Ever since their frank confrontation in the training yard, Roman had spent his remaining days in the capital personally sparring with King Robert.
To the absolute shock of the royal court, Robert had drastically reduced his daily alcohol intake. It was impossible to force the King to give up wine entirely, but at the very least, Robert was no longer drinking himself into an unconscious stupor by midday.
Meanwhile, under the cover of night, Roman secretly dispatched trusted Harrenhal guards to carefully map out the secret passages of the Red Keep. Even mapping a fraction of the castle's hidden architecture would be an invaluable intelligence asset in the future.
In public, Roman treated everyone within the Red Keep with impeccable courtesy, showing deep, unwavering respect to high lords and lowly servants alike.
Consequently, the members of the Small Council rapidly shifted from dismissing him as a naive Riverlands bastard to viewing him as a highly calculating threat.
Roman's political strategy of offering vague pleasantries to everyone without revealing a single concrete ambition proved incredibly frustrating, especially for Littlefinger and Varys.
Both men were masters of intelligence, yet neither could extract a single shred of exploitable value from Roman Rivers.
The utter lack of leverage made Littlefinger and Varys deeply uneasy. A wealthy, militarily capable noble who could not be blackmailed, bought, or monitored was a true nightmare for them, especially since the Whent heir seemed entirely uninterested in playing their games.
Jon Arryn was equally troubled. The Hand had originally planned to convince Robert to apply heavy royal pressure on House Whent, legally binding Harrenhal to the Crown's will.
Instead, Robert had been completely charmed by the boy's flattery and martial prowess. The King and the Riverlands bastard now ate, drank, and sparred together daily, acting like long-lost brothers.
In the Small Council chambers, Jon Arryn tapped his fingers rhythmically against the wooden table.
"This Rivers boy... is deeply troublesome. We have no idea what his true intentions are. If he possesses the ambition of Lord Walter Whent, we are facing a massive problem in the Riverlands."
Varys offered a sickeningly sweet smile, trying to ease the tension. "My lord Hand, surely one boy cannot turn the world upside down. The Mad King was deposed long ago; what true threat does a fractured House Whent pose?"
Varys's plump face remained entirely calm, showing not a single hint of genuine concern.
Jon Arryn had no idea if the cunning eunuch was intentionally playing stupid, and he lacked the patience to decipher the Spider's riddles.
To the high nobility, Aerys Targaryen had been a demonic, perverted tyrant. But the common folk often viewed things differently.
Because the Mad King's cruelty was primarily focused on burning the arrogant high lords, many commoners—crushed by King Robert's endless, extravagant taxation—had quietly begun to miss the days of the Targaryen dynasty.
Though these Targaryen loyalists were few in number, they were incredibly dangerous. And House Whent had a long history of Targaryen sympathies.
"Lord Varys," Jon Arryn commanded sharply. "I do not care what methods you must employ. You must find a way to infiltrate Harrenhal's staff immediately!"
"As you command, my lord Hand."
Down in the training yards, Robert and Roman had just finished a brutal wrestling match.
Robert was panting heavily, sweat pouring down his face as he chugged a wooden flagon Roman handed him. He immediately spat the liquid out in disgust.
"Pah! This is just water! It has absolutely no taste!"
"Your Grace, the body requires water to rebuild muscle," Roman replied calmly.
"I know, I know!" Robert grumbled, wiping his beard. "You are a freak of nature, lad! You actually managed to pin my shoulders to the dirt! But wrestling is not merely about raw strength. Your grappling technique is still sloppy!"
Despite his complaints, Robert was in a fantastic mood. It was incredibly rare for him to find a sparring partner who possessed the physical strength to actually challenge him without holding back out of fear.
"You remind me so much of Ned Stark," Robert chuckled, a hint of deep nostalgia in his voice. "Always so relentlessly stubborn and blunt. You are the only one in this miserable castle who dares to talk back to me!"
Over the past week, Robert had grown incredibly fond of the young man who saw right through his royal facade. In the past, Robert could only drown his miserable depression in Arbor Gold and whores.
Ned was too far away in the North, buried in the harsh duties of ruling Winterfell, so Robert couldn't casually call upon his oldest friend.
Therefore, Roman—who bluntly spoke his mind and showed absolutely no fear of the King's wrath—had become a highly favored surrogate brother.
But before Robert could continue recounting his glory days, a royal attendant nervously rushed forward and whispered something urgently into the King's ear.
Robert's face instantly twisted into a mask of pure, ugly rage.
"Jaime! Jaime! Is that all she ever cares about? Her precious, golden brother? So what if the Kingslayer took a punch to the jaw? His pretty face isn't bruised! Why is she making such an insufferable fuss!"
Robert furiously waved the terrified attendant away and let out a long, exhausted sigh.
"Well, lad, my good mood is completely ruined! I had hoped we could share one last proper hunt before you departed, but the Queen has decided to suffocate the life out of the castle again!"
Reading between the lines, Roman knew exactly what was happening. Cersei Lannister was throwing a political tantrum.
