Fawkes made a sound that was somewhere between a trill and what Hadrian was absolutely certain was avian laughter—the sort of noise that suggested the phoenix found human existential crises endlessly entertaining, like watching a particularly elaborate theatrical production where everyone knew how it would end except the main character who kept insisting he could somehow avoid the inevitable conclusion through clever planning and tactical denial.
"You think this is funny," Hadrian observed, giving the magnificent bastard a look that would have curdled milk at twenty paces. "You're sitting there on my desk, looking smug—and yes, phoenixes can look smug, I've seen it, you've perfected the art—while I'm trying to decide whether to show these blankets to Lord Stark and trigger a political crisis that will make the Wars of the Roses look like a mild disagreement about table settings, or keep them hidden and hope that somehow, miraculously, this entire situation resolves itself without requiring my active participation. Which, given my track record with cosmic complications, seems statistically unlikely bordering on delusional fantasy."
Fawkes cocked his head, golden eyes bright with what was definitely amusement. Then he trilled again—longer this time, more complex, carrying overtones that somehow managed to convey "you're being ridiculous, you know exactly what you have to do, stop dithering and get on with it" in a language that transcended mere words.
"That's easy for you to say," Hadrian replied, beginning to pace with the sort of restless energy that marked someone whose brain was moving considerably faster than his body could comfortably accommodate. "You're immortal. You literally burst into flame and are reborn from your own ashes when things get uncomfortable. The worst thing that can happen to you is a mildly inconvenient death followed by some awkward adolescence while your new body matures. Whereas I—" he gestured at himself with both hands, "—I'm depressingly mortal and currently facing the prospect of telling the Lord of Winterfell that I'm not just some mysterious wizard with convenient timing, but actually the lost heir to the Iron Throne whose survival invalidates the current succession and threatens to destabilize every carefully balanced political arrangement in the Seven Kingdoms."
He stopped pacing long enough to glare at the blankets spread across his desk, as though the expensive fabric was personally responsible for his current predicament rather than merely being evidence of it.
"And I can't even explain properly why I know what I know. 'Oh, by the way, Lord Stark, I received a letter from my godfather who's currently wearing Prince Oberyn Martell's body like an extremely attractive disguise, and he confirmed that I'm definitely the prince who vanished seventeen years ago.' That'll go over brilliantly. He'll think I've lost my mind. Possibly have me confined to chambers for my own safety while maesters prod me with diagnostic spells and ask leading questions about whether I've been exposed to any unusual magical substances recently. 'Yes, maester, I've been exposed to dimensional travel and cosmic bureaucracy that seems determined to make my life as complicated as possible. Does that count as unusual magical substance?'"
Fawkes made another sound—softer this time, almost gentle. When Hadrian glanced at him, the phoenix's expression had shifted from amused to something that looked suspiciously like sympathy. Or possibly pity. With phoenixes it was sometimes difficult to tell the difference.
"Right," Hadrian said, his voice going quieter as he forced himself to actually think through the problem rather than just circling it like a nervous cat. "Right. Let's approach this systematically. What are my actual options here?"
He moved back to the desk, settling into the chair with movements that suggested bone-deep exhaustion despite the early hour. His hands rested on either side of the blankets, framing them like evidence at a trial—which, he supposed, they essentially were.
"Option one," he said aloud, working through possibilities with the sort of methodical precision that had gotten him through seven years at Hogwarts and a war besides. "I keep the blankets hidden. Don't show them to anyone. Wait for Sirius to arrive and hope that somehow, between the two of us and Padma, we can figure out a way to manage this situation that doesn't involve revealing information I can't adequately explain without sounding completely mad."
Fawkes shifted slightly on his perch, wings rustling in what Hadrian had learned to recognize as disagreement.
