After several grueling, chaotic months of construction and logistics, Harrenhal's vast industrial production lines finally stabilized, granting Roman a desperately needed, albeit brief, moment of genuine leisure.
Taking advantage of the crisp autumn weather, Roman escorted Lady Shella on a leisurely stroll down the newly paved main avenue of Harrentown, accompanied by a small detachment of his elite Whent Vanguard.
Every single commoner they passed on the street immediately stopped and offered the Whents warm, profoundly respectful greetings. Seeing the genuine, unforced smiles on the faces of the smallfolk, Lady Shella was deeply infected by their joy. Filled with sudden, youthful energy, she excitedly pulled Roman by the arm up to a high, grassy ridge overlooking the southern farmlands.
Standing on the high ground, Lady Shella looked out over the sprawling Whent domain with a fierce, maternal pride.
Only a few months ago, this vast tract of land had been nothing but wild, untamed wilderness. But after Roman had settled the six thousand refugees from King's Landing, the landscape had undergone a miraculous transformation.
First, Roman's engineers had meticulously surveyed and plotted out the exact locations for the new farming villages and the protective, earth-and-stone star forts. Next, the smallfolk had aggressively dug out a vast network of irrigation canals linking the fields to the Gods Eye.
House Whent had provided the raw farmland, the draft animals, and the heavy steel agricultural tools. Together, the Whent lord and his people had rapidly cultivated an agricultural empire.
The newly erected star forts were designed specifically for the logistical benefit and protection of the localized farmers. During peacetime, the robust, compacted-earth structures served as vital administrative and economic hubs where Whent officials managed the grain yields and organized trade. But in times of war, the forts possessed enough reinforced inner space to safely harbor all the surrounding villagers behind their high, sloped walls.
To ruthlessly prevent the dispatched village officials from abusing their power or extorting the smallfolk, Roman had established a rotating Whent inspection team to conduct surprise audits across the territory.
Furthermore, Roman had explicitly granted the peasantry the legal right to travel directly to Harrenhal to file formal grievances against corrupt officials. But this highly progressive policy had inadvertently created a massive logistical nightmare.
Historically, the Riverlands lacked paved roads. The agonizing journey through the mud meant that only the peasants living immediately outside Harrenhal's walls could realistically seek justice from the Whent lords.
But now that Roman had constructed pristine, weatherproof "highways" across the territory, any commoner within the Whent borders could saddle a cheap pony and reach Harrenhal's gates in under five days to demand a direct audience with their lord.
Consequently, Roman and Maester Tom were now completely exhausted, forced to sit in the Great Hall holding court for hours every single day, adjudicating an endless avalanche of minor civil disputes.
"Maester Tom," Roman groaned later that evening, rubbing his temples in the solar. "Why can we not simply appoint a dozen traveling circuit judges to adjudicate these petty land disputes out in the towns? Holding open court in Harrenhal every single day is completely unsustainable!"
"My lord, only fully trained maesters truly understand the complex nuances of Westerosi feudal law," Tom sighed, adjusting his heavy chain. "Where am I supposed to find a dozen idle maesters to serve as your rural magistrates?"
Roman slumped back in his chair, completely at a loss. The miserable continent of Westeros possessed an absolute abundance of suffering and backwardness, but it severely lacked an educated middle class.
He couldn't simply abandon his administrative duties to go play the bloody, glamorous Game of Thrones. To Roman, a kingdom's true foundation was its subjects. Even with the devastating power of draconic magic, a lord was nothing without his people. If he alienated the smallfolk, who exactly was going to mine his coal, forge his steel, and plow his fields?
"Maester Tom," Roman said suddenly, sitting up straight. "I am going to build a formal Whent Academy. A massive school designed specifically to educate the local children and cultivate our own class of loyal intellectuals. Can you find me the proper candidates to staff it?"
Upon hearing this radical proposal, Maester Tom's face shifted rapidly between intense excitement and sheer terror.
Tom was officially a sworn brother of the Citadel of Oldtown. Upon forging their chains, maesters swore a sacred vow to serve their assigned lords faithfully, but they were strictly forbidden from engaging in independent political ambition or establishing rival academic institutions.
In reality, however, the Citadel maintained a terrifyingly tight monopoly on knowledge across Westeros. To build an independent academy without their explicit blessing was a direct, highly dangerous challenge to the Citadel's ancient authority.
Roman's order was essentially encouraging Maester Tom to become an academic rebel. Tom was terrified of the Archmaesters' wrath.
Yet... Tom thought, looking at the young giant sitting across the desk. Roman's political and magical talents are undeniably god-like. He is actively forging an empire that will shatter the known world.
Should I do it? Tom agonizingly wrestled with his scholarly conscience. Assisting Lord Roman is technically my sworn duty as the Whent maester. If this academy succeeds, my name will be etched into the annals of history. But if it fails, the Citadel will strip my chain and cast me out.
Suddenly, the desperate, lifelong desire for historical recognition completely overwhelmed the old man's fear.
