The training yard of Winterfell echoed with the sharp crack of wooden practice swords meeting in controlled violence, the sound carrying across the ancient stones like hammer blows on an anvil. The afternoon sun, weak but persistent through the gathering autumn clouds, cast long shadows across the packed earth where three young men circled a fourth with the careful intensity of wolves stalking a particularly dangerous prey.
"Right then," Hadrian Potter called out cheerfully, his emerald eyes sparkling with the kind of amused anticipation that suggested he was about to thoroughly enjoy the next few minutes. "Who's ready for their daily dose of character-building humiliation? I promise to be gentle—wouldn't want to damage your delicate Northern sensibilities too severely."
"Delicate?" Theon Greyjoy scoffed, his sea-green eyes bright with competitive fire as he adjusted his grip on his practice sword. "I'll show you delicate, you poncy Southern—"
"Language, Theon," Jon Snow interjected with the dry wit that had developed considerably since Hadrian's arrival. "We're in the presence of ladies." He nodded toward the growing crowd of observers, his dark eyes dancing with barely suppressed amusement. "Though I suppose 'poncy' is relatively restrained for you."
"I was going to say 'flower,'" Theon protested with wounded dignity. "I'm the very soul of restraint and propriety."
"You're the very soul of something," Robb Stark observed with a grin that transformed his serious face, his auburn hair catching the light as he settled into a combat stance. "Though I'm not entirely certain propriety enters into it."
"Harsh words from someone who's about to eat dirt," Theon shot back, though his tone held more affection than actual insult. "Again. How many times has it been this week? Five? Six?"
"Seven," Jon replied helpfully. "Though who's counting?"
"Apparently you are," Robb said with rueful acknowledgment. "Rather meticulously, it seems."
"Someone has to keep track," Jon replied with the sort of devastating deadpan delivery that had become his trademark. "For posterity. Future generations will want to know exactly how thoroughly we were outclassed by a man who claims to be 'merely competent' with a sword."
"I am merely competent," Hadrian insisted with mock offense, though the predatory grace with which he moved as he settled into his own fighting stance rather contradicted his modest assessment. "It's not my fault that your definition of competence has been tragically limited by provincial Northern standards. In my world, I'm considered barely adequate."
"If you're barely adequate," Theon muttered, "then the rest of us are what—laughably pathetic?"
"Now you're getting it," Hadrian replied with devastating cheer. "Though I prefer 'charmingly enthusiastic' to 'laughably pathetic.' It sounds more encouraging."
Ser Rodrik Cassel stood at the edge of the training yard with his arms crossed and his weathered face wearing the expression of a man who'd seen enough violence in his sixty-two years to fill several lifetimes. His sharp eyes—keen as a hawk's despite his age—missed nothing as he watched his pupils prepare to face their mysterious guest once again. There was something about the old knight that suggested he'd been carved from the same stone as Winterfell itself, all weathered granite and uncompromising strength.
"Boy's got a mouth on him," he muttered to one of the watching guards, his gruff voice carrying the kind of authority that made grown men stand straighter. "Talks like he's addressing Parliament, fights like he's dancing with the devil himself."
"Aye, Ser," replied the guard, a grizzled veteran named Harwin who'd served House Stark for the better part of two decades. "Never seen anything quite like it. It's like watching a master swordsman and a court jester inhabit the same body."
"Court jester with the reflexes of a striking snake," Rodrik observed grimly. "Mark my words—that lad's killed more men than plague. You don't move like that without swimming in blood up to your neck."
From the growing crowd of onlookers came the sound of delighted giggling, drawing attention to where Sansa Stark held court among her gaggle of admirers. At fifteen, she was already displaying the copper-haired beauty that would one day make her the most sought-after maiden in the Seven Kingdoms, and her blue eyes—Tully blue, unmistakable and penetrating—were fixed on Hadrian with the intensity of someone witnessing a living legend.
"He's so confident," whispered Jeyne Poole, her voice carrying the dreamy quality of someone lost in romantic fantasies. "Like he knows exactly what's going to happen before it even begins."
