Winterhold Hold's declaration that it was seceding from the Stormcloaks enraged its southern neighbour, Eastmarch.
In the early days of the civil war, Winterhold Hold had already been occupied by Stormcloak forces. This shabby little fishing village had no real military strength to exploit and lacked even the resources to provide proper logistical support. Its only strategic value lay in being a deep rear area and a convenient staging ground.
After Skyl announced the launch of the reconstruction plan, the Stormcloak soldiers were ordered by the College mages to disarm and be demobilised in place as civilians; if they refused, they were to leave immediately and were forbidden to linger.
The College took over responsibility for law and order in the hold. Mirabelle Ervine replaced the fake mage who had been at Jarl Korir's side as his court spell advisor, acting as the direct channel of communication between the jarl and the College.
When it came to the College's conditions, Jarl Korir always did his utmost to secure every possible advantage for the people of Winterhold, and in return, the College respected his authority as their ruler.
Skyl laid out his vision for Winterhold to the College's members.
"Winterhold is going to become a great, densely populated city, taking in immigrants from all over. The College will recruit people with magical talent and train them to be casters. Casters will become Winterhold's administrators; we'll draft the city's laws and keep the peace."
"Doesn't that go against the College's principles? We're not supposed to involve ourselves in politics," someone objected—not aggressively, just out of concern for the future.
"The associates we train can fill the gaps in Winterhold's administration," Skyl replied. "The College itself won't be directly involved in governance; we'll remain an educational institution and a centre of scholarship."
"If we're taking in immigrants," another voice asked, "how do we deal with issues of faith?"
"Freedom of belief," Skyl said, "but law above all. Winterhold is a mages' city, not a city of priests and monks. No one is allowed to break the law in the name of faith. Especially those Daedra worshippers—if necessary, we punish them harshly. Don't be afraid of the Daedric Princes' retaliation; on Mundus, they can't beat me."
Skyl hoped to develop the College into the strongest organisation of mages in all Tamriel. By then, the magical knowledge they produced in a single day would be enough to fill an entire library as it stood now, and the collection in his Tower of Tomes would grow richer and richer. It was essentially getting other people to expand the frontiers of magical research for him.
In the Elder Scrolls world, among the many Daedric Princes, the one who craved knowledge the most was Skyl's good friend Hermaeus Mora. But that old fellow was always hiding things away and refusing to share. What he truly loved was esoteric knowledge and histories unknown to the world at large. His method was to cut off the flow of knowledge, even to the point of destroying civilisations and burying history so that secrets would forever belong only to him. That was the very definition of draining the lake to catch the fish—wreaking catastrophic damage on the spread of knowledge.
Skyl, of course, was nothing like shortsighted Mora. He not only wanted to share knowledge; he wanted to break up the old, relatively isolated academic systems and bring more people together on an open platform for exchange, so they could generate knowledge for him. It was the natural mindset of someone shaped by an industrial-age culture.
Thinking of his old friend Mora made Skyl's thoughts stray greedily back to the Prince's Oblivion realm again—after all, it held secrets dating back to time immemorial.
Given the chance, he definitely had to pay the Prince a visit—and help himself to a few local specialties while he was there. Come to think of it, there was already a copy of the Oghma Infinium hidden in the icy depths off Winterhold's coast, one of Mora's artefacts stuffed full of endless knowledge. He could always swing by and pick it up when he had time.
With the old capital of Winterhold raised back into the world, Jarl Korir declared that Winterhold was withdrawing from the Stormcloaks and would no longer support either side of the civil war—a decision whose fallout would continue for more than a decade.
On the twenty-first of Hearthfire, a Stormcloak army that had been marching for half a month through the mountains in the southern part of Winterhold Hold finally drew near. They had come to call the jarl to account and reclaim lost territory.
Half a month earlier, the magical anomalies that had flared over Winterhold Hold had unsettled many hearts. To the army's commander, General Galmar, they were hardly a good omen. But he hadn't turned back; he simply advanced with extra caution. Avalanches along the way had blocked long stretches of road, and they had struggled with great hardship to get anywhere near their destination.
When they finally reached Winterhold, they found that it was no longer the dilapidated fishing village it had once been. Overnight, a magnificent city had risen up. Racks for drying fish lined both sides of the streets, and a group of farmers were waving pitchforks as they tried to bring down a three-tusked horker.