"Yes, I know that's a terrible plan," he said with something approaching actual frustration. "It requires perfect timing, relies on no one else discovering the truth independently, and assumes that Robert Baratheon won't take one look at me and immediately recognize features he last saw on his infant son. Which, given that Baratheon features apparently breed true with the sort of genetic dominance that makes recessive traits weep in defeat, seems like wishful thinking at best and dangerous delusion at worst."
He pushed one hand through his hair—a gesture he'd inherited from James Potter despite having no biological relationship to the man, which was either cosmic irony or proof that some habits transcended blood entirely.
"Option two: I show the blankets to Lord Stark immediately. This morning. Right now. March down to his solar and say, 'Good morning, my lord, I was going through my possessions and discovered evidence suggesting I might be your king's lost son. Would you like to examine expensive fabric with distinctive royal embroidery that predates my existence in this world? No, I can't adequately explain how I came to possess blankets that should have been lost when the prince vanished. It's complicated. Very complicated. Possibly cosmically complicated in ways that violate everything maesters claim to understand about how magic works.'"
Fawkes trilled agreement—or at least, agreement that this option was marginally less terrible than the previous one.
"But that requires," Hadrian continued with growing frustration at his own lack of adequate explanation, "coming up with some sort of plausible story about where these blankets came from. Because I can't tell him the truth. 'My godfather wrote me a letter from Dorne where he's currently inhabiting Prince Oberyn's body because death couldn't keep him away from me' is not an explanation that inspires confidence. It's an explanation that inspires concerned looks and questions about whether I've been getting adequate sleep. 'Are you feeling quite well, Lord Potter? You seem to be experiencing some sort of stress-induced delusion. Perhaps you should rest. We'll have the maesters prepare something soothing. With lots of sedatives. All the sedatives. Enough that you stop talking about dead godfathers and dimensional travel and other things that suggest you've completely lost your grip on reality.'"
He stood up again, unable to remain still while his brain worked through impossible scenarios at the sort of speed that had once helped him survive combat against opponents who should have killed him but had somehow failed to account for the fact that he was too stubborn to die according to their preferred schedule.
"I could claim ignorance," he said slowly, testing how the words felt. "Say I've had these blankets since... since childhood. That they were among my parents' possessions when they died. That I kept them because they were valuable and I'm sentimental about things that connect me to family. All technically true, if you squint at the timeline and don't ask too many follow-up questions about exactly when I acquired them or what I remember about their significance."
Fawkes cocked his head, considering this approach with the sort of thoughtful attention that suggested the phoenix was actually weighing tactical merit rather than just being entertained by human problem-solving attempts.
"Lord Stark is observant," Hadrian continued, working through implications as he paced. "Extremely observant. The sort of man who notices details other people miss and draws conclusions that turn out to be uncomfortably accurate. If I show him the blankets and claim I've had them for years without recognizing their significance, he'll ask questions. Lots of questions. Questions about my memories of early childhood, about what my parents told me regarding my origins, about whether I have any other artifacts that might provide additional context."
He paused, staring at the blankets as though they might offer suggestions about how to handle revealing their existence without destroying his carefully constructed cover story.
"And I'll have to answer those questions," he said quietly. "Answer them convincingly enough that he believes I'm being honest—because I will be honest, mostly, just... selectively honest about which details I include and which I conveniently forget to mention because they involve things like blood adoption rituals and dimensional travel and reincarnation across worlds."
Fawkes made a soft sound—not quite agreement, not quite disagreement, but something in between that suggested the phoenix understood the complexity of navigating truth and tactical omission when both were necessary for survival.
"The alternative," Hadrian said, his voice going flat as he considered options he didn't like but couldn't completely dismiss, "is that I let someone else make this discovery. Let them find the evidence independently, so I'm not the one forcing revelation. But that's cowardly, isn't it? Letting other people do the difficult work while I pretend ignorance about something I absolutely should disclose given the implications for succession and the realm's stability."
He sank back into the chair, suddenly exhausted by the weight of decisions that seemed to have no good answers, only less catastrophically bad ones.