"Confidence is attractive in a man," agreed Beth Cassel, though her tone suggested she was quoting lessons learned from older female relatives. "Especially when it's justified by actual skill."
"Did you see the way he moved yesterday when he disarmed all three of them at once?" added another girl, her voice pitched low with conspiratorial excitement. "It was like watching a dance, but more... dangerous."
"Dangerous is romantic," Sansa declared with absolute conviction, her voice carrying the certainty of someone whose understanding of romance came entirely from songs and stories. "Knights in the songs are always dangerous. That's what makes them heroes instead of just ordinary men."
"Some knights are dangerous to the wrong people," Arya Stark interjected from her position much closer to the action, her grey eyes holding the kind of practical skepticism that had marked Stark women for generations. "Like the people they're supposed to be protecting."
"You wouldn't understand," Sansa replied with the lofty dismissal of an older sister explaining complex matters to a child. "Romance requires a more sophisticated appreciation for—"
"For pretty men with sharp swords?" Arya interrupted with characteristic bluntness. "Yes, terribly sophisticated."
Before this familiar argument could develop into the sort of sisters' quarrel that provided entertainment for half the castle, Jon's voice cut through the chatter with the kind of focused intensity that drew everyone's attention back to the serious business at hand.
"Are we going to talk about romance all afternoon," he asked with dry amusement, "or are we actually going to fight? Because I'm fairly certain Hadrian's enjoying the commentary more than we are."
"Guilty as charged," Hadrian confirmed cheerfully. "Though I have to say, the psychological warfare aspect is rather entertaining. Nothing quite like a chorus of admiring ladies to put a man off his game."
"Is that your strategy?" Robb asked with genuine curiosity. "Distract us with witty banter while you position yourself for maximum advantage?"
"Strategy implies I need one," Hadrian replied with the kind of casual arrogance that should have been infuriating but somehow managed to be charming instead. "This is more like... therapeutic exercise. Good for the circulation, excellent for maintaining muscle tone, and remarkably effective at building character in overconfident young lordlings."
"Overconfident?" Theon sputtered with wounded dignity. "We're not the ones making jokes about therapeutic exercise while facing three opponents simultaneously!"
"No," Hadrian agreed with devastating reasonableness, "you're the ones who think three-to-one odds might actually give you a fighting chance. Which, I have to say, represents a rather touching faith in numerical superiority over individual excellence."
"Right," Jon said with the kind of grim determination that had served the Starks well for eight thousand years. "That's quite enough. Time to wipe that smirk off his face."
"Which smirk?" Hadrian asked innocently. "I have several, and they're all rather fetching. You'll need to be more specific."
"The smug one," Robb supplied helpfully.
"Still not narrowing it down," Hadrian replied with devastating cheer. "I'm afraid smugness is rather my default expression. Comes from being devastatingly handsome and supernaturally talented. It's a burden, really."
"Right then," Theon declared, raising his sword with theatrical flourish. "Let's see how smug you are when you're eating dirt."
"Promises, promises," Hadrian murmured, and suddenly he was in motion.
What followed could barely be described as combat in any conventional sense. It was more like watching a master craftsman demonstrate his art while three enthusiastic apprentices tried desperately to keep up with techniques that belonged to an entirely different level of expertise.
Jon attacked first, his bastard sword cutting through the air in the kind of precise, economical movements that spoke of natural talent honed by years of dedicated practice. His footwork was flawless, his form perfect, his timing exactly what Ser Rodrik had drilled into him through countless hours of instruction. It was, by any reasonable standard, an attack that would have challenged most knights in the Seven Kingdoms.
Hadrian deflected it with a casual flick of his wrist that made it look effortless, the kind of movement that suggested Jon might as well have been moving through honey for all the threat he represented.
"Better," Hadrian observed conversationally as he simultaneously blocked Robb's follow-up strike and sidestepped Theon's flanking attack. "Much better, actually. You're starting to coordinate properly instead of just taking turns trying to hit me."
