Game of Thrones White Dragon Rising Chapter 10 10: Robert and Roman

The Harrenhal barges finally docked at the Blackwater port. The sheer number of ships drew every eye on the waterfront.

King's Landing saw plenty of vessels every day, but this many at once was rare. When the crowd spotted the nine black bats of House Whent on the sails, they quickly understood and gave way.

Old Jesse went ashore and organized the unloading. Roman had no need to lift a finger, so he simply stood watch in his black armor and cloak.

The entire escort had switched to black plate and dark cloaks to hide the dragon tail at his back. To the people of King's Landing he looked like any other tall, broad-shouldered soldier.

"Look at the size of that one! Armor's barely holding him in."

"Warrior save us, I'll bet he's a terror with a blade."

"If he ever enters the king's tourney I'm putting coin on him!"

Roman ignored the comnts—praise, sneers, flirtatious giggles, and challenges alike. He kept his face calm and his hand on his weapon. This was his first real mission for Lady Shella. He wasn't about to embarrass her.

Once the paperwork was done, the column marched toward the Red Keep under the watchful eyes of the city watch.

The walk only confird what Roman already suspected.

King's Landing was a shithole.

The stench hit like a wall. Even after an hour he still couldn't get used to it.

"Enhanced dragon senses might not be the blessing I thought they were," he muttered.

The "surprises" kept coming.

The streets were lined with shops, brothels, pickpockets, and beggars. So many beggars that Roman half-expected the slums to have exploded and spilled their contents into the city.

Old Jesse saw the disgust on his face and laughed.

"This is King's Landing, my lord. A city stuffed with shit and whores. You'd best get used to it. We'll be back often enough."

Roman could only sigh.

Every step killed another romantic notion he'd carried from the books. He just wanted to reach the Red Keep and be done with it.

As they neared the fortress gates he saw King Robert himself standing there with a small welcoming party.

Robert Baratheon, Jon Arryn, Varys, and Littlefinger.

"This? Master Jesse, what's the occasion?"

Old Jesse glanced over. "Robert's here for you, my lord. He's never been this formal before. You're the one who speaks for House Whent now. Best handle it yourself."

Robert spotted Roman instantly.

Not because of the handso face or the striking black hair and blue eyes—though those helped—but because of the way he carried himself.

"Arryn, that big bastard in the middle. That's him, isn't it?"

"Your Grace, I've never seen the boy."

"Oh, co off it. Look at the size of him. Look at his eyes. That's a proper warrior if I ever saw one!"

Jon Arryn sighed. His foster son's old habits were showing again.

Robert only noticed three things in a person: whether they could fight, whether they could drink, or whether they were worth bedding. Everything else was background noise.

He clearly wanted to test Roman, but even the king knew better than to start a brawl in the street. He settled for a crushing handshake instead.

Old Jesse stepped forward and bowed.

"Your Grace, may the Seven bless your reign. These are this year's taxes from Harrenhal."

He paused, then added with deliberate weight, "And this is Roman Whent, heir to Harrenhal."

The na landed like a stone in still water. Robert's eyes narrowed slightly. Jon Arryn's expression tightened.

Robert recovered first and barked a laugh.

"Ha! Lady Shella already told all about you. Welco to King's Landing, boy!"

He seized Roman's right hand in a grip that could have crushed walnuts.

Roman felt the raw power and understood imdiately.

He's testing . For real.

He t the grip with equal force.

Robert's eyebrows rose. He pushed harder.

Roman pushed back.

For a long mont they stood locked, neither yielding. Then Roman smoothly turned the contest into a friendly shake, still smiling.

"It is an honor to et you, Your Grace. I'm very glad to be here."

Robert let go with a grunt that might have been approval.

"Good lad."

Roman greeted the others with perfect courtesy—Jon Arryn, Varys, Littlefinger—bowing just deeply enough to show respect without subservience. He spoke like a well-raised grandson eting his elders, not like a newly minted heir throwing his weight around.

The council mbers exchanged glances. They had prepared for arrogance, ambition, or open hostility. They had not prepared for this.

Later that evening Robert hosted a welco feast.

The small council tried to draw Roman out on Lady Shella's intentions. He deflected every question with the sa polite answer: everything was at Lady Shella's discretion.

When Robert started reminiscing about old battles, Roman leaned in and kept the wine flowing.

"Your Grace, tell about the Trident. I've been training with the warhamr myself. You're the greatest living expert."

Robert's eyes lit up. The careful political mask slipped.

"Ha! You're all right, boy! Co on—drink with and I'll tell you how it really was!"

By the end of the night Robert was thoroughly drunk, as expected. Ser Barristan Selmy and several servants struggled to carry the massive king to his chambers.

Then the burden suddenly lightened.

Barristan looked up and found Roman effortlessly supporting Robert's upper body.

"Gods… the strength of him."

A cold ripple of danger ran down the old knight's spine. This young man was far more than he appeared.

Roman only smiled warmly.

"You must be Ser Barristan. Allow to help."

With Roman's assistance the task beca trivial. The servants didn't even break a sweat.

Later, when they thanked him, Roman answered with the sa gentle smile and casually asked a few questions about the king's daily habits.

The small council watched from the shadows and finally understood why Lady Shella had sent this particular young man.

He wasn't just strong.

He was dangerous in ways they were only beginning to grasp.