The Whent family reunited inside the pale flas—husband and wife, parents and children, separated by death for over a decade, now together again.
Lady Shella couldn't hold back. She stepped forward, arms open, desperate to hold the family she had lost.
Roman moved fast and caught her.
"My lady! The fire is safe under my control, but if you touch Lord Walter directly I can't guarantee anything."
He turned and bowed to each of them in turn.
"My lord."
Lord Walter Whent returned the bow with grave dignity.
"We will not forget what you have done for House Whent. You have our deepest thanks."
Roman stepped aside with a small smile.
"My lord, you have perhaps twenty minutes before the flas fade. Speak quickly. This is your last chance."
The family looked at one another. For a mont no one knew what to say. Then Lady Shella's daughter broke the silence, her voice thick with tears as she spoke of how much her mother had aged.
That opened the floodgates. They talked about the last ten years—small things, ordinary things, the quiet details of a life lived in loneliness. No grand politics. No sches. Just family.
Roman fetched a stone chair for Lady Shella and shaped six more seats of white fire for the others so they could sit comfortably.
Lady Shella relaxed. The stiffness left her shoulders. She began recounting everything that had happened since they died—funny stories, petty complaints, the little dramas of Harrenhal. The crushing loneliness that had defined her for so long was simply gone.
The family laughed and talked like no ti had passed. Even the white flas seed to dance brighter with their joy.
But twenty minutes is twenty minutes.
The flas began to flicker. The ghosts grew translucent.
Lady Shella's composure shattered. Tears stread down her face.
Her children's faces twisted with the sa grief.
Lord Walter finally spoke, voice firm.
"We have been given this gift by the Seven. Since we must leave again, let us not make it ugly with weeping."
He looked at his wife.
"Hela, you will be alone once more. I am sorry…"
Then he turned to Roman and bowed.
"Child, as Lord of Harrenhal I speak with one voice. I have heard you have no family of your own?"
Roman nodded. "That's true, my lord. I've been alone since birth."
"Good." Walter's face lit with genuine pleasure. "Then hear . I, Walter Whent, Lord of Harrenhal, declare that Roman Whent is now and forever a true son of House Whent!"
His children applauded, their flaming hands clapping and reforming with soft whooshes.
Walter and his sons and daughter took Roman's hands and told him everything they could—Lady Shella's favorite foods, her habits, the little things that made her happy.
They begged him to take care of her.
Finally Walter asked one last favor.
"Roman… can you control the flas so I may embrace my wife one final ti?"
Roman broke into a cold sweat, but he nodded.
"I'll do my best. Be careful."
The pale fire dimd under his will. Walter reached out with trembling hands.
There was no burn—only a warm current that flowed along Lady Shella's arms.
She threw herself into his embrace without hesitation, sobbing against his chest.
One by one the ghosts faded, leaving only faint embers on the stone floor.
Lady Shella stood motionless, staring at the empty space where her family had stood.
"My lady?"
Roman stepped forward, worried. What he saw stopped him.
Her eyes were no longer empty and distant. They shone with fierce purpose. For the first ti since he had known her, Lady Shella Whent looked alive.
"Roman, my child. Let's go ho. Harrenhal still has work for us to do."
She took his hand with surprising strength, her voice bright with new energy.
The news that Roman had been adopted into House Whent spread like wildfire across Westeros.
Harrenhal was the greatest castle in the Seven Kingdoms, and the only surviving mber of the direct line had been Lady Shella. Ambitious lords had already begun circling, planning how to carve up the lands around it.
Roman's sudden appearance shattered every sche.
Overnight he beca the most talked-about man in the realm.
"My lady, is it wise to announce this so loudly? Shouldn't we have kept it quiet a little longer?"
Roman was uneasy. By law he was now the undisputed heir to Harrenhal. One day he had gone from fetching water to standing one step from the lordship. The pressure was enormous.
He knew exactly how the great houses of Westeros played the ga—and Harrenhal was far from strong right now.
"No, child. The sooner your na is known, the better. It will deter the vultures. Robert may not like House Whent, but he values stability. He will not reject this."
"Besides, he has no right to reject it."
Lady Shella looked ten years younger. The weariness that had clung to her for so long was gone.
Still, Roman knew the truth. Law ant little in this world. Strength ruled.
Who knew what madness might co from the Iron Throne? Jon Arryn was still alive—the old fox with the sharpest political nose in the realm.
Robert might be harmless. Arryn was not. And even Cersei, for all her stupidity, was dangerous in her own way.
"Child, the taxes are due soon. You will accompany the guards to King's Landing and present them to Robert yourself. It will also let us test the waters."
Roman sighed. He had known he couldn't avoid this.
"When in Ro… King's Landing it is."
He bowed to Lady Shella and went to prepare. One step at a ti.
When he reached the main square, Old Jesse and the guards were waiting.
They stared at him with strange, almost comical expressions. The boy who had eaten and joked with them only weeks ago was now a mber of House Whent—their lord.
Old Jesse's wrinkled face twitched through a dozen expressions as he wrestled with the change. Finally he mastered himself, bowed low, and spoke with perfect formality.
"My lord."
The rest of the guards followed in unison.
"My lord!"
Roman looked at them and felt the corner of his mouth twitch.
"We're just delivering taxes. Why are you all acting like I'm being crowned?"
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