"Gee, thanks," Jon replied through gritted teeth as he pressed his assault, his practice sword describing complex patterns that should have forced any reasonable opponent to give ground. "Your approval means everything to us."
"It should," Hadrian replied with unassailable logic as he somehow managed to parry all three attackers with a single flowing movement that defied basic geometry. "I am, after all, providing free instruction in advanced combat techniques that most people would pay enormous sums to learn."
"Free instruction," Theon panted as he tried to land a thrust that kept somehow finding empty air instead of its intended target. "Is that what we're calling systematic humiliation now?"
"Education often involves a certain amount of ego adjustment," Hadrian explained patiently as he executed a movement that looked like dancing but resulted in all three young men suddenly finding themselves attacking the space he'd occupied a moment before. "Character building, you might say. Broadening your perspectives on what's actually possible with proper training and motivation."
The watching crowd had grown considerably during their exchange, drawn by the distinctive sound of wooden swords clashing and the increasingly creative commentary that accompanied each exchange. Guards abandoned their duties, servants found excuses to linger in the area, and even several household knights had materialized to observe the proceedings with professional interest.
"Seven hells," muttered Ser Wendel Manderly, a visiting knight whose considerable bulk hadn't prevented him from developing a keen appreciation for superior swordwork. "The lad's fighting three men and carrying on a conversation like he's taking tea with the bloody septon."
"Watch his feet," advised Jory Cassel, his experienced eye catching details that less trained observers might miss. "Never plants them the same way twice, never commits to any position long enough to be trapped. It's like trying to fight smoke."
"Smoke doesn't usually talk this much," observed another guard with the kind of dry humor that marked veteran soldiers. "Or smile that much while it's kicking your arse."
"He's enjoying himself," Ser Rodrik noted with the grim appreciation of someone who understood that truly dangerous men often found genuine pleasure in demonstrating their capabilities. "That's what makes him so dangerous. He's not just skilled—he's having fun."
Meanwhile, the actual combatants were discovering new and creative ways to fail spectacularly at landing a single solid blow on their infuriatingly cheerful opponent.
Robb pressed forward with the kind of aggressive determination that had marked Stark men for millennia, his auburn hair damp with sweat despite the cool air. His technique remained flawless, his tactical instincts sharp, his coordination with Jon improving with each exchange. By any reasonable standard, he was fighting brilliantly.
It wasn't remotely enough.
"Excellent pressure, Robb," Hadrian commented as he somehow managed to redirect the young lord's attack into Theon's defensive position, forcing both men to adjust their footwork or risk collision. "You're learning to use Jon's attacks to create openings for your own. Very clever tactical thinking."
"Shut up and fight properly!" Robb replied with fond exasperation, though his pleasure at the praise was obvious despite his breathless condition.
"I am fighting properly," Hadrian protested with wounded innocence as he executed a movement that belonged more to ballet than battlefield combat yet somehow resulted in Jon's thrust going wide while Theon's cut found nothing but air. "This is me fighting properly. If I were fighting improperly, you'd all be unconscious by now."
"Improperly how?" Jon asked with the kind of morbid curiosity that had gotten him into trouble throughout his youth.
"Well," Hadrian mused as he deflected three simultaneous attacks with what appeared to be a single continuous motion, "I might use some of the more creative techniques I picked up during my... educational period. Advanced joint manipulation, pressure point applications, creative uses of momentum and leverage to achieve maximum impact with minimum effort."
"That sounds..." Theon began, then thought better of completing the observation as he tried to land a thrust that kept somehow missing its target by inches.
"Painful?" Hadrian suggested helpfully. "Undignified? Likely to result in extended periods of unconsciousness and subsequent medical attention? Yes, I imagine it would be all of those things. Which is why I stick to conventional swordwork when I'm trying to be friendly and educational."
"This is you being friendly?" Jon demanded with the kind of outrage that suggested his definition of friendship might need adjustment.
"Extraordinarily friendly," Hadrian confirmed cheerfully. "Friendly to the point of being practically charitable. In fact, I'd say this represents some of the friendliest ass-kicking I've ever administered in my entire career."
