Chapter 27: The Journey to Winterfell
Hadrian Peverell stood on the battlements of Norhall, his eyes scanning the sprawling city below. The cold wind tugged at his cloak, but he barely noticed it. The city of Norhold had grown rapidly in the past few moons, its streets now bustling with life, its markets filled with goods from the newly fertile farmlands. The roads he had built stretched like veins across the island of Skagos, connecting the hundred villages to the heart of his power.
The once-isolated isle was thriving, unified under his rule, and though it was still wild and untamed in many ways, the transformation was undeniable. The people, wary at first, now began to look at him with reverence, believing the tales of his magic and connection to the old gods. His enchantments had worked wonders on the land and its people, binding them to him in more ways than they realized.
Yet, despite all his accomplishments, Hadrian knew it was time to solidify his position. It was time to present himself to Winterfell, to Ellard Stark, and to claim the official title of High Lord of Skagos. The agreement he had made with Lord Stark still stood: bring Skagos under control, and in return, he would be recognized as its rightful ruler under the banner of House Stark. Everything hinged on this next step.
As he stood atop his castle, a thought struck him. He couldn't leave without ensuring the continued governance of Skagos in his absence. The people needed a familiar face to turn to, someone they would accept as his voice while he was away. Kreacher, his loyal servant, had proven himself invaluable, but his true form as an elf might unsettle the Skagosi, especially in these early days.
Hadrian turned and made his way down the stone stairs, his boots echoing on the cold floor of Norhall. He descended into the depths of the castle, where a large room was prepared for an important task. This room, lined with intricate runes carved into the walls, was where he would perform the ritual.
The chamber was dimly lit, the flickering light of torches casting long shadows across the stone floor. In the center of the room, Kreacher and two other house-elves—loyal servants Hadrian had brought from his former world—stood nervously, their large, expressive eyes following his every movement. They had served him faithfully for years, even crossing realms to aid him in his mission. Now, they would serve in a new capacity.
Hadrian had discovered the ritual of transformation in an ancient text long before he ever set foot in Westeros. It was a complex piece of magic, one that would allow the house-elves to take on human form, if only temporarily. This transformation would allow them to walk among the Skagosi without drawing undue attention, giving them the authority they needed to act on his behalf.
"Kreacher," Hadrian said, his voice calm but commanding. "Are you ready?"
Kreacher nodded, his wrinkled face serious. "Kreacher will serve Master, as always."
The ritual required precision, a deep understanding of the magic that bound elves to their servitude and the ancient forces that governed their nature. He had spent months perfecting the spell, ensuring that it would last long enough for his purposes.
He began to chant, his voice low and melodic, the words of the spell echoing in the chamber. As he spoke, the runes on the walls began to glow, their light growing brighter with each passing moment. The air hummed with energy, and the house-elves stood stock-still, their eyes wide with anticipation.
A soft golden light enveloped Kreacher first, lifting him slightly off the ground. His form shimmered, and slowly, the gnarled features of his elf body began to smooth and shift. His long ears shortened, his hunched posture straightened, and his limbs grew longer. The transformation took only minutes, but when the light faded, Kreacher stood before Hadrian not as a house-elf, but as a human.
He was still short by human standards, but his features were those of a man in his fourties—stern and weathered, with dark eyes that gleamed with intelligence. His hair, though still gray, was neatly cropped, and he wore the dark robes of a castellan. The transformation was perfect.
The other elves followed, their transformations just as successful. They now resembled men who could blend into any northern town or village, and Hadrian was pleased. The Skagosi would respect them in these forms, unaware of their true nature.
"Kreacher," Hadrian said, stepping forward. "You are now castellan of Norhall. While I am away, the people of Skagos will come to you for guidance. You know what must be done."
Kreacher bowed deeply. "Kreacher will not fail, Master."
Hadrian nodded, satisfied. The people of Skagos would see Kreacher as his chosen representative, and with the roads and outposts in place, there would be no unrest. It was time for him to leave Skagos in capable hands.
Hadrian packed lightly for the journey. His destination was Winterfell, the seat of House Stark, where he would present his progress to Lord Ellard Stark. Though he could have apparated directly to Winterfell, he knew that making a sudden appearance in the Stark stronghold would raise questions he didn't need to answer. Instead, he would apparate to the woods outside Winterfell, and from there, travel on horseback.
