The cold halls of Winterfell held an ancient weight, the kind that could be felt with each step Harry took. Or rather, Hadrian Peverell, as he would now be known. The name had come to him only moments before he entered the presence of Lord Stark, a whispered memory from his past. Peverell was an old name, one with ties to power, death, and legacy. It was fitting, given the circumstances. If Harry Potter was to remain hidden from the world, Hadrian Peverell would be born in his place.
As he was led through the stone corridors by two guards, their thoughts whispered on the edges of his awareness. Harry, through years of subtle Legilimency, had learned how to gently brush the minds of those around him, gathering information without stirring suspicion. And so, as he walked, he caught glimpses of Lord Stark's life through the thoughts of the guards, piecing together a fuller picture of the man he was about to meet.
Ellard Stark, the current Lord of Winterfell, was not even twenty years old, a fact that surprised Harry. For all his years of experience, it was easy to forget the fleeting youth of others, especially in a world like this, where responsibility was thrust upon men far earlier than they were ready. Ellard had inherited the lordship after his father's death, which had been the result of a Wildling attack. That much Harry had already gleaned. But it was in the thoughts of the guards that he discovered more.
Ellard Stark was quiet, not in the shy or uncertain way some young lords might be, but in the way of a man who preferred diplomacy to conflict. His father's violent death, combined with the weight of his title, had made Ellard cautious—perhaps overly so. He was not a warrior like many of his ancestors but instead sought solutions through words and alliances. It was a trait that could either serve him well or lead to his downfall in a place as harsh as the North.
Ellard had three siblings, one older who had already died, and two younger still living within Winterfell's walls. Harry had not yet learned their names, but the family structure mirrored that of so many noble houses. Tragedy, responsibility, and the ever-looming threat of death seemed to be constants in this world, as much as they had been in Harry's.
Before Harry could delve deeper into the thoughts of the guards, he was interrupted by one of them, who spoke in a gruff Northern accent, "We've arrived."
Harry glanced up just as a large, iron-bound door creaked open, revealing the interior of a warmly lit room. The air smelled of woodsmoke and aged parchment, with the faintest hint of pine. It was clear that this was not a formal audience chamber, but rather a more private room—Lord Stark's solar.
The room itself was simple but sturdy, much like Winterfell. A large hearth burned brightly on one side, casting long shadows against the stone walls. A table of dark wood stood in the center of the room, flanked by two high-backed chairs. Lord Ellard Stark sat in one of these chairs, his posture straight, though there was an undeniable youthfulness to his face. His eyes, however, held a sharpness that spoke of intelligence and wariness.
Standing beside him was an older man, draped in the muted greys and browns that were common in the North. His robe bore the chain of links that signified him as a maester, though Harry had mistaken him for a monk at first, judging by his appearance. A quick glance into the surface of the man's thoughts revealed his name—Olorin, the maester of Winterfell. In the swirling fragments of Olorin's mind, Harry pieced together what a maester was: a healer, a scholar, a teacher, and most importantly, an adviser to the ruling family.
"Lord Stark," Harry greeted with a polite bow, adjusting his voice to carry the slight burr of a Northern accent. "I thank you for receiving me on such short notice."
Ellard gestured to the chair opposite him, his face inscrutable, though Harry could see the flicker of curiosity behind his calm facade. "Please, sit. I'm told you have an intriguing proposal."
Harry took his seat, feeling the weight of the young lord's gaze on him. He needed to be careful here. Subtlety and patience were key. He couldn't afford to reveal too much about himself, not yet. He let his gaze drift around the room briefly, before settling back on Ellard.
"My lord," he began, his voice steady and clear, "as I said before, I come from Skagos, though my family has not been well-known beyond our island. The name Peverell may be new to Winterfell, but it is not without history."
He paused, letting his gaze meet Lord Stark's before flickering briefly to Maester Olorin. The older man's face was impassive, but Hadrian could feel the questions lurking beneath the surface of his calm demeanor.
"I am a minor lord under House Magnar," Hadrian continued, watching closely for any reaction at the mention of the Skagos house. "But my house, House Peverell, is one born not of bloodline or legacy, but of honor and service. My great-grandfather, Ignoitius Peverell, founded our house after saving the then Lord Magnar from a Wildling raid nearly eighty years ago."
Maester Olorin's eyes sharpened at this, his lips parting as though to speak, but he hesitated. Lord Stark, noticing the movement, turned to his maester and gave a slight nod, allowing him to voice the question that was clearly brewing in his mind.
"This... House Peverell," Olorin said slowly, his voice careful yet probing, "it is not a house I have heard of in all my studies of the North. How is it that a house, even one of minor stature, could go unnoticed by Winterfell's records?"
Hadrian offered a small, respectful smile, as though he had expected this very question. "A fair query, Maester Olorin. Skagos is a land of isolation, as I'm sure you're aware. Its people are a proud, fierce folk, rarely engaging with the mainland unless absolutely necessary. My great-grandfather's deeds were not done for fame or recognition. He did what he had to in order to protect his lord, and in return, he was granted land and a title—House Peverell."
