Hadrian Peverell: High Lord of Skagos

Chapter 13: A Future Among Savages

Harry Potter sat by the flickering flames of his campfire, surrounded by the familiar quiet of the Northern wilderness. The sky above was a tapestry of stars, spread across the vast expanse of the heavens, uninterrupted by city lights or the hum of muggle life. There was something inherently calming about this place, a raw and untamed beauty that reminded him of the Scottish Highlands back in his own world. But Skagos and the North were far more isolated, far more hostile. And that's exactly what he needed.

The decision had been weighing on him for some time now. After weeks of wandering the North, learning about this strange world, it had become clear to him that Skagos, the savage island shunned by the rest of Westeros, was the perfect place to build something new. He had seen the potential in its rugged mountains, deep forests, and hidden valleys. It was wild, yes, but it could also be shaped, tamed. Much like the ancient magic he had mastered over the centuries, Skagos was raw power waiting to be harnessed.

Harry threw another log onto the fire, watching the embers flare up before settling back down. He absently stroked the blackened wood of his staff, which now rested by his side. The staff, an extension of the Elder Wand and the Resurrection Stone, had been his constant companion in this world. Its presence was a reminder of his immortality, his power, and his burden.

As he stared into the flames, Harry's mind wandered back to the problem at hand. Skagos was under the rule of House Stark, even if only nominally. The Starks of Winterfell were the rulers of the North, known for their honor and fairness, but also for their brutal efficiency when it came to dealing with threats. If Harry wanted to take control of Skagos, he'd need to play his cards right. He couldn't just waltz in, overpower the island's savage rulers, and claim it for himself. That would raise too many questions. He needed to be subtle, to blend into this world until he could quietly seize control.

The Starks would need to be convinced, or at least placated. He had already learned enough about Westeros to understand that the politics here were treacherous, and power was often as much about perception as it was about strength. To ask Lord Stark for help or permission, Harry would need to appear as one of them. Not as the immortal, ageless wizard who had traveled through time and dimensions, but as a minor Northern noble looking to carve out a piece of land for himself.

But that presented its own problems. Harry looked down at his clothes—travel-worn robes and a cloak that had served him well for centuries, but was far too fine and foreign for a Northern noble. He would need to change that. Appearance mattered here, and if he showed up at Winterfell in his current garb, he would stand out like a muggle at Hogwarts.

His brow furrowed in thought. Clothes were the least of his worries, but still, they mattered. He could easily transfigure his attire to something more appropriate for a nobleman of the North. Furs, leather, and wool—nothing too ornate, just practical and maybe a bit rugged, the kind of clothing a Stark might expect from one of their bannermen.

Harry waved a hand, and his current clothes shimmered and shifted. The fine black robes morphed into thick woolen trousers, sturdy boots, and a heavy fur-lined cloak. His staff remained, but it was now disguised as a simple walking stick. He examined his reflection in the small puddle of water by his side and nodded. That would do, for now.

His mind, however, returned to the larger issue: his future on Skagos.

He had wandered long enough, isolated from both the magical and muggle worlds. Building something on Skagos—something that could last—was an appealing thought. And what better place to start than an island the rest of the world had largely ignored for centuries? The isolation was perfect. No one would question the goings-on there, and it would allow Harry to interact with the rest of Westeros on his own terms, when he chose to, rather than being dragged into its never-ending power struggles.

But how to gain control of Skagos? He could easily overpower the savage lords that ruled the island, but that would draw attention. The last thing Harry wanted was to ignite the suspicion of the Stark family or any of the major houses. No, he needed legitimacy. He needed to play the part of a minor noble with ambitions, asking for permission to settle the island.

House Stark was the key. Winterfell was not far, and if the Starks accepted his claim—or at least didn't oppose it—he could move forward without drawing too much attention. It was a delicate balance, one that required careful planning.

But first, he needed more information. He needed to understand the political landscape better before making his move. And for that, he would have to get closer to the Stark family. Rumor had it that the current Lord Stark was a fair man, known for his justice and practicality. Harry could work with that, but he had to be careful not to reveal too much. The North, as he had learned, was suspicious of outsiders. And while his magic was immensely powerful, it would be unwise to flaunt it in front of a family that had survived for thousands of years on both honor and ruthlessness.

After a moment's hesitation, Harry stood, brushing the snow from his cloak.

Winterfell loomed ahead of him as Harry approached the ancient fortress. Its towering stone walls were a testament to the Stark family's resilience and strength, standing as they had for thousands of years. Snow fell in gentle flurries, blanketing the surrounding woods in a serene layer of white. Harry had avoided drawing attention to himself during his approach, cloaking his presence in subtle magic. He didn't want anyone noticing him until he was ready.

As he stood outside the gates, Harry considered his next move. He could present himself as a wandering noble, perhaps one with ties to a distant family in the North that had fallen into obscurity. The Starks had many bannermen, and it wouldn't be too difficult to fabricate a story. He could craft a past, build a lineage that could withstand scrutiny—though he doubted anyone would question it too deeply.

Harry took a deep breath, exhaling into the cold air as he let his magic shift his appearance slightly. His hair lightened, his eyes turned from their striking green to a softer shade of brown, and his features became less defined, more ordinary. It wasn't a drastic change—just enough to ensure that no one would ever connect him to the stories of Harry Potter, a boy who lived in another world.

He stepped forward, knocking on the massive wooden gates of Winterfell. The sound echoed through the crisp air, and after a few moments, the gates creaked open, revealing a guard dressed in thick furs.

"What's your business here, stranger?" the guard asked, his tone cautious but not unfriendly.

Harry offered a polite smile. "I seek an audience with Lord Stark. I have matters to discuss that may be of interest to him."

The guard eyed him for a moment, clearly weighing the decision. Harry kept his expression calm, radiating an aura of harmlessness. He had learned long ago that the best way to manipulate a situation was to appear as though you posed no threat.

"Wait here," the guard said, before turning and disappearing through the gates.

Harry waited, watching as the snow continued to fall. He could feel the ancient magic that permeated Winterfell. It was subtle, woven into the stones and earth, much like Hogwarts had been. There was a strength here that went beyond mere architecture. It reminded him of the old ways, the kind of magic that existed long before wands and spells were formalized.

After a few minutes, the guard returned, gesturing for Harry to follow. "Lord Stark will see you."