295 AC
More than a year had passed since Roman first set foot in Harrenhal.
The cursed castle had changed beyond recognition. Now it pulled people from every corner of the Riverlands and beyond like a magnet. Grain yields led the entire realm. Safety was absolute. Living standards crushed anything the other nobles offered.
Roman no longer needed to scrape workers out of King's Landing. Desperate smallfolk arrived on their own, fleeing brutal taxes and empty bellies.
The other lords hated it. People ant power, and Harrenhal was bleeding their lands dry. Only the Mootons and Darrys stayed quiet because of their trade deals. Everyone else was seething.
A few Reach lords even dragged their complaints all the way to the Iron Throne, demanding Roman send their people back.
He didn't give a shit. Your smallfolk ran because you squeezed them dry. Find them yourself and I'll happily return every last one.
Mass flight from any region ant the local lord had already lost control.
To keep trouble off his back, Roman pushed the army harder than ever.
Light cavalry had swelled to seven hundred n. Veterans trained the new recruits in tight formations and brutal close-quarters work.
He planned for three hundred heavy cavalry, armored head to toe like walking iron towers. Each rider carried a mace, a curved sword, and a five-ter lance with a forty-centiter armor-piercing head.
Maester Tom's quick-dry lacquer had cut production ti and cost on the lances. The n trained without fear now. Plenty of forr smallfolk had fallen hard for the life.
Serving House Whent as a professional soldier had beco an honor across the eastern Riverlands. The pay and benefits lifted whole families out of poverty.
Roman didn't just hand out silver. He led the troops on disaster relief and bandit sweeps. He drilled them in discipline and taught them why they fought.
The smallfolk loved them for it. Soldiers who had spent their lives being treated like dirt finally felt respected.
Loyalty ran bone-deep. So families who received land even marched their sons to the gates and swore they'd break their legs if they deserted.
Everything was ready. Ti to head north.
Lady Shella had started pushing. "We haven't sent supplies to the Night's Watch in over a year. The Starks can't hold the Wall forever on their own."
Roman agreed. He needed to see the Wall with his own eyes and deliver real aid to the n standing between the realm and the Others. He also wanted to build ties with the Starks. Their honor and their place as the North's unshakable pillar would matter when the real storm hit.
"Child, stop at Winterfell on the way. House Whent hasn't visited in years. As heir to Harrenhal you should speak with the Warden of the North yourself."
Roman nodded. He turned to Old Jesse. "Instructor, I'm taking the main force north. Defense and counter-espionage here are on you."
Old Jesse grinned wide. "Relax. I've been running this castle for decades. The people back us now. One word and we'll flush every little bird Varys has planted."
"Not just Varys," Roman said, clapping his shoulder. "Everyone has eyes in these lands. Stay sharp."
With that settled, Roman marched for the North.
Thanks to the work at Maidenpool, he could move n and supplies straight down the new highway to the harbor.
William Mooton had been waiting at the docks for days.
"Seven bless you, Lord Roman. You're still the handsost bastard in the Riverlands."
Roman cut through the flattery. "Lord William, are the ships ready?"
"Of course! Of course! We refitted the whole fleet and bought extras from across the Narrow Sea. These big bastards will carry you and every crate safe to White Harbor. We've just been waiting on you."
William didn't waste ti. Workers started loading imdiately.
House Whent had turned Maidenpool into a goldmine. Porcelain, glass, and iron pots sold for fortunes. The Mootons just kept the port running and collected the coin. The new roads and docks had even knocked Gulltown down a peg.
William had no grand dreams. This life suited him fine. These days he followed Roman without question.
Once everything was aboard, the fleet sailed for White Harbor. The ships stretched across the water like a ribbon of silk, drawing stares from every dock and cliff.
The weather stayed perfect. No storms as they rounded the Bay of Crabs and into the Bite.
When they reached White Harbor, Wyman Manderly stood on the docks with his entire family.
"Lord Roman, thank you for helping the North."
Wyman was loud, warm, and so fat he couldn't ride a horse anymore. People called him the Fat Eel Lord behind his back.
The Manderlys had once been great lords in the Reach. Their power got them driven out. The Starks took them in and gave them White Harbor. They repaid the kindness with fierce loyalty.
Roman shook his hand and tried to hug him, but Wyman's bulk made it impossible.
Wyman roared with laughter. "Look at ! Too many eels lately. Don't hold it against this old man, Lord Roman."
"Never, Lord Wyman. We'll need your barges to reach Winterfell."
Wyman's two sons were just as massive. Roman settled for handshakes.
Then he had servants bring out several large crates.
Inside were full sets of fine porcelain tableware, each piece painted with flowing designs and the Manderly sigil. One crate held a special porcelain jar with the family crest.
He also gave Wyman's two granddaughters square silvered mirrors.
The Manderlys stared in shock. Mirrors and glass they could buy at great cost. But porcelain this fine, custom-made with their own sigil? That was sothing else.
The little girls squealed and turned the mirrors over in their hands. Wyman's sons ran their fingers across the dishes like they were holy relics.
"I hope painting your family sigil wasn't too forward," Roman said.
"Not at all! Not at all! You've given us a magnificent gift. Co drink with us! I've got casks of Arbor gold waiting."
Roman waved it off. "Lord Stark is waiting. The Night's Watch needs these supplies. Another ti."
"This shipnt is all for the Wall. Next visit I'll bring proper gifts and we'll drink until we can't stand."
Wyman, impressed by the support for the Watch, called up his own fleet to help ferry everything up the White Knife.
"Lord Wyman," Roman said before boarding, "take care of yourself. You're breathing hard. I don't want to find you bedridden next ti I co."
"Of course!" Wyman stood on the riverbank and waved, laughing loud enough to carry across the water.
"White Harbor's waters will always have your back!"
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