The Harrenhal Vanguard remained garrisoned in Winterfell for several days to recuperate and resupply before the final, grueling leg of their march to the Wall.
However, Roman had absolutely no intention of letting his highly disciplined soldiers sit idle and grow soft in the Northern capital. With Eddard Stark's formal permission, he imdiately deployed his light cavalry to patrol the King's Road and aggressively maintain order in the sprawling Winter Town.
Initially, the native Northerners assud this was rely a performative, ceremonial patrol. Winterfell was the undisputed heart of the North; the sheer presence of the Stark garrison usually ant large-scale criminal activity was virtually non-existent. What significant trouble could possibly occur here?
The very next day, a highly desperate, utterly foolish band of brigands opened the eyes of both the Whent soldiers and the local populace. The massive bandit gang actually attempted a brazen, daylight raid on the outer markets of Winter Town, violently grabbing trade goods before scattering toward the tree line.
If this had occurred back in Harrentown, and a group of thieves had actually dared to assault the Whent markets, they would have been incredibly lucky if the Vanguard simply executed them before Roman got his hands on them.
Having already secured proactive authorization from Lord Eddard, the Harrenhal cavalry imdiately launched a devastating pursuit.
The Whent soldiers already possessed extensive, highly lethal experience in rural bandit suppression. Now, paired with the omniscient aerial reconnaissance buff provided by Fili's talking ravens, the criminals of Winterfell were introduced to a terrifyingly ruthless, inescapable military machine.
The magical ravens and the light cavalry scouts worked in flawless, synchronized tandem. The birds swept silently over the treeline, instantly pinpointing the bandits' exact coordinates and relaying the intelligence back to Fili, who then directed the rapid advance of the Vanguard.
In exactly three days, the Harrenhal light cavalry systematically annihilated every single bandit crew operating outside the imdiate borders of the Wolfswood, aggressively bringing absolute, terrifying peace back to the Winterfell region.
The hardened people of the North had never encountered an army quite like this before. The Whent soldiers obeyed their officers with absolute, ironclad discipline, and their off-duty behavior was impeccably moral. They did not initiate drunken brawls in the taverns, they aggressively refused to accept bribes, and they strictly adhered to Roman's regulations forbidding them from frequenting the local brothels.
After completing their final logistical checks, the Vanguard broke camp, and Roman formally prepared to march upon the Wall.
As the massive Whent column prepared to depart, Lord Eddard, the Stark family, and hundreds of grateful smallfolk from Winter Town gathered at the main gates to see them off.
Before Roman mounted his destrier, Eddard personally handed him a highly detailed, master-crafted map of the northern territories.
"Lord Roman," Eddard advised seriously. "When you march, please ensure your scouts strictly avoid the deep bogs marked in red. The terrain leading up to the Wall is notoriously treacherous, even in sumr."
With the invaluable topographical intelligence provided by the Warden of the North, the Harrenhal Vanguard easily avoided the region's most lethal natural hazards.
However, because the primary northern artery of the Kingsroad passed directly along the edge of the legendary Wolfswood, Roman ordered the entire army into a state of extre tactical caution, fearing a massive ambush by desperate wildlings or apex predators.
The Wolfswood truly lived up to its terrifying reputation as the largest, darkest forest in the North. Its ancient, prival canopy was so impossibly dense that even Fili's magical ravens struggled to visually penetrate the thick foliage from the air.
This was precisely when Roman's Pale Fla Vision proved to be an absolute tactical necessity. No matter how many layers of ancient pine and oak obscured the physical environnt, the vibrant, burning spiritual sparks of living creatures could never be hidden from the eyes of a dragon.
Along the treacherous march, the Vanguard encountered several packs of massive, fiercely aggressive Northern timber wolves that were entirely unafraid of humans and brazenly attempted to attack the vulnerable supply wagons.