"Here's what I know," he said to Fawkes, his tone shifting to something more serious as he worked through the essential facts rather than getting lost in tactical speculation. "These blankets are evidence of my origins. Evidence that Robert will recognize immediately, assuming he remembers the blankets his firstborn son was wrapped in seventeen years ago. Evidence that proves—or at least strongly suggests—that I'm the lost prince whose disappearance sparked grief that shaped kingdoms."
Fawkes nodded slightly, a gesture that was surprisingly human-like for a creature whose species predated humanity by several geological epochs.
"I also know," Hadrian continued with growing conviction as pieces began falling into place, "that Sirius is coming. Within the fortnight, he'll be here with Padma. They'll provide context I can't, confirmation about things I can't adequately explain without revealing information about previous lives and dimensional displacement that would make me sound completely insane to anyone who hadn't personally experienced similar impossibilities."
The phoenix trilled approval—or at least, acknowledgment that waiting for reinforcements before making moves that couldn't be unmade was tactically sound rather than merely cowardly.
"So the real question," Hadrian said slowly, his brilliant mind finally cutting through confusion to reach the essential problem, "isn't whether to tell Lord Stark about the blankets. That's inevitable—keeping them hidden would be dishonest in ways that violate every principle I actually care about, regardless of how convenient continued secrecy might be for avoiding complications. The question is when to tell him, and how to frame revelation in ways that don't require me to explain things I can't adequately explain without sounding like I've lost my grip on reality."
He stood again, but this time his movements were purposeful rather than restless. Decisive rather than anxious. He'd made his decision, even if he wasn't entirely certain it was the right one—but then, he'd spent his entire life making decisions without adequate information and hoping things would work out somehow, which they usually did through combination of luck, tactical improvisation, and stubborn refusal to accept defeat as permanent condition.
"Right then," he said with the sort of determined optimism that had carried him through wars and cosmic impossibilities. "I'm going to show the blankets to Lord Stark. This morning. Before I can talk myself out of it or convince myself that waiting for Sirius to arrive would be more sensible despite being obviously cowardly. I'm going to tell him I was going through my possessions—which is true—and discovered these blankets that I've had since childhood but never properly examined—also true, if you ignore the minor detail about not having examined them because I didn't know their significance—and thought he should see them given recent discussions about my origins."
Fawkes made an encouraging sound—or possibly just resigned acceptance that humans were going to do what they were going to do regardless of whether it was tactically optimal, and the best one could hope for was that they'd survive their own decisions long enough to learn from the inevitable complications.
"I'll be honest about not understanding their full significance," Hadrian continued, working through exactly how to frame disclosure without revealing information he couldn't adequately explain. "I'll admit that I kept them because they seemed valuable and I'm sentimental about things that connect to family I never knew. I'll let Lord Stark draw his own conclusions about what the embroidery means and where these blankets might have come from. And when he asks questions I can't properly answer without revealing things about blood adoption and dimensional travel and previous lives, I'll simply say I don't know. Which, for many of the questions he'll ask, will be entirely honest—I *don't* know how the blankets survived when I should have lost them, I *don't* know exactly what happened to cause my dimensional displacement, I *don't* know why cosmic forces decided to scatter me across reality like seeds thrown by a careless gardener."
He picked up the blankets with careful hands, feeling their weight—physical and metaphorical—as he folded them with the sort of reverence that expensive fabric deserved.
"And if Lord Stark concludes I'm the lost prince based on evidence I've provided," he said quietly, his voice carrying mixture of resignation and determination, "then at least I'll have been honest. At least I won't have hidden information that affects the realm's stability simply because disclosure was personally inconvenient. At least I'll have chosen to do the right thing despite not being entirely certain what the right thing is in situations where every option leads to complications that make my previous adventures look like simple practice runs."
