Cailin."
Brandon frowned slightly. "Why Essos?"
"It was the Free Cities that called to him. My family's records say he was fascinated by their culture, their wealth, and their magic. He built a name for himself as a trader—though some say he dabbled in sorcery as well. Over the centuries, the Gryffindors became renowned merchants and explorers. My ancestors traveled to the Summer Islands, Sothoryos, and even the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai."
Brandon whistled low. "The Shadow Lands? That's further than most men dare to dream of."
Harold inclined his head. "It's said the Gryffindors brought back treasures from those distant places—artifacts of immense value, rare spices, and knowledge of the world that even maesters do not have. Some of these treasures remain in our family's possession to this day. That wealth has sustained us for generations."
"Then why come back now?" Brandon asked, his tone curious but skeptical. "You've built a life elsewhere. Why return to the North, to... ruins?"
Harold turned to look at the young Stark, his emerald eyes thoughtful. "Because no matter how far my family has gone, how many empires they've seen rise and fall, the North has always been our home. We've kept to the Old Gods, even when surrounded by foreign lands and foreign faiths. We've always remembered where we came from. My father often spoke of returning, of reclaiming our roots. When he passed, I felt it was my duty to fulfill that dream."
Brandon was quiet for a moment, his blue-gray eyes studying Harold closely. Then, he nodded. "That's honorable. Not many would care for a dream that wasn't their own."
Harold chuckled softly. "Honorable, perhaps. Or foolish. Time will tell."
As the hours turned to days, Brandon proved to be an eager guide. He pointed out landmarks and shared the histories of the lands they passed. Harold listened intently, storing the information away like merchant appraising valuable goods.
"Over there," Brandon said, gesturing toward a cluster of wooden houses nestled by a small river. "That's White Willow. It's a small fishing village, but they're known for their smoked trout. My father buys a wagonload every year."
Harold nodded appreciatively. "The North is full of hidden gems, isn't it? Modest, perhaps, but rich in character."
Brandon grinned. "That's one way to put it. Most southerners just call it 'cold and desolate.' But they don't understand. The North is strong because it's hard. Every village, every holdfast, has a story of survival."
Harold's expression grew thoughtful. "Strength forged through hardship... It's a lesson many could learn. The lands I've seen, Brandon, are not so different from the North. In Essos, there are cities of unimaginable wealth, but they've grown soft. They lack the resilience your people possess. The North may not have their gold, but it has something far more valuable—endurance."
Brandon seemed to take pride in that, his chest puffing slightly. "You've got a way with words, Harold. Maybe you should be a bard instead of a lord."
Harold laughed, a warm, rich sound. "I'll keep that in mind if the whole 'rebuilding a castle' thing doesn't work out."
As they continued north, the landscape grew harsher. Snow dusted the ground, and the air became biting cold. Brandon, wrapped in a thick fur cloak, seemed unbothered by the chill, but Harold found himself adjusting his own cloak more frequently.
"This is where the real North begins," Brandon said, his voice carrying a note of pride. "Beyond here, the winters are longer, the nights colder. Most southerners wouldn't last a day."
"I can see why most of my ancestors stayed," Harold replied, his breath visible in the icy air. "There's a beauty to this land, raw and untamed. It calls to something deep within."
Brandon nodded. "You speak like a Northman, Harold. Are you sure you've been gone for thousands of years?"
Harold smiled faintly. "Perhaps the North never truly left us."
As the group rode steadily northward, Brandon remained curious about Harold's origins. Harold didn't mind. He enjoyed crafting his family's tale—it was a story of truths and half-truths, embroidered just enough to make it compelling but grounded in enough fact to pass unquestioned.
"So your family," Brandon said as they crossed the frost-covered marshes of the Neck. "They left the North for Essos, became traders, and still managed to keep the faith of the Old Gods? I find that hard to imagine."
Harold tilted his head, his emerald eyes catching the pale winter sunlight. "It is hard, I'll admit. The lands of Essos are vast, Brandon, and alien in many ways. There are gods there with names too strange to speak, and cities so ancient their streets feel like graveyards. But for my family, the Old Gods weren't just a faith—they were home. When we left the North, we carried pieces of it with us: sacred weirwood seeds, relics from our ancestors, and the stories passed down through the generations. In Essos, we planted those seeds in private groves, places where the Old Gods could still watch over us."
