Westeros crops grew fast—maybe it was the magic in the air, or just the long sumr working overti. Either way, Roman had to shift gears fast.
He'd planned more irrigation canals, but the wheat was ready to cut. No ti to waste.
Farrs moved through golden fields swinging big scythes, faces shining with pure joy. The harvest had co in strong.
Roman had already upgraded everything he could. New irrigation, better roads between villages, widespread composting, and smart manure use.
The fertilizer ca from two main sources.
First, the simple three-chamber septic tanks every household built. They kept the villages clean and gave a steady trickle of rich sludge.
Second, the big new livestock operations Roman had paid top coin to set up. He'd brought in the best herders from the area and told them to design intensive pastures with proper disease control.
Now the farrs and the herders worked together like clockwork.
During fallow seasons the farrs planted alfalfa and grass while supplying straw. The animals got hay and fresh pasture both. In return, the barns produced mountains of manure that went straight back to the fields as compost.
The difference showed. These were the best-looking wheat fields anyone in the Riverlands had ever seen.
Roman watched the workers and still felt the old frustration. Harvesting by hand was slow and back-breaking.
He'd thought about animal-powered reapers, but the blacksmiths had just thrown up their hands. Even if they worked themselves to death, they couldn't build anything that precise yet.
Roman sighed. He was rushing again. tallurgy and machine tools were still too primitive for anything fancy.
Still, he had plenty of other tricks up his sleeve to make life better for his people.
"Maester Tom, how's that insect repellent coming along?"
"Finished the formula, my lord. We're just waiting for the special herbs in the fields to mature, then we can brew it by the barrel."
Tom pulled a small glass vial of purple liquid from his robe like he was showing off a newborn.
Roman held it up to the light. Sunlight turned the potion into swirling violet streams.
Westeros grew every kind of plant imaginable, including plenty of nasty poisons. Roman had asked Tom to turn the worst ones into sothing useful.
"How long does the residue last? I don't want bugs and people dropping dead together."
"Relax, my lord. The active stuff breaks down in less than a week. Low toxicity to humans, and the raw plants grow like weeds. Supply won't be a problem."
Roman finally let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
Now ca the real test. All the upgrades would be judged by one number—the final wheat yield.
After weeks of anxious waiting, the last fields were cut and weighed. The mont the numbers ca back, the entire harvest crew exploded.
"Seven hells! Wheat can grow this much?"
"Lord Roman's a miracle worker!"
Maester Tom ca running, parchnt flapping in his hand. "My lord! Confird! Average yield is four hundred pounds per acre!"
Four hundred. Roman had figured two hundred would be a gift from the gods. This was double his best guess.
He looked at the cheering crowd and felt the sa electric thrill they did. With real food in the granaries, everything else beca possible. He could finally move on the next phase without worrying about starving his own people.
Word spread like wildfire. High yields, low taxes, free roads and clean water—Harrenhal was suddenly the place every desperate farr wanted to be.
The very next morning Fili shook Roman awake.
"My lord, there's a crowd of farrs downstairs asking to see you. They look half-starved."
Roman rubbed his eyes and went down to the great hall.
A ragged group stood clustered together, whispering nervously. The second they spotted him they dropped to their knees.
"Lord Roman! Please take us in! We'll work hard, we swear!"
Roman blinked, confused, until they explained.
They were smallfolk from other Riverlands lords. Taxes had gotten so brutal they'd finally run. More were fleeing every day.
Roman's arrival had changed everything. Other lords still bled their people dry. Harrenhal offered lower base taxes, fewer surprise fees, free infrastructure, and now the best wheat yields anyone had heard of.
Why stay and starve when a better life was just a few days' walk away?
The farrs kept begging. "We'll pay sixty percent if you'll just let us stay! Please!"
Fili's eyes went wide. "Sixty percent? What were you eating before? How did you even survive?"
That question opened the floodgates. The farrs poured out years of misery—lords who took everything, beatings for missing quotas, children going hungry. So of them cried openly.
Roman never hesitated. More people ant more hands, more taxes, more power. He called for his clerks on the spot and told them to assign land and work.
The farrs left thanking every god they knew.
Roman poured himself fresh tea to shake off the sleepiness. Fili stood beside him, staring with open admiration.
She finally understood why everyone loved him so much. The people of Harrenhal didn't just respect Roman—they believed in him. She'd thought all lords were like this until she saw the difference with her own eyes.
She thought about her own life here. Warm bed. Full belly. Safe roof. A kind lord who actually cared if she was tired.
No more fighting beggars for a crust of bread. No more gangs shaking her down for a few coppers.
Lady Shella had told her once: "Child, eting Lord Roman is a blessing from the Seven. Most people never get that lucky. Hold on tight."
"Fili? You sowhere else?"
Roman's voice pulled her back.
"Ah—nothing, my lord. I was just rembering what Lady Shella said. She told to serve you well."
Fili looked at his sharp, handso face and felt her cheeks warm. He'd taken care of her every single day since she arrived.
Roman didn't notice. His mind was already moving ahead.
"Fili, go find the blacksmiths. Tell them I'll be down there soon. We've got work to do."
Now that they had grain and people, it was ti to build real strength.
The rats infesting the Riverlands had been left alone long enough.
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