Fawkes spread his wings—not preparation for flight, but gesture of approval, acknowledgment that Hadrian had reached conclusion the phoenix had known he would reach eventually because that was simply who he was, who he'd always been: someone who chose honesty over convenience, duty over comfort, doing what was right over doing what was easy.
"Right," Hadrian said one final time, squaring his shoulders with the sort of determined courage that had carried him through seven years at Hogwarts and a war besides. "No time like the present for triggering succession crises and political chaos. Let's go see if Lord Stark is available to examine expensive fabric that might prove I'm his king's lost son. What could possibly go wrong?"
The question was rhetorical, of course. They both knew exactly what could go wrong. Everything. Literally everything. That was simply how these things worked when Hadrian Potter was involved.
But he'd faced worse odds before and survived through combination of luck, tactical improvisation, and stubborn refusal to accept defeat as permanent condition.
How much worse could one more impossible situation possibly be?
*Don't answer that,* he thought as he moved toward the door with blankets held carefully against his chest. *The universe takes questions like that as challenges, and I've already provided it with enough entertainment for several lifetimes without actively inviting additional complications.*
Behind him, Fawkes launched himself toward the window in controlled explosion of golden fire that suggested the phoenix would be nearby when everything inevitably went sideways, ready to provide assistance or evacuation or simply moral support in the form of looking magnificent while everything else fell apart.
Some bonds, after all, transcended dimensional barriers and cosmic impossibility.
And if phoenixes had learned anything from several millennia of observing human behavior, it was that people like Hadrian Potter required constant supervision to prevent them from getting themselves killed through their pathological inability to avoid impossible situations that required heroism, tactical improvisation, and luck in roughly equal measure.
The door closed behind him with a soft click that sounded like finality, or perhaps just the universe acknowledging that another impossible situation was about to begin.
Either way, there was no going back now.
Only forward, toward whatever complications disclosure would create.
As usual.
—
The corridors of Winterfell's keep carried their morning stillness like a held breath—servants moving with the sort of quiet efficiency that marked great castles waking to another day, guards changing watch with professional precision, the familiar rhythms of a household that had maintained these patterns for centuries and saw no reason to alter them simply because they were currently hosting mysterious wizards with inconvenient secrets about royal succession.
Hadrian moved through the passages with the blankets held against his chest, their weight feeling simultaneously insignificant and impossibly heavy. Just expensive fabric, really. Wool and thread-of-gold. No actual mass to speak of beyond what physics demanded. And yet they seemed to weigh approximately the same as his entire future and possibly the fate of several kingdoms.
*Dramatic,* he told himself with characteristic self-deprecation. *Very dramatic. They're blankets, not prophecies carved in stone. Though admittedly, they're blankets that prove I'm a lost prince, which is rather more significant than your average linens. Still. Maintaining some perspective about material objects would probably be healthy. Assuming I remember what healthy perspective feels like, which at this point is questionable.*
A servant carrying linens gave him a curious look—probably wondering why Lord Potter was walking through the halls at this hour clutching expensive fabric like it might escape if he loosened his grip. Hadrian offered her a smile that he hoped conveyed "perfectly normal behavior, nothing to see here, just a man and his blankets taking a morning constitutional" rather than "I'm about to trigger a succession crisis and my grip on sanity is tenuous at best."
She bobbed a curtsy and hurried past, apparently deciding that whatever eccentricities foreign lords chose to exhibit were none of her concern as long as they paid properly and didn't set anything on fire.
*Low bar,* Hadrian thought with dark amusement. *'Doesn't burn down the castle' is apparently sufficient qualification for acceptable guest behavior. I should put that on my calling cards. 'Hadrian Potter: Mysterious Wizard, Lost Prince, Generally Refrains From Arson.' Very reassuring.*
He'd nearly reached the solar when he encountered someone whose presence immediately complicated his carefully simple plan to show Lord Stark the blankets and let him draw his own conclusions about their significance.