Roman naturally retaliated with devastating, overwhelming force. Every ti his draconic vision detected a massive beast approaching the periter, he would calmly draw his custom-forged, 200-pound recurve bow and violently obliterate the predator with a single, thunderous shot.
This terrifyingly heavy bow was a collaborative masterpiece developed by Maester Tom and Harrenhal's master bowyers; it possessed such an absurd draw weight that Roman was literally the only man in the entire Vanguard physically capable of stringing it.
Technically, Roman's draconic strength allowed him to pull a bow with a vastly higher draw weight. However, 200 pounds was the absolute maximum threshold of Westerosi material science. If they increased the tension any further, the ash-wood limbs would violently snap under the pressure and severely injure the user.
Looking at the lethal weapon in his hand, Roman had to admit that Maester Tom was a true, unparalleled genius for successfully engineering a reliable 200-pound composite recurve bow in the highly humid, unpredictable climate of Westeros.
It is no wonder this is a world defined by magic, Roman mused. The tensile strength of the native timber and horn is truly exceptional.
Furthermore, the arrows forged in Harrenhal were entirely structurally different from the standard munitions used across the Seven Kingdoms. Most Westerosi noble houses utilized simple, socketed arrowheads—aning a hollow tal cap was rely glued over the tip of a wooden shaft.
While cheap to mass-produce, a socketed arrowhead absorbed the entirety of its own kinetic energy upon impacting a hard surface (like steel plate armor), causing the wooden shaft to violently shatter upon impact, drastically reducing penetration.
Harrenhal's custom arrows, however, featured a highly advanced, internally-inserted tang design. A long, thin strip of high-carbon steel was forged directly into the base of the arrowhead, which was then deeply inserted and glued into the core of the ash-wood shaft. This, combined with Roman's "barrel-breaking" reinforcent technique (tightly wrapping the tip of the shaft in cured linen/resin), resulted in an arrow of absolutely terrifying structural integrity.
Although the complex forging process was significantly more labor-intensive, the Whent foundries utilized water-powered chanical lathes, allowing Harrenhal to churn out these armor-piercing arrows at a vastly faster rate than standard blacksmiths.
Roman's personal, specialized armor-piercing arrows possessed internal steel tangs that were a staggering twenty centiters long; they were essentially massive steel spikes cleverly disguised as arrows, entirely capable of cleanly punching through the thickest Southern plate armor at long range.
After several grueling weeks of trekking through the frozen wilderness, the Vanguard finally arrived at the shores of Long Lake.
Long Lake was a massive, incredibly narrow body of water situated directly on the western edge of the Lonely Hills.
Roman ordered the Vanguard to halt, allowing the n to rest and the horses to drink from the pristine water. anwhile, Roman rode his massive destrier up to a high, rocky vantage point to sweep the surrounding valley with his Pale Fla Vision.
Just as the Riverlands soldiers were relaxing and marveling at the stark, rugged beauty of the Northern landscape, Fili suddenly rode up beside Roman, her face pale.
"Lord Roman!" she gasped, pointing frantically toward the dense tree line. "The ravens just reported a horrifying sight! A young woman, completely covered in blood, is sprinting desperately out of the woods!"
"Has she encountered wildling raiders?" Roman asked, his hand instantly dropping to his bow.
Fili shook her head. "The birds cannot see her attackers clearly through the canopy, but they can hear them! They are hunting her with hounds!"
Regardless of the political situation, Roman's morality dictated that he must intervene.
"First and Second Cavalry Squads, form up on !" Roman roared.
In less than a minute, one hundred elite light cavalryn had mounted their horses and drawn their sabers, rapidly advancing behind Roman toward the designated coordinates.
Ten minutes later, the Whent cavalry crested a low, rocky hill and arrived at the edge of the forest.
Down in the valley, they witnessed a horrific, deeply familiar scene. A massive pack of vicious, starving hunting hounds was aggressively chasing down and tearing into the legs of a terrified, blood-soaked peasant girl.
The frantic barking of the dogs and the agonizing screams of the woman echoed sickeningly across the valley.
