Hadrian Peverell: High Lord of Skagos

Chapter 25: Seeds of Power

In the same three moons, Hadrian influence reached even farther than the city walls. Skagos, began to change. Not with the brute force or suddenness of conquest, but with a subtler, deeper magic. The island was shifting beneath the surface, reshaped by Hadrian's hand and the ancient power he commanded.

During this time, he had taken a special interest in the farmlands that spread across Skagos. The cold, rugged soil that had for centuries produced meager crops was about to become something entirely different. It was through the weirwood trees, sacred to the old gods, that he would bind the land and its people to him.

Hadrian had planted weirwood trees all across Skagos, carefully choosing the locations that would yield the greatest influence. Each tree was planted not just near the villages but also deep in the farmlands where the crops were grown. In the past, only a few of these holy trees existed, and they were treated with reverence and fear. But now, dozens upon dozens sprang up across the island, seemingly growing with unnatural speed.

Yet, even as he called forth their growth, he made sure it was gradual—just fast enough for the people to notice and marvel, but not so rapid as to inspire suspicion. Each tree's roots dug deep into the soil, wrapping the land in a magic that was old as time itself. The red leaves, bright as blood, shimmered in the winds that swept down from the mountains, whispering to those who worked the land.

To the common Skagosi, it seemed as though the old gods were blessing them. The trees, once few and far between, were now appearing everywhere, bringing a tangible change to the land. Crops grew stronger, more resistant to the cold. Where once there had been barren fields struggling against the icy winds, now vegetables sprouted as if kissed by the Reach's warm sunlight. The wheat grew tall and golden, the roots deep, while fruits ripened on the vine, plump and lush.

But what they didn't know—what they couldn't know—was that this transformation was not entirely natural. Hadrian had woven powerful wards into each of the weirwoods he planted. These wards subtly bent the climate itself, making the fields around the trees more fertile, protecting the crops from the worst of the northern cold. It wasn't just protection from frost or wind—it was as though the seasons bent around those trees, keeping the soil fertile and the plants thriving no matter what the weather outside their radius was like. Snow might cover the rest of the island, but around the weirwoods, the ground remained warmer, the plants green and growing.

This enchantment was subtle enough that it would not arouse suspicion, but powerful enough to make Skagos one of the most fertile regions in the North. It was as if the island, long thought of as desolate and untamable, was beginning to bloom. The Skagosi people marveled at the abundance they were now able to produce. The surplus of food meant fuller bellies, healthier livestock, and a stronger, more secure population.

The weirwood farms became sacred ground to the people, as they came to believe that the old gods were directly responsible for this new prosperity. They prayed to the trees, leaving offerings beneath the bone-white trunks. In the quiet of the night, mothers would take their children to the weirwoods, asking for the gods to watch over them, to keep them safe. Hunters would offer the first cut of their kill, and farmers would leave the first fruits of their harvest, all in reverence of the trees that had seemingly changed their fortunes.

Hadrian knew what they were thinking. It had been his plan all along—to bind the people to him, not through fear or oppression, but through faith. If they believed that the old gods had chosen him, if they saw his power as divine, they would never turn against him. They would follow him willingly, even joyfully.

But there was more to his plan than just making the land fertile. Hadrian had learned from ancient texts, buried in the long-lost libraries of Egypt, that there were other ways to control people. Ways that were subtler than the compulsion charms he had already used. Ways that required time and patience but were far more enduring.

On a few of the farms, carefully selected and located far from each other, Hadrian placed a different kind of enchantment. It wasn't visible to the naked eye, nor could it be felt by those who lived and worked the land. But the magic was there, woven into the very roots of the crops, mingling with the life force of the plants that grew around the weirwoods.

These farms grew food that was different—just slightly. The crops were richer, more nourishing than anything the people had ever tasted before. But there was something else in them too, something that could not be detected by any mortal means. A spell of loyalty.

Hadrian's magic worked slowly, insidiously. It was designed not to control minds outright—that would be too obvious, too crude—but to gently nudge them in a certain direction. Over time, those who ate the food grown on these enchanted farms would find their thoughts bending ever so subtly. They would feel a deepening loyalty to Hadrian, a sense of reverence and trust that they might not even recognize as unnatural.

It wouldn't happen all at once. It might take months, even years, for the effects to fully take hold. But Hadrian was patient. He had time. And once the magic worked its way into their hearts and minds, the people of Skagos would be his. Not just because of tradition or fear, but because they would believe, deep down, that he was their true leader—the one chosen by the old gods to guide them.

The magic would strengthen their loyalty to him and to House Peverell. It was subtle enough that they would never know they were being influenced, but strong enough that they would feel it in their bones. Whenever they ate the food from those farms, they would feel a connection to Hadrian, as though he were their protector, their savior. And in time, even those who had been skeptical of his power would come to see him as the one true ruler of Skagos.

As the trees grew and the crops flourished, Hadrian watched the people change. They spoke of him with reverence now, not just as their lord but as something more. In their eyes, he had become almost god-like, a man chosen by the old gods to lead them into a new era of prosperity and strength. The stories spread quickly, especially among the villagers. They whispered that Hadrian had the blood of the gods in him, that he could command the land to bend to his will, that the trees themselves grew at his word.

Hadrian allowed these rumors to flourish. He even encouraged them, subtly. The weirwoods, with their sacred and ancient power, were perfect symbols for the people's faith. And as they continued to believe that the gods were working through him, his grip on their loyalty tightened.

The loyalty spell, while effective, was only part of the puzzle. The faith of the people was another. The Skagosi, long isolated from the rest of the world, had always been a deeply spiritual people. They believed in the old gods with a fervor that was rare in the more civilized parts of Westeros. And now, they believed that those same gods had chosen Hadrian as their instrument.