Maester Luwin emerged from a side corridor, his grey robes rustling softly, his manner carrying that peculiar combination of scholarly absorption and practical attention that marked maesters who'd spent decades balancing theoretical knowledge against the messy realities of actually running great houses.
"Lord Potter," the maester said with slight bow that conveyed respect without subservience. "You're abroad early this morning. I trust you slept well? The northern climate can be challenging for those accustomed to more temperate regions, though I understand you've adapted admirably to circumstances that would challenge most—"
He stopped mid-sentence, his gaze dropping to the blankets Hadrian carried. His eyes—sharp behind their professional composure—widened slightly as he registered details that most people would have missed entirely.
The quality of the fabric. The distinctive embroidery. The thread-of-gold that caught morning light and threw it back in patterns that spoke of royal commissions and extraordinary craftsmanship.
"That's..." Luwin began, his voice going carefully neutral in the way that suggested he was very deliberately not jumping to conclusions despite having already reached them. "Those blankets. May I ask where you acquired such... distinctive textiles? The workmanship is extraordinary. Thread-of-gold of that quality is rarely seen outside the finest houses, and the embroidery suggests commission by someone with considerable resources and specific heraldic requirements."
Hadrian's brain, which had been operating on the simple plan of "show Stark the blankets, let him reach obvious conclusions," immediately recognized that this encounter represented either opportunity or catastrophic complication depending on how he handled it.
*Maester,* he thought with the sort of rapid tactical assessment that had kept him alive through situations where most people would have died horribly. *Educated, observant, trained to evaluate evidence systematically and reach conclusions based on available information rather than emotional preference. Exactly the sort of person who would recognize royal work when he saw it. Exactly the sort of person who could provide objective verification about what these blankets represent without requiring me to explain things I can't adequately explain.*
"I've had them since childhood," he said, which was technically true if you counted the period after his parents' death as childhood and ignored the minor detail about having arrived in this world as a fully-grown adult. "They were among my parents' possessions when they... when they died. I kept them because they seemed valuable and I'm rather sentimental about things that connect me to family I never knew."
Also technically true. He *was* sentimental. Perhaps not about the blankets specifically since he hadn't properly examined them until this morning, but certainly about the general category of objects that connected to parents who'd sacrificed themselves to save him.
Luwin's expression shifted through several emotions too quickly to catalog—surprise, calculation, growing comprehension, and something that might have been concern or possibly excitement depending on whether he viewed potential succession crises as problems or fascinating scholarly opportunities.
"May I?" he asked, extending his hands with the sort of careful reverence that expensive textiles deserved.
Hadrian hesitated for precisely one heartbeat before making his decision. If he was going to show these to Lord Stark anyway, having a maester's objective assessment first might actually help rather than merely adding another complication to already complicated situation.
"Of course," he said, transferring the blankets with care.
Luwin accepted them with the sort of gentle precision that suggested he understood exactly what he was holding—not just valuable fabric, but evidence of something significant. He moved toward the nearest window where morning light provided proper illumination for detailed examination, and Hadrian followed with mixture of curiosity and growing apprehension about what the maester might discover.
"Remarkable," Luwin murmured as he spread the blankets carefully, his weathered fingers tracing the embroidery with professional appreciation. "The thread-of-gold is masterwork. Each stag hair individually rendered. The detail is extraordinary—you can see the muscle definition, the texture of the coat, even individual hairs in the mane. This isn't merchant commission. This is royal work. The sort that takes months to complete and costs more than most lords see in years."
He looked up at Hadrian, his expression carefully neutral but his eyes bright with questions he was clearly working very hard not to ask directly.
"The stag is House Baratheon's sigil," he said with academic precision that didn't quite conceal deeper implications. "This particular style—rampant, worked in thread-of-gold on fabric of this quality—that's specific to royal commissions. The sort of work that would be ordered for..." he paused, choosing words carefully, "for significant births. Heirs. Particularly valued children whose arrival warranted commemoration through extraordinary craftsmanship."