"Sacred weirwood seeds?" Brandon's brows furrowed, his tone turning skeptical. "I've never heard of such a thing."
Harold chuckled softly. "A rarity, even in the North. My many times great-grandfather claimed to have gathered them from a grove deep in the Wolfswood. He believed the trees were not merely watchers, but keepers of the Northern soul. I suspect they've been the source of my family's good fortune. They say the Old Gods reward those who honor them, no matter how far they roam."
Brandon frowned, his tone half-playful but tinged with challenge. "Or maybe your ancestors were just clever merchants who knew how to tell a good story."
Harold shrugged, a sly grin on his face. "Perhaps. But isn't that the secret to all success? A good story, well told?"
Many days later by late afternoon, the party reached the edge of the Neck, and the sight of Moat Cailin loomed ahead. The swampy terrain became more treacherous, with pools of brackish water reflecting the pale sky and reeds rising up like skeletal fingers. The ruins of the ancient fortress dominated the horizon, its once-mighty towers reduced to moss-covered husks.
"Moat Cailin," Brandon said, his voice taking on a solemn tone. "The sentinel of the North. Even in ruins, it still guards the passage into our lands. The Crannogmen say it's impossible to take the fortress if you hold it."
Harold studied the crumbling walls as they approached. "And yet, it looks like time has done what no army could."
Brandon nodded. "The South has no need to attack us now. The Neck keeps most invaders at bay, and those who do reach Moat Cailin find it as dangerous as any battlefield. My father says it's the perfect natural defense."
Harold's gaze lingered on the ruins, his mind racing with thoughts. The swampy lands surrounding the castle were silent but alive with the faint rustle of unseen creatures. The air smelled of damp earth and decay, a stark contrast to the crisp air of the plains they'd just left behind.
"Who owns it now?" Harold asked.
"Starks own it technically. The Crannogmen helps garrison it for us" Brandon replied. "They're loyal to my father and House Stark. Fierce fighters, even if they don't look it. They know the swamps better than anyone. Some say they use magic to hide their movements."
"Magic?" Harold raised an eyebrow.
Brandon smirked. "Don't tell me you don't believe in it. A man who claims his ancestors carried weirwood seeds across the Narrow Sea should have an open mind."
Harold laughed, the sound echoing faintly over the still waters. "Fair enough. Tell me, do the Crannogmen ever leave the Neck?"
"Rarely," Brandon admitted. "Most of them stay close to the swamps. But they're loyal to the North. My father trusts them, and they've never given him reason not to."
The group decided to spend the night at Moat Cailin. The Crannogmen had prepared a rough shelter within the ruins, a low stone building that once might have been a barracks. Inside, the air was dry and heavy with the smell of peat fires.
The Crannogmen themselves were as strange as the land they guarded. Small and wiry, with muddy green eyes and skin tanned by the swamp, they moved with an almost otherworldly quiet. They spoke little, but when they did, it was with deference to Brandon.
One of them, a man named Grel, showed Harold and Brandon to their sleeping quarters. The room was sparse, with straw-filled pallets and furs for warmth. The stone walls were damp, but a fire burned brightly in the hearth.
"It's not Winterfell," Brandon said, sitting down on one of the pallets, "but it'll do."
Harold glanced around the room, his expression thoughtful. "There's a certain charm to it. It feels... ancient. As if the walls themselves are watching us."
Brandon snorted. "You sound like a Crannogmen. They're always going on about the spirits of the swamp."
"Perhaps they're onto something," Harold replied, his tone teasing. "The Old Gods are everywhere, are they not? Even in the Neck."
Brandon shook his head but smiled. "You've got a knack for making the strangest places sound appealing."
That evening, the Crannogmen served a simple meal of fish stew and dark bread. The taste was earthy and unfamiliar, but Harold ate with enthusiasm, complimenting the meal.
Grel, the Crannogmen who had shown them their quarters, seemed pleased. "The fish is from the Black Water," he said. "Caught it this morning."