From the watching crowd came a collective gasp as Hadrian executed a movement that seemed to involve temporarily violating several laws of physics. One moment he was surrounded by three attackers pressing their assault with coordinated precision; the next, he was standing calmly in the center of the training yard while all three young men found themselves staggering to maintain their balance several feet away from where they'd intended to be.
"How?" Theon demanded with the kind of bewildered frustration that suggested his understanding of combat had just been thoroughly readjusted. "How is that even possible? You were right there, we all saw you, and then suddenly you were over there and we were all..."
"Confused?" Hadrian supplied with devastating cheer. "Disoriented? Wondering whether the laws of nature still apply? Yes, I can see how that might be unsettling."
"That's not natural," Robb declared with the conviction of someone whose worldview had just been gently but thoroughly demolished. "People don't move like that. It's not physically possible."
"It's perfectly possible," Hadrian replied with the patience of a university lecturer explaining basic concepts to particularly slow students. "It just requires proper training, excellent reflexes, and a willingness to think creatively about the relationship between force, momentum, and spatial positioning. Also, it helps to have spent several years being taught by people who considered conventional limitations to be more like polite suggestions."
"What sort of people?" Jon asked with the careful tone of someone who suspected the answer might be more than he really wanted to know.
"The sort who believed that survival was more important than following traditional rules," Hadrian replied with characteristic understatement. "Very practical individuals with a strong appreciation for pragmatic solutions to life-or-death problems."
"Life-or-death problems like what?" Robb pressed with genuine curiosity.
"Like people trying to kill me," Hadrian said simply. "Rather frequently, actually. It becomes surprisingly motivating after the first few attempts. Nothing quite like imminent death to focus the mind on learning advanced combat techniques as quickly as possible."
The training yard fell silent for a moment as this casual admission sank in. Even the watching crowd seemed to absorb the implications of what they'd just heard—that their mysterious guest spoke of mortal combat with the same casual tone most people used to discuss the weather.
"How many times?" Jon asked quietly, his bastard's understanding of dangerous situations allowing him to read between the lines more clearly than his companions.
"How many times what?" Hadrian replied, though his tone suggested he knew perfectly well what was being asked.
"How many times have people tried to kill you?" Jon clarified with the kind of direct honesty that had marked his character since childhood.
Hadrian was quiet for a moment, his emerald eyes focusing on something beyond the training yard, beyond Winterfell, beyond anything visible in their immediate surroundings. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of experiences that no one his age should have endured.
"Honestly?" he said with devastating casualness. "I stopped counting after the first few dozen. After a while, the specific numbers become less important than the general pattern recognition skills you develop. Learning to read killing intent in someone's eyes, recognizing the subtle tells that indicate when conversation is about to become violence, understanding the difference between someone who's posturing and someone who's genuinely prepared to murder you."
"Dozens?" Theon's voice cracked slightly on the word. "As in, more than twenty-four distinct attempts on your life?"
"Considerably more," Hadrian confirmed with the sort of matter-of-fact precision that somehow made the statement even more unsettling. "Though I should clarify that many of those attempts were made by the same individuals repeatedly. Some people are remarkably persistent when it comes to homicidal intentions. Persistence is apparently considered a virtue in certain circles."
"What circles?" Robb asked with growing fascination and mounting horror.
"Genocidal dark wizards and their associates, mostly," Hadrian replied as if discussing agricultural techniques. "Very dedicated group, really. Single-minded focus, unwavering commitment to their goals, absolutely relentless in pursuit of my untimely demise. You have to admire their work ethic, even if their actual objectives were somewhat morally questionable."
"Somewhat?" Jon repeated with the kind of incredulous tone that suggested his understanding of understatement had just been thoroughly recalibrated.
"Well," Hadrian mused with academic precision, "genocide is generally considered more than just 'somewhat' morally questionable. But I was trying to be diplomatic. No point in speaking ill of the dead, even if they were absolutely terrible people who richly deserved everything that happened to them."