Roman's face instantly darkened into an expression of absolute, murderous fury. This highly specific, psychotic thod of hunting human beings imdiately reminded him of a canonical monster: The Bastard of Bolton.
Why the hell would Ramsay Snow be hunting all the way out here near Long Lake? Is House Bolton truly this brazen?
Regardless of his political confusion, Roman acted instantly. He spurred his massive destrier down the slope, drawing his heavy bow and firing three rapid, thunderous shots that violently pinned the three lead hounds directly to the frozen earth.
Seeing their pack leaders instantly obliterated by massive steel spikes, the remaining hounds panicked. One particularly vicious, scarred dog broke off from the dying girl and sprinted frantically back into the dense brush.
The Whent cavalryn imdiately drew their bows, preparing to shoot the fleeing hound, but Roman raised a gauntleted hand to stop them.
"Hold your fire," Roman ordered coldly. "Let the cur run back to its master. We will follow its scent."
Roman turned to his Apostle. "Fili, you and the Vanguard dics will remain here to aggressively treat this woman's wounds. Once she is stabilized, escort her back to the main encampnt. The rest of you, ride with . We are going hunting."
While Fili and the dics instantly dismounted to apply tourniquets to the bleeding girl, Roman led a heavily ard squad of cavalry directly into the dense forest, tracking the terrified hound's trail.
The surviving hound, relentlessly pursued by the thundering hooves of the Whent cavalry, panicked completely and bolted blindly into a deep, rocky ravine.
Deep within the ravine, a young, pale-skinned man with long, stringy dark hair and fleshy, worm-like lips was casually eating a massive chunk of roasted venison, laughing cruelly with a small group of heavily ard retainers.
This monster was Ramsay Snow, the psychopathic, illegitimate son of Roose Bolton.
"By the Gods, my lord," one of the Bolton n laughed, taking a swig of ale. "That last peasant girl you dragged out of the Winter Town markets was a true beauty! But she was far too fragile. She bled out in the middle of the night before we even reached the lake."
"Aye," another guard sneered. "I was planning to keep a piece of her to savor for myself, but when I returned from taking a piss in the woods, she was already entirely in the dogs' stomachs."
Ramsay, however, completely waved off their complaints, tearing a chunk of at from the bone. "Do not weep over broken toys. This new runaway is vastly superior. She possesses true Northern fire. We will have incredible, agonizing fun with her once the hounds finally drag her down."
"But my lord," an attendant asked nervously. "Since you unleashed the entire pack, will there even be enough of her left intact for us to play with?"
"That depends entirely on her survival skills," Ramsay smiled, his pale eyes entirely devoid of humanity. "If she manages to miraculously survive the hounds' jaws, I will be rciful and grant her a slow, extrely thorough flaying."
Upon hearing this, the entire Bolton hunting party burst into roaring, cruel laughter.
But a split second later, a massive, deafening roar—sounding horrifically like a true dragon—shattered the treeline.
"SO! It was you who unleashed those rabid curs upon an innocent woman!"
Ramsay and his n violently whipped around, drawing their swords. Up on the rocky ridge of the ravine, Roman Rivers sat atop his massive destrier, looking down at them with glowing, apocalyptic blue eyes.
Roman quickly swept the ravine with his Pale Fla Vision, confirming there were no hidden Bolton archers waiting in ambush. He then spurred his horse down the steep incline, gracefully dismounting as he drew his massive, two-handed steel warhamr.
Seeing Roman's terrifying, impossibly muscular physique and the devastating size of the heavy hamr, Ramsay's n instinctively took a terrified step backward.
"Who the fuck are you?!" Ramsay spat, raising his skinning knife.
"My na is entirely irrelevant to dead n," Roman replied, his voice a freezing baritone. "What is relevant is that the hounds you command just attempted to butcher a woman under my protection."