Brandon nodded appreciatively. "You've always kept the Neck well-protected. My father says the Crannogmen are the North's first line of defense."
Grel's expression turned serious. "It's our duty. No one passes through the swamps without our leave."
Harold leaned forward, his green eyes gleaming with curiosity. "And have you ever had to stop anyone? Raiders? Invaders?"
Grel hesitated, then nodded. "Aye. Now and then, Southerners think they can pass through the Neck unnoticed. They don't last long. The swamps take care of most of them."
"The swamps?" Harold asked.
"There are things in the water," Grel said simply. "Things that don't take kindly to strangers."
Brandon chuckled. "You're trying to scare him."
Grel shrugged. "It's the truth. The Neck protects its own."
Later that night, as the others slept, Harold and Brandon sat by the dying embers of the fire. The room was silent save for the occasional drip of water from the stone ceiling.
"You've traveled far," Brandon said quietly. "Seen more of the world than I ever will."
"Perhaps," Harold replied. "But you've seen something far rarer."
"What's that?"
"Home," Harold said simply. "No matter where I've gone, I've always felt like a stranger. You, Brandon Stark, are tied to this land in a way I can only dream of. The North is in your blood."
Brandon was silent for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "And yet, you speak of it like you belong here more than I do. The Old Gods, the North... It's as if you're trying to convince yourself as much as me."
Harold smiled faintly. "Perhaps I am. Perhaps I'm still searching for that connection."
Brandon didn't respond immediately, but his gaze softened. "You're a strange man, Harold Gryffindor. But I think I like you."
Harold chuckled, leaning back against the stone wall. "And I, you, Brandon Stark."
As the fire burned low, the two men sat in companionable silence, each lost in their thoughts. The ruins of Moat Cailin seemed to hold its breath, the ancient stones bearing witness to the quiet moment between the would-be lord and the young heir of Winterfell.
The chill of the North deepened as Harold and Brandon approached Winterfell. The towering grey walls loomed against the wintry sky, their size a testament to the fortress's ancient strength. Smoke curled from the chimneys, the promise of warmth and life within. As they crossed the outer gates, Harold marveled at the architecture. Winterfell was not just a castle; it was a living monument to Northern resilience.
The hot springs, faintly steaming in the frigid air, gave the place an eerie beauty. Harold's sharp green eyes scanned the courtyards, filled with the hustle and bustle of the Stark household. Stable hands hurried to take their horses, and guards eyed Harold with curiosity.
"This is Winterfell," Brandon said with obvious pride, gesturing to the sprawling keep. "The heart of the North. There's no other place like it in the world."
"I believe you," Harold replied, his voice softer than usual. "It feels... powerful. As if the land itself remembers everything that's happened here."
Brandon gave a small smile. "You sound like a Crannogmen again."
Before Harold could respond, they were ushered into the Great Hall, its stone walls adorned with banners of House Stark: the grey direwolf on a field of white. The hall smelled of roasted meat and pine, the hearthfires blazing with a steady, comforting glow. At the far end of the room sat Rickard Stark, Warden of the North, his face a stern mask of duty and quiet wisdom.
"Father," Brandon called as they approached. "This is Harold Gryffindor, the man I wrote to you about."
Lord Stark rose from his seat, his piercing grey eyes studying Harold with the weight of generations behind them. He was a man of few words, but those words carried the weight of law and tradition.
"Harold Gryffindor," he said, his deep voice even. "You're a long way from Essos."
Harold stepped forward, his movements graceful but deliberate. He gave a slight bow, a gesture of respect but not submission. "Lord Stark, it's an honor to stand in your hall. Your son has spoken highly of you and of Winterfell."
Rickard's gaze lingered on Harold, unflinching. "Brandon says you seek land in the North."
"Indeed," Harold replied smoothly. "I wish to put down roots here, among the people of my ancestors. The North calls to me, Lord Stark, as I suspect it calls to all who carry its blood."
Rickard nodded and after the guest rites, Harrold was directed to a guest room and a young boy helped him to clean up for the feast.