Before anyone could formulate an appropriate response to this rather stunning revelation, the sound of enthusiastic applause from the watching crowd drew their attention to where Arya Stark stood clapping with obvious delight.
"Brilliant!" she called out with the kind of fierce joy that suggested she'd found her new favorite person in the entire world. "Absolutely brilliant! Do it again! That thing where you moved like lightning and suddenly they were all falling over themselves!"
"Thank you for your expert tactical analysis, little sister," Robb replied with fond exasperation, though he was clearly pleased by her enthusiasm despite his current state of comprehensive defeat.
"I'm not little!" Arya protested with automatic indignation. "And it wasn't tactical analysis, it was appreciation for superior technique! There's a difference!"
"Superior technique," Theon muttered as he retrieved his practice sword from where it had somehow ended up several feet away from where he remembered dropping it. "That's one way to put it. 'Completely impossible magical nonsense' might be more accurate."
"There's nothing magical about it," Hadrian protested with wounded dignity. "It's all perfectly natural physics applied with precision, creativity, and just a touch of dramatic flair. Anyone could learn to do it with proper instruction and only moderate risk of permanent injury."
"Moderate risk?" Jon inquired with rising alarm.
"Well," Hadrian clarified thoughtfully, "the learning process does involve a certain amount of getting knocked unconscious while your instructors explain where you went wrong. Character building, really. Very educational, assuming you survive the experience with sufficient cognitive function intact to apply the lessons learned."
"You make it sound like formal torture," Robb observed with growing concern.
"Formal torture has more structure and better documentation," Hadrian replied with devastating cheer. "My training was considerably more... improvisational. Much more hands-on approach to learning through experience."
From the crowd of watching ladies came a collective sigh that sounded like spring wind through flower gardens, drawing everyone's attention to where Sansa and her companions had been following the exchange with rapt fascination.
"He's so modest about his obviously superior abilities," Jeyne Poole whispered with the dreamy tone of someone lost in romantic fantasies. "Like a true knight from the songs—deadly but humble, dangerous but honorable."
"Did you hear him talking about all those people trying to kill him?" Beth Cassel added with the kind of hushed excitement that suggested mortal peril was considered highly romantic when it involved sufficiently attractive men. "He speaks of mortal combat like other men discuss their breakfast!"
"Mortal combat is romantic," Sansa declared with absolute conviction. "Knights in the songs are always fighting for their lives against impossible odds. That's what makes them heroes instead of just ordinary men with swords."
"Fighting for your life isn't romantic," Arya interjected with characteristic bluntness. "It's terrifying and messy and it usually ends with someone bleeding to death in the mud. Ask anyone who's actually been in a real battle."
"You've never been in a real battle either," Sansa replied with the superior tone of an older sister correcting a child's misconceptions. "So you don't know any more about it than I do."
"I know that songs lie," Arya shot back with the kind of practical wisdom that had marked her since childhood. "They make everything sound glorious and noble when it's actually just people trying not to die horribly."
"Some things are worth dying for," Sansa insisted with romantic certainty. "Love, honor, justice, protecting the innocent. Knights understand that. That's what makes them different from common soldiers."
"What makes them different from common soldiers," Hadrian interjected with the casual authority of someone who'd actually experienced both perspectives, "is better equipment, superior training, and social positions that allow them to choose their battles instead of being ordered into them. The dying part is equally unpleasant regardless of your motivations or social status."
"You speak from experience," Jon observed quietly, his bastard's understanding of being different allowing him to read the shadows that flickered across Hadrian's expression.
"Rather more than I'd prefer," Hadrian confirmed with characteristic understatement. "Though I should point out that romantic ideals have their place. They give people something to fight for beyond mere survival, something to build toward that's better than what currently exists. The trick is not letting them blind you to practical realities that might get you killed before you can achieve those ideals."
"Practical realities like what?" Robb asked with genuine curiosity.