A heavily armored Bolton guard stepped forward, aggressively blocking Ramsay's path. "Do you have any idea who you are threatening, you massive oaf?! Lord Ramsay will personally cut your tongue out and feed it to his bitches!"
Hearing the na, Roman knew with absolute certainty he had found the right monster. He casually rested the heavy warhamr on his armored shoulder and feigned a look of profound, mocking surprise.
"Ramsay?!"
Roman pointed a thick, gauntleted finger directly at the pale psychopath, his voice dripping with utter, venomous sarcasm.
"Well, well, well. What do we have here? Oh, look! It is the pathetic, unacknowledged bastard of House Bolton!"
Upon hearing those highly specific, triggering words, Ramsay's n instantly flinched, their faces draining of blood. They knew perfectly well that Ramsay possessed a psychotic, deeply violent hatred of his illegitimate status.
Back at the Dreadfort, anyone who even accidentally uttered the word "bastard" in Ramsay's presence was brutally flayed alive and denied a complete corpse.
Predictably, Ramsay's fleshy lips began to violently tremble with absolute, blinding rage. "I will skin you alive, you massive cunt! I will peel the flesh from your—"
Before the Bastard of Bolton could even finish his psychotic threat, fifty Harrenhal heavy cavalryn violently charged out from the surrounding treeline, completely encircling the ravine in an impenetrable wall of Whent steel.
Realizing they were entirely trapped by a vastly superior, heavily armored military force, Ramsay and his companions instantly froze, trembling in the mud like wild dogs whose spines had just been snapped.
Roman had absolutely zero desire to exchange witty banter with a canon psychopath. He simply dropped his massive warhamr to his side.
Instantly, brilliant, roaring White Fla violently ignited across both of his gauntlets, rapidly traveling up the steel shaft and completely engulfing the massive head of the hamr in searing holy fire.
Roman took a sudden, explosive step forward, closing the distance in the blink of an eye. With a casual, almost lazy horizontal swing of his burning hamr, he violently smashed the lead Bolton guard. The sheer kinetic impact shattered the man's heavy oak shield into splinters and launched his broken body twenty feet through the air.
Without pausing his montum, Roman seamlessly reversed his grip, bringing the flaming hamr down in a devastating, overhead slam directly onto the chest of a second soldier. The horrific crunch of shattering ribs echoed through the ravine as the man's chest cavity was completely caved in.
When the remaining Bolton retainers saw their heavily armored comrades violently transford into mangled, burning at in a matter of seconds, they instantly lost every single ounce of courage they possessed. They dropped their swords, falling to their knees in the mud and screaming frantically for rcy.
Roman offered them none. Moving with terrifying, draconic speed, he systematically smashed their skulls in with his heavy boots as if he were casually stomping out rabid dogs, before swinging his massive sword up to cleanly decapitate the final, desperate soldier who attempted a frantic thrust.
The massacre was over in less than ten seconds. Ramsay Snow didn't even have ti to raise his skinning knife before Roman had violently slaughtered his entire hunting party.
Standing alone amidst the burning, mangled corpses of his n, faced with the overwhelming, supernatural violence of the White Fla, a look of absolute, profound terror finally broke across Ramsay's pale face.
Before the Bastard of Bolton could even open his mouth to beg, Roman stepped forward and delivered a devastating, unarmored right hook directly to Ramsay's cheek.
The sickening crack of bone echoed loudly. Roman's superhuman punch violently shattered the entire right side of Ramsay's jawbone and instantly knocked half of his teeth out of his skull.
The Bastard of Bolton's eyes rolled back into his head, and he collapsed into the mud, instantly unconscious.
Roman calmly wiped the blood from his knuckles and waved to the Whent cavalry captain hovering nearby.
"Bind him in heavy iron chains and keep a strict watch on him. Do not let him bleed out or die easily."
Roman's blue eyes glinted with a deeply predatory, calculating light. He knew a great many horrific, modern interrogation techniques that would work absolutely flawlessly on Ramsay Snow.
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