Riverrun.
Lord Hoster Tully sat with his brother Brynden Tully—the Blackfish—and his heir, Edmure Tully. Edmure had just rolled out of so woman's bed, his face still flushed and guilty.
Brynden and Hoster stared at the fresh letter with grim faces. New intelligence on Harrenhal had just arrived. In 294 AC, Hoster still carried his bulk well and looked sharp.
He slid the letter across the table. "Read it. Lady Shella Whent sohow pulled this Roman out of nowhere. Now the boy's a Whent and the next lord of Harrenhal."
Edmure couldn't care less about politics, but Roman's actions jumped out at him.
"Recruiting farrs, handing out iron plows, building roads and bridges, fixing villages. Sounds like a rciful lord to ."
Hoster's face darkened at his son's praise.
Brynden jumped in before his brother exploded. "Edmure, there's more. This Roman took a grain shipnt straight to the Iron Throne and never bothered reporting to us."
Hoster added, "He's also got bards singing Harrenhal's praises across the whole Riverlands. Knights and vassals are complaining to daily."
Everything else was tolerable, but the bards reminded Edmure of that mocking song about him. His flush turned to pure irritation.
Hoster sighed at his useless son.
"Enough. Send invitations to Lady Shella Whent and this Roman Whent. So matters need discussing in person."
Brynden nodded and started drafting the letter while Edmure looked lost.
"Father, is this really necessary? Even with a new heir, Harrenhal is still Harrenhal. What could possibly change?"
Hoster gave a cold laugh. Walter Whent had pulled off that "false spring" stunt and kicked off the war that put Robert on the throne. This Roman Whent was doing even more—and doing it himself. Back then Rhaegar Targaryen had been the fool. Now House Whent was taking direct action. The situation could get far worse.
Hoster needed to know exactly what Roman intended. Harrenhal had the power to shake the Riverlands. He couldn't afford to ignore it.
Roman knew nothing of these headaches. He was busy waiting for his new weapon.
Following Old Jesse's advice, Roman leaned into his raw strength. He asked Blackfinger Ben to forge a custom long-handled warhamr.
Most warhamrs had heads the size of a goose egg. Roman's was the size of a grown man's head. Ben reinforced the haft so it could take the weight. Normal n couldn't even lift it, let alone swing it.
For Roman it felt perfect—solid in his hands without throwing him off balance.
The head was built with raised tal plates to shave weight while concentrating every ounce of force.
Roman hefted the hamr, swung it until the new weight felt natural, then headed to the training yard. In front of the watching soldiers he brought the hamr down on an old plate-armor dummy.
The crowd gasped as the armor and the wooden fra inside exploded in a single blow. Thinner sections of the handmade plate shattered outright. Thicker parts took massive dents.
Old Jesse reacted first. He clapped hard and roared his approval.
The rest of the yard joined in, cheering and stomping.
"Master Jesse, first ti I've heard you so eloquent," Roman teased the old man.
"My lord, never underestimate quiet folk. Sotis the least likely ones still have a trick or two."
Roman nodded. "Fair point."
Afterward he checked on the armor smiths. These were the n who'd passed Old Jesse's screening. For now, food and iron production still ca first.
At the Harrenhal forge, Blackfinger Ben was hamring out Roman's personal armor. Ben was an old castle hand. He'd served the last Lord Lothston, then Lady Shella, and her father and grandfather before that.
Westerosi armor ca in every style imaginable. Roman had chosen brigandine for his standing army. The overlapping plates were far easier to standardize and mass-produce than full plate. Good plate looked impressive, but the cost-to-benefit ratio was terrible.
"My lord, my apprentices and I have worked day and night, but we've only finished twenty sets of the armor you asked for. True mass production will need a lot more hands."
Roman told him not to worry. He hadn't expected everything at once. Twenty sets was already a good start.
Right then the letter from House Tully arrived at Harrenhal.
Lady Shella frowned. "They're writing us now? Is this about the grain shipnt and everything else?"
But the lord had spoken. They had to go.
Lady Shella took Roman, nineteen hand-picked loyal guards, servants, and several wagons of grain toward Riverrun. Roman and the guards wore the new brigandine. Lady Shella told him to keep his mouth shut during the eting. She would handle everything.
They wound through the Riverlands for half a month. Roman's first thought was chaos. Waterways everywhere, petty lords on every scrap of ground. The Riverlands were already fragnted. This made it worse.
Those small lords loved charging tolls. No wonder the smallfolk hated traveling far.
"Fragnt it this badly and slap on protectionism? No surprise there aren't any real towns," Roman muttered.
Checkpoint after checkpoint. Roman was about to lose his temper when Riverrun finally appeared.
The castle wasn't huge, but it sat at the fork of the Red Fork and the Tumblestone in a perfect triangle, water on two sides and a massive ditch on the landward face that could be flooded into a moat. Defenses were excellent.
Lady Shella and Roman admired the castle and the green countryside before the Tullys welcod them inside.
The mont Roman stepped into the great hall he spotted three n on the high seats—Hoster, Brynden, and Edmure, he guessed.
Hoster's heavy fra jiggled slightly as they entered. He glanced at Lady Shella, then gave Roman a sidelong look.
"Lady Whent, are you not going to tell where this boy ca from?"
Roman sighed inwardly. Hoster wasn't Robert. A few smooth words wouldn't brush this off. This was going to take real work.
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