"I see," Hadrian said, because he did see. He saw exactly where this was going and he'd known it would go there but having it spelled out by an educated maester somehow made it more real, more immediate, less possible to dismiss as wishful thinking or pattern-recognition imposing meaning where none existed.
"Lord Potter," Luwin continued with the sort of careful diplomacy that suggested he was navigating conversational territory that could explode without warning, "I don't wish to presume or make accusations that might prove embarrassing for all parties involved. But these blankets... their quality, their distinctive embroidery, their age based on the fabric condition and preservation spells I can detect... they correspond with remarkable precision to what would have been commissioned for Crown Prince's birth seventeen years ago."
The words hung in the morning air like accusations or revelations depending on one's perspective regarding their implications.
Hadrian forced himself to maintain the sort of calm, slightly confused expression that suggested he was processing unexpected information rather than having already reached this exact conclusion independently through letters from reincarnated godfathers.
"You're saying," he said slowly, testing how the words felt when spoken aloud to someone who wasn't a phoenix, "that these blankets might have belonged to the prince who disappeared. The lost heir whose vanishing was investigated and mourned and eventually accepted as one of those cosmic mysteries that defies adequate explanation."
"I'm saying," Luwin corrected with academic precision about distinctions that mattered when discussing evidence versus conclusion, "that these blankets match exactly what would have been commissioned for that prince. The timing corresponds—seventeen years since his disappearance, which matches your apparent age if I'm any judge of such things. The circumstances of your arrival—sudden appearance in impossible light that witnesses described as identical to the phenomenon that claimed the infant prince—that correspondence is... striking. Statistically improbable to the point where dismissing it as coincidence would require ignoring evidence that any objective observer would find compelling."
He looked at Hadrian directly, his expression carrying mixture of scholarly curiosity and something approaching sympathy for someone whose life was about to become exponentially more complicated whether they wanted it to or not.
"I'm not making accusations," he said quietly. "I'm observing that you possess evidence that strongly suggests connection to events that shaped kingdoms. Evidence that Lord Stark should see, that the king will certainly want to examine, that will prompt questions about your origins that I suspect you may not be able to answer adequately because no one could adequately answer them when they involve impossible dimensional displacement and cosmic forces that operate according to principles that defy everything maesters claim to understand about how magic works."
"Right," Hadrian said, his voice going slightly flat as implications crashed over him like waves against a seawall. "Right. So basically, you're telling me that I'm holding physical proof that I'm the lost prince, and that revealing this information will trigger exactly the sort of succession crisis I was hoping to avoid through careful management of disclosure and strategic timing that becomes considerably less strategic when maesters notice distinctive royal embroidery and immediately reach correct conclusions about what it represents."
"I'm telling you," Luwin corrected gently, "that you possess information relevant to succession and realm's stability. Information that should be shared with appropriate authorities regardless of personal convenience or preference for avoiding complications. Whether you are actually the lost prince or merely someone whose circumstances happen to align with his disappearance in ways that defy rational probability... that's not for me to determine alone. That requires examination by people with authority to make such determinations and access to resources that can verify claims that most would dismiss as impossible."
He carefully refolded the blankets, his movements precise and respectful, before returning them to Hadrian with both hands.
"Lord Stark should see these," he said with quiet conviction. "This morning. Before circumstances force less optimal timing for revelation that will happen regardless of whether you choose to initiate it or wait for someone else to make the connection independently. The king is coming north specifically to investigate reports about your arrival and your remarkable resemblance to Robert in his youth. When he arrives—and he will arrive, Lord Potter, within weeks—he will ask questions that you'll need to answer. Better to have objective assessment from Lord Stark first, better to have documentation from maesters about what these blankets represent, better to prepare proper verification rather than being caught unprepared by royal interrogation conducted under circumstances that won't favor careful explanation of cosmic impossibilities."