"Like the fact that your enemies probably don't share your romantic notions about fair play and honorable combat," Hadrian replied with sardonic precision. "They're generally more interested in efficient murder than elegant swordwork. Tends to put idealistic knights at a rather severe disadvantage when the actual fighting starts."
"Is that how you learned to fight like that?" Theon asked with the kind of morbid fascination that suggested he was beginning to understand that their guest's casual attitude toward violence might be based on considerably more practical experience than he'd initially realized. "Fighting people who didn't care about fair play?"
"Among other things," Hadrian replied vaguely. "Though I should mention that my instructors were quite insistent on maintaining high ethical standards even when dealing with ethically questionable opponents. Killing people who deserve to die is unfortunate but sometimes necessary. Becoming the sort of person who enjoys killing is an entirely different matter and should be avoided at all costs."
"You've actually killed people," Jon said. It wasn't a question.
"I have," Hadrian confirmed simply, his voice carrying the weight of decisions that couldn't be undone and prices that couldn't be unpaid. "When it was necessary to protect innocent people who couldn't protect themselves. When negotiation had failed, when retreat wasn't possible, when the alternative was allowing genuinely evil individuals to continue harming others."
"How many?" The question came from Ser Rodrik, whose professional assessment of their guest had clearly shifted into entirely new territory.
Hadrian looked at the grizzled master-at-arms with something approaching respect, recognizing a fellow professional who understood that some questions needed to be asked directly.
"Enough to understand why it should always be a last resort," he replied with careful precision. "Enough to know that taking a life changes you in ways that can't be undone. Enough to appreciate why people who are good at violence should be very careful about who they choose to be violent toward."
"That's..." Ser Rodrik paused, clearly working through implications that extended far beyond simple combat training. "That's a level of experience I wasn't expecting in someone your age."
"I had what you might call an accelerated education," Hadrian replied with dry humor that didn't quite hide the shadows in his emerald eyes. "Very intensive curriculum, extremely practical applications, remarkably effective at teaching advanced techniques in minimal time. Though I can't say I'd recommend it for general educational purposes."
Before anyone could pursue this line of inquiry further, the distinctive sound of approaching footsteps drew their attention to where Lord Eddard Stark was walking toward the training yard with the measured stride of someone who'd been observing the proceedings from a distance and had decided it was time to intervene.
At forty-two, Ned Stark carried himself with the unconscious authority of someone who'd been born to command and had learned through hard experience exactly what that responsibility meant. His grey eyes—sharp as the legendary sword Ice that rested across his back—missed nothing as they swept across the scene, taking in the scattered practice weapons, the gathered crowd, and the way every person present seemed to defer automatically to their mysterious guest's presence.
"Impressive display," he said with genuine approval, his weathered face showing the slight smile that indicated he was genuinely pleased rather than merely being polite. "Though I'm beginning to understand why Ser Rodrik requested additional practice weapons from the armory. At this rate, you'll have worn out half our training equipment before the moon turns."
"My lord," Hadrian replied with precisely calibrated respect, inclining his head in acknowledgment while somehow managing to suggest that he considered himself an equal rather than a subordinate. "I do apologize for any inconvenience. Your sons and Theon are excellent students—so excellent that they require rather more intensive instruction than I initially anticipated."
"Intensive instruction," Ned repeated with the kind of dry humor that had served him well through decades of dealing with young men and their various enthusiasms. "Is that what we're calling systematic humiliation now?"
"Educational opportunity," Hadrian corrected with devastating cheer. "Character building through practical application of advanced combat techniques. Very traditional teaching methodology, really—learn by doing, improve through repetition, develop expertise through gradually increasing challenges."
"And the increasing challenges involve...?" Ned prompted with obvious amusement.
"Creative applications of physics, psychology, and tactical thinking," Hadrian replied with academic precision. "Combined with just enough unpredictability to keep things interesting and ensure that bad habits don't have time to become entrenched."
"Bad habits like what?"
"Assuming that superior numbers automatically confer tactical advantage," Hadrian explained patiently. "Believing that conventional techniques will work against unconventional opponents. Thinking that good intentions and noble motivations are sufficient substitutes for superior preparation and practical experience."