Where in Oblivion were they?
And why was there a horker in the middle of the city?
The band of Nord warriors could only assume their eyes were deceiving them—that they had stumbled into some sort of wicked illusion.
But the reality was exactly as it appeared. The old city of Winterhold had been rebuilt, and this vast city now held fewer than two hundred residents. Even counting the members of the College, there were only just over two hundred souls in total—not enough to fill a single district.
The Stormcloaks had sent a force of five hundred soldiers to question the Jarl of Winterhold over his betrayal. Ulfric's right-hand man, General Galmar Stone-Fist, had come in person. For the tiny fishing village Winterhold had been, that many troops would already have been overkill; for the city Winterhold was now… it still felt like using a warhammer to crush a skeever.
There were self-organised patrol guards on the streets, led by Kliman from Riverwood. At a glance, the weapons and armour they wore all looked plain black, but on closer inspection—by Talos—they were all top-grade ebony work, with exquisite enchantments besides. Selling just one of those helmets would fetch enough coin to equip a full hundred Stormcloak heavy infantry.
Kliman barred the way of the Nord host and addressed a rider wrapped in bear pelts. "You with the Stormcloaks? Are you here for the jarl or for the College?"
Galmar's tone was rough. "We're here to reclaim Nord lands. Have your jarl and the College's leaders come out and face me. If those mages dare to set their ambitions on Skyrim, they'd better be ready for exile as their reward!"
Kliman and the Winterhold militia at his side all showed unfriendly expressions. Ever since Skyl had cast his great Restoration Spell, the College's reputation had soared; the people of Winterhold now saw them as trusted friends. Never mind a mere Stormcloak general—even if the Emperor of the Mede Dynasty himself showed up, they'd be ready to give him a thrashing.
Nords were a fierce lot. Kliman rolled his eyes and immediately drew his sword, pointing it straight at Galmar.
"This is Winterhold. If you don't like the College, you can get out of here!"
All five hundred Stormcloak soldiers drew their blades in unison.
"You're a Nord too!" Galmar Stone-Fist ignored the ebony blade levelled at his throat. Even with its enchantments making his neck prickle, the ageing general's eyes still burned hotter than red-hot steel. "You, damn it, are a Nord too! Why stand against Ulfric? Why betray Mother Skyrim? Why side with the College and your jarl's filthy political games and throw yourself into the Empire's arms? Have you forgotten our faith—our Talos?!"
Kliman was just a town guard, and the hero's presence did bear down on him, but he remained firm. "Your soldiers do not enter Winterhold without permission. If you want an audience with the jarl, send one man as a messenger. The rest of you pull back ten miles—otherwise we'll treat it as a declaration of war on Winterhold."
Galmar's eye twitched. "How many legions do you have? What are you going to use to stop Ulfric's iron heels?" With a single barked order, his soldiers surged forward and seized the Winterhold militia alive.
The civilians in the street cried out at the sight. Someone pulled a short wand from their cloak and fired a signal firework into the sky.
The firework burst, and red flame lit the Winterhold streets beneath their canopy of cloud.
"You're finished now!" Kliman shouted.
"Tie them all up and take them back to Windhelm," Galmar snapped. "I'd love to see exactly how we're 'finished.'"
A few dark specks shot out from the College of Winterhold and hovered in the air above the Stormcloak host.
Galmar tilted his head back to look at the mages, and a surge of unease rose in his chest.
"Wait—"
Skyl extended one finger.
[Petrification Spell]
[Paralysis]
[Duplication Spell]
[Lesser Chain Lightning]
Hundreds of icy blue bolts of electricity dropped from the sky like a brutal rainstorm. The instant they struck a target, they leapt to the bodies nearby. The lesser lightning itself wasn't fatal, but carried along its arcs were a Petrification Spell and Paralysis; in a single instant, the Stormcloak army was swept clean.
Every soldier stiffened where he stood and toppled straight over.
Kliman and the others were not spared either, but their status effects were dispelled at once.
"That's how you're finished, old man!" Kliman said with a contemptuous grin at the fallen Galmar.
Skyl cast a spell to transform the Stormcloaks' swords and shields into ropes, then had Kliman and the others tie the men up to await the College's judgement.
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