After successfully navigating the political traps of his two liege lords, Roman returned to Harrenhal, finally free to focus entirely on the industrial developnt of his territory.
A few days after their return, Lady Shella summoned Roman to her solar to discuss the ongoing infrastructure projects.
"My child," she began, reviewing a thick ledger. "The engineering techniques and the raw materials you are using to build these new roads are incredibly complex. Setting aside the staggering financial cost, Harrenhal is simply running out of manpower. If we continue pulling the smallfolk away from the fields to break rock, it will severely impact the upcoming harvest."
The roads Roman was constructing were not the cheap, miserable dirt paths typical of Westeros—paths like the fad Kingsroad, which instantly transford into impassable, muddy bogs the mont it rained.
Roman's engineering process was ticulous. First, his crews excavated the soft topsoil along the planned route until they hit the dense, hard-packed earth below. Next, they laid down a perfectly leveled foundation of massive, purified stone blocks, followed by a thick layer of crushed gravel for drainage.
Simultaneously, Roman used his draconic fire to rapidly calcine the excavated topsoil in specialized kilns, utterly incinerating any lingering seeds or roots. He then mixed the sterilized soil with mineral alkali to permanently prevent encroaching weeds from taking root and cracking the surface.
Finally, this specialized dirt mixture was spread evenly over the gravel and violently compacted using heavy stone rollers pulled by draft horses.
The construction also incorporated crowned surfaces for natural water runoff, deep drainage ditches on either side, and even basic underground culverts where necessary.
Roman could not definitively guarantee that his roads were the absolute best in Westeros, but they were undeniably top-tier.
However, this massive undertaking highlighted two crippling problems: a lack of liquid coin, and a severe lack of labor.
Financing the project was actually the easier hurdle to clear. Roman simply relied on the sheer gratitude of his subjects. Because Roman had publicly sworn that these new roads would be entirely free from aristocratic tolls, the common folk were incredibly willing to volunteer their labor.
Roman only had to cover the cost of feeding the work crews, and currently, grain was relatively cheap. The legendary Long Sumr was still holding, and the fertile Riverlands were producing massive surpluses.
But the second problem was rapidly becoming critical: Harrenhal was running out of warm bodies.
The Whents controlled a vast expanse of fertile land surrounding the Gods Eye. However, the Riverlands had historically been a bloody battleground, constantly ravaged by invading armies and internal squabbles among the petty lords. The regional population had never fully recovered.
Every able-bodied villager who could be spared was already working on the roads. But with the crucial planting season rapidly approaching, Roman could absolutely not afford to delay the agricultural schedule by forcing his farrs to continue doing manual labor.
"You are right, my Lady. We must look outward to solve this," Roman said, tapping the map on the desk. "I plan to travel back to King's Landing."
Lady Shella frowned, her eyes flashing with genuine worry. "You intend to march back into the viper's nest simply to recruit commoners?"
Roman nodded. "The sprawling shantytowns outside the walls of King's Landing are overflowing with desperate, starving refugees who cannot even afford to sleep in the squalor of Flea Bottom. They survive in miserable, freezing shacks."
"That specific demographic is vastly more manageable than the hardened criminals living deep inside the city. With a little careful screening, we can find thousands of hardworking, desperate families who simply need a chance to survive."
Roman gestured to the map of the Gods Eye. "My Lady, there are still thousands of acres of highly fertile, uncultivated land within our borders. If fully developed, Harrenhal could easily support a population of a million souls. Now that our foundries are mass-producing iron plows, we can guarantee enough food. I intend to recruit ten thousand refugees and settle them here imdiately."
Maester Tom had already briefed Lady Shella on the economic math, so she raised no objections to the logistics. Her only concern was Roman's safety.
"Very well, my son. You may go to the capital," she sighed. "But I beg you, be incredibly careful. Try not to entangle yourself with the royal court if you can avoid it."
Roman understood her fears perfectly. He had no intention of lingering in the Red Keep this ti. He only planned to make a brief, diplomatic courtesy call to King Robert, recruit his ten thousand laborers from the outer camps, and imdiately march them north.
However, Roman decided to delay his departure until old Ben Blackthumb and his apprentices could successfully forge two hundred complete sets of lallar armor to properly equip his escort.
Later that afternoon, Roman sought out Maester Tom in his cluttered chambers.
"Maester Tom, apologies for the intrusion. I require your alchemical expertise."
"Of course, Lord Roman. What do you need?"
"I need you to develop a specific type of heavy, fast-setting lacquer and a binding oil. I am going to manufacture a true heavy cavalry lance."
Tom blinked in confusion. "But... we already possess hundreds of standard tourney lances in the armory, my lord."
"I am not talking about the brittle, hollowed-out pine sticks knights use to knock each other off horses at tourneys," Roman clarified. "I am talking about a highly resilient, deeply flexible war-lance. A weapon capable of withstanding the agonizing, bone-shattering kinetic impact of a full cavalry charge without instantly splintering, allowing a rider to pull it free and strike again."
Roman explained his concept, drawing heavy inspiration from the legendary, specialized "Shuo" lances utilized by ancient Chinese heavy cavalry.