"Harsh lessons," Ned observed.
"Necessary lessons," Hadrian corrected with the conviction of someone who'd learned them the hard way. "Better to learn them in a controlled environment with wooden swords and bruised egos than to discover them for the first time when real enemies are trying to kill you with actual sharp objects."
"You speak like someone who's taught such lessons before," Ser Rodrik noted with professional interest.
"I speak like someone who learned them from people considerably more experienced than myself," Hadrian replied carefully. "People who understood that the gap between training and reality can be fatal if it's not addressed properly during the educational process."
"And these people were...?" Ned inquired with the casual tone that suggested he was genuinely curious rather than conducting an interrogation.
"Dead, mostly," Hadrian said simply, his voice carrying the weight of losses that couldn't be quantified or replaced. "The war didn't end well for people who insisted on fighting with honor against enemies who considered honor a tactical weakness to be exploited."
The training yard fell quiet for a moment as this observation settled over the assembled group like morning frost, cold and uncomfortable and impossible to ignore.
"Well," Theon said finally with determined cheer, clearly attempting to lighten the mood, "that's thoroughly depressing. Perhaps we could return to the part where you were making us look like complete amateurs? That was significantly more entertaining."
"You're not complete amateurs," Hadrian replied with genuine warmth, his earlier shadows fading as he focused on the present rather than the past. "You're quite talented, actually. Natural ability, solid training, excellent coordination when you remember to work together instead of competing with each other. With proper experience, you'll all be genuinely formidable."
"Proper experience meaning...?" Robb asked with obvious curiosity.
"Real opponents who are actually trying to hurt you," Hadrian replied with characteristic honesty. "Nothing quite like imminent bodily harm to focus the mind on applying lessons learned during training. Very motivating, assuming you survive the educational process."
"You make it sound almost appealing," Jon observed with dry humor.
"Oh, it's absolutely terrible," Hadrian assured him cheerfully. "Terrifying, exhausting, frequently painful, and guaranteed to provide you with nightmare material for years to come. But it's also remarkably effective at teaching you exactly what you're capable of when everything depends on being better than your opponent."
"Speaking of opponents," Ned interjected with the kind of paternal authority that suggested the current conversation was approaching its natural conclusion, "I believe you'll all want to prepare for this evening's entertainment. The traveling performers who arrived earlier will be providing music and storytelling after the evening meal, and I expect everyone to attend with proper courtesy and attention."
"Yes, Father," came the dutiful chorus from his children, though their responses held varying degrees of enthusiasm.
"Do I have to sit still and pretend to be interested in boring songs about boring people doing boring things?" Arya asked with the honest frustration of someone whose definition of entertainment involved considerably more action and significantly fewer romantic ballads.
"You have to sit still and show proper respect for guests who have traveled considerable distances to provide us with entertainment," Ned replied with the patient authority of a father who'd had this conversation many times before. "Whether or not you personally find their offerings interesting is beside the point. Courtesy is not optional, especially not for members of this family."
"What if the songs are about people hitting each other with swords?" Arya suggested hopefully. "Those would be interesting."
"If they sing about people hitting each other with swords," Hadrian interjected with obvious amusement, "I promise to provide detailed technical commentary on the accuracy of their combat descriptions. Educational value and entertainment combined."
"Really?" Arya's eyes lit up with delight at this unexpected offer.
"Absolutely," Hadrian confirmed with mock solemnity. "I consider it my duty to ensure that artistic representations of violence maintain appropriate standards of realism and technical accuracy. Can't have people developing unrealistic expectations about how sword fights actually work."
"That sounds..." Sansa began, then stopped, clearly uncertain whether detailed combat analysis would enhance or diminish the romantic appeal of heroic ballads.
"Educational," Hadrian supplied helpfully. "Enlightening. Possibly disturbing to people who prefer their violence sanitized and romanticized rather than realistic and practical. Very much in keeping with my apparent role as destroyer of comfortable illusions."
"Your apparent role as what?" Robb asked with growing amusement.