Hadrian accepted the blankets with automatic movements, his brain still processing the rapid acceleration of events he'd hoped to control through gradual disclosure.
"You're right," he said finally, because he was right and arguing about it would be pointless when they'd both already reached the same conclusion about what needed to happen. "I was actually on my way to show these to Lord Stark when we encountered each other. Your assessment just... confirms what I'd already suspected about their significance and the implications of revealing them to people with authority to make determinations about succession."
Luwin's expression softened slightly, professional composure giving way to something approaching understanding for someone whose life was about to become unmanageably complex whether they wanted it to or not.
"If it's any comfort," he said quietly, "I've spent forty years observing noble families whose lives were shaped by accidents of birth and circumstances beyond their control. What I've learned is that identity matters considerably less than character. Whether you prove to be Robert's son or merely someone whose circumstances create extraordinary coincidence, you've already demonstrated qualities that suggest you'd be worthy of whatever responsibilities such identity might entail. Lord Stark sees it. I see it. The king will see it when he arrives, regardless of whether blood tests confirm parentage or merely add another layer of cosmic confusion to already confused situation."
"That's..." Hadrian paused, searching for words that adequately conveyed gratitude without suggesting he was emotionally overwhelmed by maester's unexpected support. "That's remarkably kind. Thank you. I think I needed to hear that from someone whose professional objectivity I can trust rather than merely people who've already decided I'm worth supporting based on personal loyalty or previous relationship."
"You're welcome," Luwin said with slight bow. "And if you don't mind, I'll accompany you to Lord Stark's solar. He'll want documentation of my assessment, and having maester present might help frame discussion in terms of evidence and verification rather than accusations or wild speculation about cosmic forces and dimensional displacement."
"Professional support," Hadrian said with something approaching actual humor despite the gravity of their situation. "I'll take it. Gods know I could use all the professional support I can get when revealing information that suggests I'm lost prince whose survival threatens to overturn succession and destabilize political arrangements that have kept the Seven Kingdoms from tearing themselves apart for seventeen years."
"When you put it that way," Luwin observed dryly, "it does sound rather dramatic. Though in my experience, revelations that seem dramatic initially often prove less catastrophic than feared once people have time to process implications and develop rational responses based on evidence rather than emotional reaction to unexpected information."
"Here's hoping," Hadrian replied as they began walking together toward Lord Stark's solar. "Though my track record with revelations suggests they tend to be exactly as catastrophic as initially feared, sometimes more so, rarely less. But I appreciate your optimism. It's rather refreshing when compared to my usual assumption that everything will go spectacularly wrong in ways that exceed even pessimistic projections about potential complications."
"That's the spirit," Luwin said with what might have been either encouragement or gentle mockery of Hadrian's tendency toward dark humor when discussing situations that most people would approach with considerably more gravitas.
They reached the solar's heavy oak door in comfortable silence, both apparently recognizing that further discussion would be pointless when they were about to reveal everything to someone whose response would determine how events unfolded from this point forward.
Hadrian raised his hand to knock, then paused for one final moment of calm before triggering whatever sequence of events disclosure would initiate.
*Right then,* he thought with the sort of determined courage that had carried him through worse situations despite usually making them worse through his participation. *Time to discover whether honesty about impossible circumstances leads to understanding and support, or merely creates additional complications that make previous adventures look like simple practice runs for the real catastrophe.*
*No pressure.*
He knocked—three firm raps that conveyed confidence despite internal uncertainty about absolutely everything.
"Enter," came Lord Stark's voice from within, steady and authoritative and completely unaware that the next few minutes would reshape his understanding of succession, politics, and cosmic impossibilities in ways that would make normal complications seem refreshingly straightforward by comparison.
Hadrian opened the door and stepped through, Maester Luwin following close behind, both of them carrying knowledge that was about to change everything whether anyone was prepared for such changes or not.
Some mornings, after all, began with revelations that reshaped kingdoms.
This was one of them.
---
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