Then, with a final glance at Norhall, he disapparated.
The world shifted around him, the cold stone of his castle disappearing in an instant, replaced by the dense trees and underbrush of the Wolfswood, just outside Winterfell. The forest was thick and quiet, the only sound the soft rustling of leaves and the occasional call of a bird. It was a peaceful place, but Hadrian didn't linger. He mounted his horse, guiding it out of the woods and toward the castle in the distance.
With a thought, he summoned his bottomless bag, a small pouch enchanted to hold far more than its size suggested. He pulled out a saddle, reins, and finally, his horse—a proud, sleek stallion he had brought with him from Skagos. The creature, summoned from the bag, neighed softly and pawed at the ground as it materialized, its black coat gleaming in the sunlight.
Winterfell loomed on the horizon, its tall towers and thick walls unmistakable against the backdrop of the northern sky. It was a place of strength and history, much like the Stark family itself. As Hadrian rode toward the gates, he felt a twinge of anticipation. His meeting with Ellard Stark would determine the future of Skagos—and his own position in the north.
The gates of Winterfell opened slowly as Hadrian approached, the creak of wood and iron echoing in the crisp air. The Stark guards watched him with interest as he rode into the courtyard, their eyes lingering on the unfamiliar stallion and the man who rode it. Hadrian dismounted smoothly, handing the reins to a stable boy who rushed forward to take the horse.
One of the guards stepped forward, his expression respectful but wary. "Lord Stark has been expecting you, Lord Peverell," he said. "I will take you to him."
Hadrian followed the guard through the winding corridors of Winterfell, the familiar chill of the castle settling into his bones. It had been some time since he last stood in these halls, but nothing had changed. The Stark stronghold was as formidable and austere as ever, its walls thick with history.
At last, they reached the Great Hall, where Lord Ellard Stark sat at the head of a long table, flanked by several of his bannermen and advisors. The Stark lord was a tall man, his features sharp and weathered by years of northern winters. His eyes, cold and calculating, flicked up as Hadrian entered.
"Lord Peverell," Stark greeted him, his voice deep and measured. "I trust your journey was uneventful?"
Hadrian inclined his head. "As smooth as one could hope, my lord."
Stark gestured for him to sit, and Hadrian took his place across from the northern lord. The hall was quieter than usual, a clear sign that this meeting was of importance. The advisors, maesters, and soldiers who stood behind Ellard watched with interest, waiting to hear what Hadrian had to say.
"You've been busy on Skagos, I hope." Stark said, his voice steady but curious. "Tell me of your progress. Has the island bent to your will?"
Hadrian smiled slightly. "The people of Skagos now follow the laws of House Stark, as we agreed. Skagos is no longer a land of chaos and rebellion. It is a part of the north, as it should have always been."
Stark nodded, his expression unreadable. "You've done well, Hadrian. But there is still one matter to discuss before we can make your lordship official."
Hadrian raised an eyebrow. "And what would that be?"
Maester Olorin, who had been standing silently at Stark's side, stepped forward, holding a scroll in his hands. "A house must have a banner and words, Lord Peverell," the maester said, his voice soft but firm. "If you are to be recognized as the High Lord of Skagos, you must present a sigil that will fly above your castle and on the banners of your soldiers. The people of the north must know who they follow."
Hadrian had anticipated this request. He had thought long and hard about what his house sigil would be, drawing inspiration from his past, from the ancient symbols of his old world.
"I have chosen a banner," Hadrian said, his voice confident. "A Triangle with a circle inside it through the circle goes a sword, ornately decorated on a field of red."
He paused for a moment before adding, "And my house words shall be: 'The last enemy defeated shall be death.'"
A murmur ran through the hall at his declaration. Stark's eyes narrowed, but there was a hint of approval in his gaze. The sigil was unique, unlike any other in the north, and the house words were bold—a reflection of Hadrian's ambition.
Ellard Stark leaned back in his chair, his gaze never leaving Hadrian. "So be it," he said finally. "House Peverell of Skagos is hereby recognized. You will be High Lords of Skagos, sworn to House Stark and the North."