Hadrian Peverell: High Lord of Skagos

Chapter 33: Updating the Stark

99 A.C.

The wind was sharp as it cut through the trees surrounding Winterfell. Hadrian Peverell stood just outside the treeline, his cloak wrapped tightly around him as he looked up at the ancient fortress that loomed ahead. Winterfell had always struck him as an embodiment of the North itself—unforgiving, strong, and proud. The last time he had been here, it was under far different circumstances, but now he approached as the Lord of Skagos, a title that still felt strange on some days. Today, he was here to solidify that role, to speak with Lord Ellard Stark about the progress he had made in taming the wild isle.

Taking a deep breath, Hadrian pulled his hood lower over his eyes and started the walk toward the gates. He could have apparated directly into the castle itself, bypassing all the formalities, but he had learned long ago that appearances mattered. There were rules in the North—rules that even magic could not circumvent without drawing attention. Besides, he had no desire to make an enemy of Ellard Stark, who was cautious by nature.

As he approached the gate, the guards stood at attention, watching him with wary eyes. His approach was unhurried, his steps measured, as if he were merely another traveler passing through. But as he neared the guards, he drew back his hood, revealing his face to them. The men, likely having received messages from Lord Stark, stiffened slightly at the sight of him.

"Who goes there?" one of the guards called out.

Hadrian stopped a few paces away, his voice steady as he replied. "I am Hadrian Peverell, High Lord of Skagos. I've come to speak with Lord Ellard Stark."

The guard glanced at his companion, who gave a small nod before stepping forward. "Lord Peverell," the first guard said, his tone more respectful now. "You are expected. We will escort you to the great hall."

"Lead the way," Hadrian replied, following the two men as they turned and led him into the ancient castle.

Winterfell's courtyard was bustling, with men training in the yard and women carrying baskets of food from the kitchens. Smoke rose from the blacksmith's forge, filling the air with the scent of burning wood and hot metal. Despite the activity, there was a sense of order, of calm amidst the cold. Hadrian had always admired the discipline of the Starks and their bannermen—it was a quality he sought to instill in the people of Skagos.

The guards led him through the winding corridors of the castle, their boots echoing on the stone floor, until they reached the doors of the great hall. They pushed the doors open, revealing the vast chamber within. At the far end, seated on the high seat of Winterfell, was Lord Ellard Stark, his face impassive but his eyes watchful. The Throne of Winter, an old wooden chair, was simple in design but exuded an aura of ancient power. It was a symbol of the Stark dynasty—ancient, yet still mighty.

Hadrian strode forward, his gaze meeting Stark's as he approached. The hall was quiet, the murmurs of courtiers and bannermen dying away as they noticed the newcomer. Ellard Stark watched him approach, his face unreadable, though there was a glint of curiosity in his eyes.

"Lord Peverell," Ellard said, his voice low and measured. "What brings you to Winterfell?"

Hadrian inclined his head respectfully. "Lord Stark, I come to speak of the progress on Skagos. I thought it prudent to report on the matters that concern our agreement."

Ellard's eyes narrowed slightly, but he gave a curt nod. "Very well. Let us speak privately."

With a wave of his hand, Lord Stark dismissed the gathered courtiers and bannermen from the hall. The shuffling of feet and the creak of the great doors closing behind them filled the room as they departed. Ellard Stark rose from his seat, his long fur cloak trailing behind him as he motioned for Hadrian to follow him.