"Destroyer of comfortable illusions," Hadrian repeated with devastating cheer. "Crusher of romantic notions. Systematic deflator of inflated egos and unrealistic expectations. It's become something of a specialty, really."
"And a very effective one," Jon observed with rueful appreciation. "Though I have to say, having our illusions destroyed by someone who actually knows what he's talking about is considerably less traumatic than I'd expected."
"That's the key," Hadrian agreed with professional satisfaction. "Gradual disillusionment through practical demonstration rather than sudden shock through catastrophic failure. Much more humane approach to reality adjustment."
"Reality adjustment," Ned repeated with obvious amusement. "I like that. Very diplomatic way of describing what you've been doing to my sons' confidence levels."
"Their confidence levels needed adjusting," Hadrian replied with unassailable logic. "Overconfidence gets people killed when they encounter opponents who don't share their high opinion of their abilities. Better to learn humility from friendly instruction than from hostile action."
"Wise words," Ned agreed, then shifted his attention to the group as a whole. "And speaking of instruction, Hadrian, I was hoping you might join me in my solar before the evening's festivities begin. Maester Luwin has shared some of your thoughts regarding Northern development, and I find myself curious to discuss them in greater detail."
Something in the lord's tone—a note of serious consideration mixed with careful evaluation—suggested that this wasn't merely polite conversation but potentially something far more significant. Hadrian felt a familiar stirring of the political instincts that had served him well during his years navigating the complex power structures of both the wizarding world and the broader conflicts that had consumed his previous life.
"Of course, my lord," he replied with precisely calibrated respect. "I would be honored to discuss such matters at your convenience."
"Excellent. Shall we say in one hour? That should provide sufficient time for everyone to prepare appropriately for this evening's entertainment."
As the group began to disperse, each person heading toward their respective preparations for the evening ahead, Hadrian found his thoughts returning once again to the blonde woman who'd arrived with the traveling performers. There was something about her that continued to tug at the edges of his consciousness, something familiar yet impossible to identify, something that suggested tonight's entertainment might prove considerably more interesting than anyone at Winterfell currently expected.
He'd learned long ago to trust his instincts when they warned him that seemingly ordinary situations were anything but ordinary. And right now, every instinct developed through seven years of magical warfare was quietly insisting that the woman who'd arrived that afternoon represented either an extraordinary opportunity or a potentially dangerous complication.
Possibly both.
The evening, he reflected as he headed toward the Great Keep to prepare for his meeting with Lord Stark, was definitely going to be interesting.
And in his experience, when things became interesting, they usually became interesting very quickly indeed.
Behind him, the training yard slowly emptied as guards secured the practice weapons and servants began preparing the Great Hall for the evening's entertainment. But if anyone had been watching carefully, they might have noticed that Hadrian Potter's attention kept drifting southward, toward something he couldn't see but somehow knew was approaching with the inevitability of winter itself.
"Ser Rodrik," one of the younger guards ventured as they watched their mysterious guest disappear into the keep, "what do you make of him? Really?"
The old master-at-arms was quiet for a long moment, his weathered face thoughtful as he considered everything he'd witnessed during the past week of training sessions.
"Dangerous," he said finally, his gruff voice carrying the weight of professional judgment honed by decades of experience. "More dangerous than anyone has any right to be at his age. But dangerous to the right people, I think. There's something about him... reminds me of stories about the great knights of old. Arthur Dayne, maybe, or Barristan Selmy in his prime."
"You really think he's that good?" Harwin asked with the skepticism of someone who'd served long enough to be wary of legends in the making.
"I think," Ser Rodrik said slowly, his keen eyes following Hadrian's retreating figure, "that boy's killed more men than the rest of us combined. And I think he did it for the right reasons, which makes him more dangerous than ten sellswords who fight for gold. A man who kills because he has to is just deadly. A man who kills because he should... that's the kind of man who changes the world."
"For better or worse?" Harwin pressed.
"That," the old knight replied with grim certainty, "depends entirely on which side you're on when the changing starts."
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!