The Great Hall of Winterfell was alive with light and laughter that evening. The Starks had called for a feast to welcome Brandon back, a rare moment of celebration in the solemn North. The tables were laden with hearty Northern fare: roasted venison, suckling pigs, black bread, and steaming bowls of root vegetable stew. The scent of spiced wine and honeyed mead mingled with the warmth of the hearthfires, driving away the chill of winter.
Harold sat near Brandon at the high table, an honored guest at the feast. To his left was Lady Lyanna Stark, her ebony hair gleaming in the firelight. She studied Harold with a polite but cautious curiosity, she is from what Harrold could see is the female version of Brandon.
"You've traveled far to come here, Harold Gryffindor," she said, her tone warm but measured.
Harold inclined his head respectfully. "Far, indeed, my lady. From the free cities of Essos to the shores of Westeros, and now to the heart of the North. Yet no journey has felt more meaningful than this one."
Lyanna smiled faintly, though her eyes remained searching. "You speak well for a simple wanderer. One might mistake you for a lord already."
"Perhaps it is the influence of your brother," Harold replied with a small smile, glancing at Brandon. "He's taught me much about Northern customs and traditions."
Brandon grinned, raising his mug of ale. "I had to, or you'd have frozen to death by now."
The table erupted in laughter. Rickard Stark sat quietly, observing the feast with the same unyielding composure he had shown earlier. His grey eyes scanned the room, noting every movement, every gesture, as if weighing the worth of every person present.
As the feast carried on, Harold took the opportunity to mingle with the Stark household. The hall was filled with bannermen, retainers, and staff, all eager to welcome Brandon back. Harold moved among them with practiced ease, his charm and charisma drawing both curiosity and cautious acceptance.
He spoke briefly with the Maester, who quizzed him on his knowledge of the North's history. Harold impressed the maester with his understanding of the old kingdoms and his genuine respect for Northern traditions.
"I see you've studied well," the measter said, his tone approving. "Few who come to the North take the time to learn its stories. That speaks well of your intentions."
Harold smiled modestly. "The North is rich with wisdom, Maester. It would be a disservice not to honor it."
Later, he found himself in conversation with Benjen, the young Stark, ever the curious youngest son, asked Harold about his travels in Essos, while Benjen listened quietly, his sharp grey eyes studying Harold with maturity beyond his years. Lyanna Stark very much wanting to be part of the conversation was held back by her upbringing but paid more attention to the conversation than food.
The morning sun filtered through the narrow window of Rickard Stark's solar, casting long beams of light across the wooden table where Harold Gryffindor and Lord Stark sat opposite each other. Brandon stood to one side, leaning against the wall, silently observing the negotiation with keen interest.
Rickard Stark's grey eyes remained cold and calculating, his demeanor as unyielding as the walls of Winterfell. Harold, in contrast, sat with calm composure, his hands resting lightly on the table. He had spent the night carefully preparing his proposal, knowing this conversation would determine his future in the North.
Harold was the first to speak. "Lord Stark, I come to you with respect for your position as Warden of the North and with a genuine desire to serve this region and its people. To that end, I offer one million gold dragons to your treasury, to be used as you see fit, in exchange for the rights to Moat Cailin."
The room went silent. Rickard's expression betrayed no reaction, but Brandon's eyebrows raised slightly at the sheer sum of money being offered. One million dragons was a fortune, enough to fund the defenses of the North for decades.
Rickard leaned forward slightly, his voice even but firm. "One million dragons is a generous offer, Harold. But Moat Cailin is more than a ruin—it is the gateway to the North. Whoever controls it holds immense strategic power. If I am to entrust you with such a place, the compensation must match its value. I will accept no less than two million gold dragons."
Harold's jaw tightened slightly, but he nodded. "Two million dragons, then. But if I am to increase my offer, I would ask for more than just the stronghold itself. I seek ownership of the land to the east of Moat Cailin, extending to the Fever River and out to the sea. That land would allow me to construct a port at the river's mouth, which would bring trade and wealth to the North."
Rickard's brow furrowed at the proposal. The Starks had always been wary of foreign trade and southern influences, seeing them as potential threats to the Northern way of life. The idea of a port at the edge of his domain gave him pause.