A standard Westerosi war spear was relatively simple: a thick wooden shaft topped with an iron head. But under the extre, violent stress of a mounted charge, standard ash or oak shafts almost always shattered upon impact.
To create a lance that could survive a charge, the wooden shaft had to undergo a maddeningly complex process: it had to be deeply soaked in specialized oils, tightly bound in layers of strong burlap or sinew, heavily lacquered, and then carefully air-dried over months. It was an incredibly ti-consuming and obscenely expensive process.
Roman had racked his brain trying to bypass the months-long drying phase, until Ben Blackthumb had casually offered a brilliant suggestion down in the foundries.
"My lord, your Pale Fla can instantly purify steel and bake refractory bricks. Could you not use it to flash-cure the wood and the oils?"
Rembering that Maester Tom had recently beco obsessed with studying the alchemical properties of the Pale Fla, Roman figured the scholar might hold the key.
Maester Tom listened intently to Roman's exact specifications, his brow furrowing in deep thought.
"My lord, you are asking for two highly reactive alchemical varnishes that must cure almost instantly without compromising their flexibility. I believe I can synthesize the base compounds, but to flash-cure them... your Dragonfla will be absolutely essential."
"You have my fire," Roman promised with a grin. "If you can successfully formulate these varnishes, I will ensure you are handsoly rewarded."
Tom nodded excitedly, though the truth was, gold ant very little to him. What he truly desired was a Valyrian steel link on his maester's chain. His academic performance at the Citadel had always been painfully diocre, leaving him relegated to the cursed ruins of Harrenhal.
But studying Roman's draconic magic was the academic opportunity of a millennium. Tom saw the absolute pinnacle of scholarly glory floating right toward him.
Snapping out of his academic daydream, Tom noticed Roman watching him with an amused expression.
Roman's physical transformation over the last few months had been staggering. He was taller, vastly more muscular, and possessed the terrifying aura of a warlord. Yet, beneath the hardened exterior, he remained the sa kind, deeply pragmatic boy Tom had t in the courtyard.
Realizing his own transparent, scholarly greed, the old maester's face suddenly flushed beet red.
"Maester Tom, why is your face so red?" Roman asked, suppressing a smirk.
"Ahem! It is nothing, my lord! I am simply feeling quite warm today! The weather is very refreshing!"
Roman burst into a loud, booming laugh. The chaotic, joyful sound filled the dusty room, and Tom couldn't help but chuckle along, his embarrassnt fading as he quickly set to work on his alchemical formulas.
After leaving the maester to his work, Roman mounted his horse and rode out of Harrenhal's main gates.
A massive, newly completed section of the main road now connected the fortress directly to Harrentown.
Roman and his guards trotted leisurely down the broad avenue. It had rained heavily that morning. The air was thick, hot, and intensely humid, with visible steam rising from the surrounding fields.
Yet, the new road was a marvel. Because Roman had insisted on crowning the center of the road and sloping the edges, every drop of the torrential rainwater had smoothly washed away into the deep drainage ditches flanking the thoroughfare.
Furthermore, during the construction, the Whent engineers had discovered that by adding a specialized, locally sourced adhesive clay to the fine topsoil before compacting it, the road surface beca practically waterproof.
There was not a single rut or puddle to be found. The road was rely damp, a miraculous improvent over the knee-deep, suffocating mud that usually plagued the Riverlands after a storm.
One of the guards riding behind Roman tugged excitedly at his lord's sleeve. "Look, my lord! The smallfolk are absolutely thrilled with the road!"
Looking around, Roman saw dozens of rchants, farrs, and travelers moving briskly along the thoroughfare. They were all chatting excitedly, clearly stunned by how easy the journey had beco.
Whenever a group of smallfolk spotted Roman's towering, armored figure, they imdiately stopped and bowed with deep, genuine reverence.
A group of elderly farrs carrying baskets of root vegetables hesitantly approached Roman's horse.
"My lord," one of the old n asked nervously, clutching his worn hat. "Is it truly true? Can we walk this grand road entirely for free?"
"It is the absolute truth," Roman answered seriously, his voice carrying so the surrounding crowd could hear. "That is my solemn vow to you. You may tell everyone you et to travel this road with confidence. You never need to fear that I will suddenly erect a tollbooth and steal your silver."
Then, Roman's stern face broke into a lighthearted grin.
"However! When the ti eventually cos to maintain the stone and clear the ditches, you will all be required to provide the labor. Otherwise, the stone will crack, the weeds will return, and this beautiful avenue will turn right back into the miserable, stinking mud of the Kingsroad!"
Roman leaned over his saddle, winking at the old man. "Unless, of course, you actually enjoy soaking your boots in cold mud. In that case, I cannot help you!"
The crowd erupted into loud, genuine laughter, the tension instantly evaporating.
Amidst the chorus of warm praises and cheering smallfolk, Roman continued his patrol down the pristine avenue.
To the loyal guards riding behind him, Roman Rivers was no longer just a lord; he was an absolute blessing delivered directly by the Seven Gods.
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