The Queen cared about two things: her children and Jaime. Roman had publicly humiliated and knocked out her beloved twin brother, and there was absolutely no way Cersei was going to let that slight go unpunished.
It is time to leave before the Lannister poison spreads, Roman thought.
Roman quickly bowed and explained that he had pressing administrative duties back at Harrenhal and could not delay his departure any longer. He promised to host a grand, royal hunting banquet for Robert the next time the King visited the Riverlands.
Grumbling about his miserable wife, Robert reluctantly gave Roman leave to depart.
Down at the bustling docks of the Blackwater Rush.
Roman's tense diplomatic mission to King's Landing had finally concluded. Before returning upriver, the Harrenhal quartermasters had heavily loaded their cargo galleys with valuable goods from across the realm.
They purchased fine wines from the Reach, exotic spices from Essos, and, most surprisingly, over a hundred blacksmiths from the slums of King's Landing.
"Master Jessy," Roman asked, looking at the massive crowd of soot-stained men boarding the ships. "I explicitly asked you to recruit a few talented blacksmiths. Where in the seven hells did you find an entire guild's worth?"
Old Jessy sighed, shaking his head at Roman's political naivety.
"My lord, you walked through Flea Bottom yourself. It is not just beggars and whores who starve in this royal cesspool. Honest, hardworking smiths are taxed into absolute poverty here. When I offered them steady meals, a warm forge, and fair Whent coin, they practically trampled each other to sign the contracts."
Roman looked at the massive crowd of muscular tradesmen and nodded, completely satisfied.
"It is a pity we couldn't secure a master armorer who knows how to fold Valyrian steel, but raw labor is exactly what we need right now."
As the fleet finally raised its sails and caught the wind, Roman took a deep breath, savoring the fresh, clean scent of the open river.
"Praise the Seven. I finally don't have to smell the King's shit anymore," Roman muttered. "Master Jessy, a word, if you please."
Old Jessy stepped away from the rigging, looking puzzled. "My lord?"
Roman lowered his voice. "Keep a very close eye on those new blacksmiths during the voyage. During my time in the Red Keep, I noticed Varys and Littlefinger planting spies in the shadows. We must thoroughly screen every single man before they are allowed near the inner forges of Harrenhal."
Old Jessy's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Those treacherous cowards! Do not worry, my lord. I will have my most experienced sergeants interrogate and vet every single one of them!"
Roman nodded. He knew how to delegate; intelligence screening was best left to hardened military veterans.
When Roman finally returned to the towering gates of Harrenhal, he found Lady Shella in the courtyard, happily chatting with the senior servants. The moment Roman approached, the servants quickly bowed and dispersed, leaving the two of them alone.
"My child!" Lady Shella smiled warmly, reaching out to cup his face. "You have lost weight! Did they starve you in the capital?"
"My Lady, I assure you, a man cannot lose weight in a mere fortnight," Roman laughed. "We successfully delivered the royal taxes to King Robert. However, I must ask... was it truly wise to bypass House Tully and pay the Iron Throne directly?"
Lady Shella sighed, her smile fading slightly. "What we pay the Crown is not a true tax, Roman. It is extortion. It is protection money. And rest assured, Lord Hoster Tully will still demand his full tithe from our harvests."
Roman mentally reviewed Harrenhal's ledger books. Given the immense cost of maintaining the gargantuan fortress and the lack of high-yield industries, Harrenhal was currently operating at a severe financial loss.
There was no way around it. They desperately needed skilled laborers to repair the crumbling infrastructure, otherwise the castle's value and defensive capabilities would continue to rot away.
"My Lady, I have drafted a comprehensive plan for Harrenhal's future," Roman said, pulling a thick roll of parchment from his satchel. "Please, review it."
The proposal was meticulously detailed. It outlined a step-by-step strategy: beginning with aggressive agricultural and industrial development (utilizing the new blacksmiths), followed by massive infrastructure repairs to attract a larger smallfolk population, and culminating in a severe expansion of their military forces.
Lady Shella was not a seasoned economic scholar, but Roman had written the proposal so clearly that even a layman could understand the logistical flow.
After reading the final page, Lady Shella looked up, her eyes filled with absolute trust.
"Implement it. You have my full authority and the entire treasury behind you."
She reached out and gently stroked Roman's calloused hand. "My child, when my husband's spirit spoke in the crypts, I had already made my decision. I was going to name you my heir regardless of what Lord Walter decreed."
"You are warm-hearted, fiercely intelligent, and you protect those weaker than you. Aside from a few old guards, the servants are all the family I have left in this world. My only request is that you govern them with kindness."
Looking into Lady Shella's sincere, maternal eyes, Roman felt a profound sense of loyalty swell in his chest. Regardless of whatever initial political calculations they both might have had, their bond was now genuine.
Seeing how tenderly Lady Shella treated the common folk, Roman knew he had chosen the right person to protect.
"I swear it on my life, Mother," Roman said softly. "I will not fail you."