To guard against any unpleasant surprises, Lady Shella sent Old Jesse with fifteen hundred n to escort the tax shipnt.
On paper it was to protect the Iron Throne's gold and grain from bandits. Everyone in Harrenhal knew the real reason was to keep Roman safe.
Fifteen hundred ard n marching into King's Landing changed the equation completely.
Ned Stark had learned the hard way what happened when you arrived without enough steel at your back.
"Gods, I hope this trip doesn't turn into a disaster."
Old Jesse snorted. "The Iron Throne still needs grain from the Riverlands and the Reach. Robert's not stupid enough to cause trouble unless he's lost what little sense he has left."
The guards laughed and kept their spirits high.
Roman and the n boarded the massive river barge. Harrenhal's wealth showed in everything it built—the ship was enormous, limited only by the width of the Blackwater Rush downstream. Roman had no doubt the shipwrights could have made it bigger if the river allowed.
Even this giant looked small once they reached God's Eye.
The lake stretched to the horizon like an inland sea. Gentle wind rippled the surface into glittering waves. Beneath the clear water, fish sward in dense silver clouds.
No wonder the people of Harrenhal looked so healthy. Full bellies made all the difference.
——
King's Landing. The Red Keep.
The small council chamber was tense.
King Robert Baratheon, Hand of the King Jon Arryn, Master of Whisperers Varys, and Master of Coin Petyr Baelish sat in uncomfortable silence.
House Whent of Harrenhal had always been a thorn the Iron Throne couldn't pull.
The castle sat squarely between King's Landing and the Trident, controlling both God's Eye and the golden waterway that fed the capital. When Aegon the Conqueror had co for Harren the Black, the riverlords had ambushed his army from the water and cost him thousands of n before Balerion finally burned their fleet.
By law, Harrenhal should have returned to the crown when Lady Shella died. Instead so nobody nad Roman had appeared out of nowhere.
Robert stared at the letter from Lady Shella, exhaled wine-scented breath, and looked around the table.
"Any of you know who this Roman is? Varys?"
The plump, bald eunuch spread his soft hands.
"Your Grace, my little birds in Harrenhal were eaten by ghosts. All I know is that Lady Shella found the boy in the wilderness."
"Ghosts? Found him?" Jon Arryn's voice was dry. "And now she's giving a great house's na to so stray? Varys, you're either lying or losing your touch."
Littlefinger stepped in smoothly before the argunt could escalate.
"My lords, we have very little information. Why not wait until the tax convoy arrives? Roman Whent will be with it. We can judge the man for ourselves."
Robert rubbed his temples. His head was already pounding from last night's wine.
"Fine. We'll deal with this Roman when he gets here. For now, the next tourney—"
"Your Grace, we already owe the Lannisters too much gold! We cannot borrow more!"
And just like that the council dissolved into the usual bickering.
Jon Arryn pressed his fingers to his brow and wondered, not for the first ti, how he had ended up raising such a king.
——
Out on the barge, Roman spent the journey training.
After weeks of study with Maester Tom and careful experintation, he was certain his white fire was pure magic.
"Strange. The red cot hasn't even arrived yet. How am I already using magic?"
In the original story the cot had been needed to hatch Daenerys's dragon eggs. Until then they had remained stone.
Roman could feel the magic flowing through him. When he pushed it toward his eyes he could see faint sparks of life in every living thing.
Old Jesse's spark was small and dim but still stubbornly bright. The younger soldiers burned stronger, their flas taller and more vigorous.
"So that's life force…"
Old n faded. The young burned bright. It might be useful for spotting hidden enemies later.
He also tried coating his weapons with white fire. Every attempt failed.
The magic simply wasn't strong enough yet, especially on non-flammable surfaces.
"Still a long way from a real dragon, apparently."
After half a day of frustration he gave up and switched to physical training.
Since absorbing Balerion's fire his strength had grown again. Even the heavy warhamr now felt light in his hands.
The other soldiers had stopped wanting to spar with him. One swing from that hamr sent weapons flying and could crack armor even through padding.
Roman trained alone.
Old Jesse had watched him carefully and adjusted the regin.
"My lord, your greatest advantage is raw power. The old heavy-weapon drills are wasted on you now. I suggest you focus on staff work."
Since Roman swung the warhamr the sa way he would swing a staff anyway, Old Jesse drilled him in precise staff strikes and sweeps.
Within days Roman had found his rhythm.
Every dawn and dusk the soldiers watched him blur the warhamr through the air until it left afterimages. They had quietly agreed among themselves: never fight this man one-on-one. Never fight him at all if you could help it.
After the barge left God's Eye and entered the Blackwater, Roman finally saw King's Landing.
His first thought wasn't about its size.
It was about the sll.
"Does this city not have sewers? What the hell is that stench?"
He had read about it in the books, but living it was another matter. Even after weeks on the clean waters of God's Eye, the reek hit him like a physical blow.
Old Jesse and the guards covered their noses.
"Robert's got money for tourneys but none for a proper sewer system?"
"Once the bold warrior of the Trident… now look at him."
Old Jesse sounded genuinely mournful. As a knight he still rembered the man Robert had been.
Roman knew better.
So n were born for war. Put a crown on them and all you got was rusting iron.
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