"A port in the Fever River could be a gateway, yes," Rickard said slowly, his voice thoughtful. "But gateways swing both ways. What assurance do I have that this port would not bring harm to the North? Smugglers, pirates, or worse?"
"I would build it with the blessings and help of Lord Reed. They will be able to help me protect the settlement and port. I will make sure the stewardship of the port will be granted to someone from my bloodline in perpetuality and will have someone with Reed blood married into it within a generation or two." Harold countered. "Every ship that docks there would pay its dues to Winterfell indirectly with taxes, and every coin earned from trade would bolster the North's strength. The port would be yours as much as it is mine."
Rickard narrowed his eyes. "Your words are persuasive, but I am not a man to be swayed by honeyed promises. If you want the land and the right to build your port, the price is three million dragons."
"Three million!" Brandon exclaimed, his voice breaking the tense silence. "Father, that's—"
Rickard silenced his son with a glance.
Harold leaned back in his chair, taking a moment to consider the new demand. Three million dragons was an astronomical sum, especially since he has no money as of now. But he had not come this far to falter now. He will figure out how to make the money. With magic at his fingertips, he was sure find a way,
"Three million it is," Harold said at last, his voice calm but resolute. "But I would ask two conditions in return. First, I be allowed to pay half the sum now and the remainder within the next fifteen years. Second, I be granted the right to build a port, not just at the Fever River, but further east, in the Bite itself. That location would allow me to create a true center of trade, connecting Sunset Sea and the narrow sea, benefiting both my endeavors and the North."
Rickard considered the proposal, his fingers steepled as he stared at Harold in silence. After a long moment, he gave a single nod.
"You may pay the sum as you suggest but know this: if the debt is not repaid within fifteen years, the land and all you build upon it will revert to House Stark. As for the port in the Bite... I will allow it, but it will be built under the condition that no activity there will compromise the safety or honor of the North. The Starks will have the right to inspect its operations at any time. Additionally you can use the port at the bite to harbor and dock the ships you own or ships that house Stark will own. We do not want another port right south of White Harbor stealing trade from them. Lord Manderley will not like it. They have been loyal lords for thousand years. Any new trade you generate with your own ships can go thru your port in the bite but everything else will pass thru White Harbor."
"Agreed," Harold said without hesitation. The limitation on the port is unfortunate. However Harrold was sure things can and will change in the future.
Rickard sat back, his face unreadable. "And the Crannogmen? Moat Cailin lies within the Neck, which is their land as much as it is mine. They will not look kindly upon an outsider taking residence there."
Harold inclined his head. "I have no wish to displace the Crannogmen. On the contrary, I will offer them my aid—gold, food, tools, or whatever they need to improve their lives. I will consult with them before making any changes to the land, and they will have a place at Moat Cailin should they wish it. And as I mentioned earlier, I will have a marriage pact with Lord Reed to further strengthen the relations."
Rickard's expression softened slightly, though his tone remained firm. "That is well said. The Crannogmen are proud and fiercely loyal to the North. If you win their trust, it will speak well of you."
Harold nodded. "I intend to honor the traditions of the Neck and the Old Gods. This is not just a transaction for me, my lord—it is a commitment to the North and its people."
For the first time, Rickard's expression betrayed a hint of approval. He rose from his chair, signaling that the negotiation was complete.
"Very well, Harold Gryffindor. You have my blessing to claim Moat Cailin and the surrounding lands. Do not make me regret this decision."
Harold stood as well, bowing respectfully. "You will not, my lord."
As Harold and Rickardd shook hands, Brandon couldn't help but marvel at the exchange. His father was not a man easily impressed, yet Harold had held his ground with dignity and confidence. The terms of the agreement were steep, but Brandon sensed that Harold had gotten exactly what he wanted.
As they left the solar, Brandon clapped Harold on the shoulder. "You're either the boldest man I've ever met or the most reckless. Three million dragons? And a port in the Bite? My father could've had you thrown out for suggesting such things."
Harold chuckled. "Boldness and recklessness are often the same thing, Brandon. But your father is a wise man—he saw the benefit in what I offered. And now, the real work begins."
Brandon grinned. "Well, you've certainly earned my respect. Let's hope you earn the North's as well."
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.