He paused for a moment, then added, "We are not a house of great wealth or power, but one that has served House Magnar faithfully. And perhaps because of Skagos's distance from the rest of the North, we have been left in relative obscurity. That, I suspect, is why you have not heard of us, my lord, nor you, Maester Olorin."
Ellard leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. The firelight played across his sharp features, casting shadows over his face. He looked at Olorin, who gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment. It was true, after all—Skagos was largely left to its own devices, its savage reputation keeping most mainlanders from venturing there.
"That explains why there's little to no record of such a house," Ellard said, his tone measured. "But I'm curious—what brings you here, now, to Winterfell?"
Hadrian's expression grew solemn, as though the weight of his words bore great importance. He let the silence stretch for a moment, the crackling of the fire the only sound in the room. When he spoke, his voice was quieter, yet filled with conviction.
"I have seen things, my lord. In dreams and visions, given to me by the Old Gods themselves."
Ellard's eyes widened slightly at that, though his face remained guarded. The mention of the Old Gods was not something to be taken lightly, especially in the North, where the faith of the Old Gods still held strong.
"I speak not of madness or fancy," Hadrian continued, sensing the change in the atmosphere of the room. "I have walked the weirwoods, felt their ancient power, and in those moments, I have seen the future of Skagos. A future not of chaos and savagery, but of order, strength, and prosperity. But only," he added, letting his words hang in the air, "under the protective gaze of the direwolf."
"The direwolf?" Lord Stark's voice was soft, but his eyes were fixed on Hadrian, his interest piqued.
"House Stark," Hadrian said, his voice growing more intense. "The Old Gods have shown me that Skagos, though wild and untamed, has the potential to be something more. But it cannot achieve that alone. It needs the guidance and protection of Winterfell. And I... I am the one who has been called to bring that vision to life."
Ellard exchanged a glance with Olorin, who was frowning thoughtfully. "A bold claim," the maester murmured. "But what do you seek from Lord Stark? What would you ask of Winterfell in return for this... vision?"
Hadrian leaned forward slightly, his gaze never wavering from Ellard's. "I seek permission, my lord. Permission to bring Skagos fully under the rule of Winterfell, to conquer what remains lawless, and to govern it in your name. Skagos must be brought back into the fold of the North, but not by force alone. The people there must see that it is Winterfell, the direwolf, that brings them peace and strength."
Ellard was silent for a long moment, his fingers drumming lightly on the armrest of his chair. Hadrian could see the young lord's mind working, considering the implications of such a request. Skagos had long been a thorn in the side of the North—its people were seen as little better than wildlings, and its isolation had made it difficult to govern. But if someone could bring it under control, it could be a valuable asset, both strategically and economically.
"And in return?" Ellard asked finally. "What would you ask of me in return for this endeavor?"
Hadrian met his gaze steadily. "I ask only for dominion over the land I conquer, my lord. The title of lord, under your rule, of course. Skagos will remain part of the North, under the protection of Winterfell, but I would govern it in your name."
The room fell silent again, the weight of the proposition hanging in the air. Ellard's eyes flickered with something like contemplation, though his face remained impassive.
"You ask much," Ellard said finally, his voice careful. "To rule a land like Skagos is no small feat. But... if what you say is true, if you have indeed been called by the Old Gods to bring order to that place..."
He trailed off, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considered Hadrian's words. "Tell me, Hadrian Peverell. How do you plan to accomplish this? Skagos is a harsh land, its people harsher still. They are not easily tamed."
Hadrian allowed a small, confident smile. "I understand the nature of Skagos, my lord. I was born there, after all. And while I do not seek to tame the island in the way some might think, I do believe that with the right leadership, the right guidance, its people can be brought to see the benefits of order and unity. The Old Gods have shown me that this is possible. And I... have certain skills that will aid me in this endeavor."
Ellard raised an eyebrow, clearly curious but not willing to press for details just yet. Instead, he turned to Olorin, who had been watching Hadrian carefully throughout the conversation.
"What do you think, Maester?" Ellard asked, his voice low.
Olorin stroked his chin thoughtfully, his gaze shifting between Ellard and Hadrian. "It is a bold plan, my lord. But Skagos has always been a difficult land to manage. If Hadrian Peverell can indeed bring it under control, it would be a great boon to Winterfell. The island could be rich in resources, and its strategic position could be invaluable. However, it is not without risks."
Ellard nodded slowly, then turned his gaze back to Hadrian. "I agree with Maester. Your proposal has merit, but it also carries great risk. However, if what you say is true, and you are indeed guided by the Old Gods, then perhaps it is a risk worth taking."
Hadrian inclined his head, his expression respectful but firm. "I will not fail, my lord."
Ellard studied him for a moment longer, then finally nodded. "Very well, Hadrian Peverell. You have my permission to bring Skagos back into the fold of the North. But know this—you will be watched closely. If you succeed, Skagos will be yours to govern, under the banner of Winterfell. But if you fail..."
Hadrian nodded once more, understanding the unspoken threat. "I will not fail, my lord."
Ellard stood, signaling the end of the meeting. "Then go, Lord Peverell. And may the Old Gods guide you."