Tom had never been a brilliant student at the Citadel; if he were a genius, he wouldn't have been exiled to the cursed, ruined halls of Harrenhal. But now, the wise, legendary ruler he had always dreamed of serving was sitting right in front of him. If Tom hitched his wagon to Roman's soaring dragon, he could finally leave a massive, indelible mark on history!
"Yes!" Maester Tom shouted, suddenly reaching across the desk and gripping Roman's hand tightly. "My lord, I will do my absolute utmost to find the teaching talent you require! I only ask that you do not forget my loyalty when you reach the pinnacle!"
Roman was slightly confused by the maester's dramatic, borderline treasonous outburst, but since he had secured Tom's cooperation, he didn't care.
"Of course, Maester Tom. Your loyalty will be handsomely rewarded, I assure you."
The two men immediately began drafting a strategy to poach disgruntled intellectuals. Officially recruiting fully chained maesters was entirely out of the question; Roman simply wanted to popularize basic literacy and administration, so he wasn't looking to openly declare war on the Citadel just yet.
Therefore, Roman instructed Tom to specifically target the "acolyte dropouts" of Oldtown.
At the Citadel, only acolytes who officially proved their mastery of a specific subject were awarded a metal link (e.g., iron for warcraft, silver for medicine). Only when an acolyte had earned enough distinct links to forge a complete, wearable collar could they officially claim the title of "Maester."
Maesters were expected to be universal polymaths, representing the absolute pinnacle of Westerosi knowledge. If an acolyte failed to forge a full chain, they were largely dismissed as uneducated failures and quietly sent home.
Roman specifically wanted Tom to recruit the young men from middle-class merchant families who had possessed enough money to attend the Citadel, but lacked the raw genius or political connections to forge a full chain.
These young men were stuck in academic purgatory—too educated to be common laborers, but legally barred from serving as maesters. Harrenhal's massive Whent treasury could easily buy their loyalty. Roman didn't need them to understand complex raven-lore or advanced medicine; he simply needed them to teach the Whent smallfolk basic reading, writing, and accounting.
Furthermore, this strategy provided Roman with perfect political cover. If he publicly claimed he was simply paying dropouts to teach peasant children how to read, the other Great Lords wouldn't feel threatened. They would just laugh and curse Roman as an eccentric fool with too much silver.
Just as Roman and Tom were finalizing the recruitment bounties, a massive black raven flew through the open window, landed squarely on the desk, and spoke in fluent, perfectly enunciated human language.
"Gah! Roman. Fili requires your immediate presence in the lower storehouse. She has an urgent matter to discuss."
Roman and Maester Tom instantly froze, staring at the raven in absolute, jaw-dropping disbelief.
The raven, assuming the two humans were deaf, impatiently clicked its beak. "Well? Why are you not moving? Did you not hear me?"
"By the Seven! What foul demon are you?! Why can you speak?!"
Maester Tom let out a high-pitched, terrified scream. In a blind panic, he instantly dropped to his knees and began frantically praying to the Six Gods (intentionally skipping the Stranger, naturally assuming the bird was an agent of Death).
"Calm yourself, Maester Tom," Roman commanded quickly, his mind racing. "Have you forgotten that my Pale Flame completely eradicated the ghosts of Harrenhal? No standard demon could survive here. What threat is a simple bird?"
Roman's tactical mind instantly connected the dots. Fili was a supernaturally gifted anomaly. This bizarre, talking raven was almost certainly her doing.
With a deeply shaken Maester Tom trailing nervously behind him, Roman followed the raven down the winding, torchlit corridors toward the lower storehouses.
The moment Roman opened the heavy oak door, a small blonde blur rushed out and slammed violently into his chest armor.
"Ugh! Lord Roman, please help me! I have made an absolute mess of the storehouse!"
Roman looked past the clinging girl and into the massive stone room. Sacks of grain and crates of iron tools were scattered chaotically across the floor, completely overrun by a massive flock of dozens of black ravens. Some were cawing normally, while others were loudly, fluently cursing at their companions in the Common Tongue of Westeros.
Behind him, Maester Tom took one look at the demonic scene, dropped to his knees, and resumed his frantic prayers. Roman simply released a heavy, exhausted sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"SILENCE! All of you!"
Roman laced a fraction of his terrifying, draconic resonance into his shout. The massive boom echoed through the stone chamber, instantly silencing the entire flock of ravens.
Roman physically peeled Fili off his chest and held her at arm's length. "Explain this. Now."
"Lord Roman, I swear I didn't mean to!" Fili stammered, still trembling slightly from the sheer force of his draconic shout. "The moment I woke up this morning, I heard hundreds of strange voices calling to me in my mind. I simply followed the psychic voices down to the storehouse, and when I opened the door... this is what I found!"
Realizing the poor girl was genuinely terrified, Roman softened his grip, pulling her close to his side to comfort her.
At that moment, an exceptionally old, heavily scarred raven hopped forward from the flock, landing on a spilled sack of grain.
"Do not scold the girl, Roman," the old bird croaked, its voice remarkably human. "She did not summon us. We sought her out."
Roman studied the lead bird. The Old Raven's black feathers were visibly brittle and graying at the edges, its eyes were clouded with cataracts, and even its magical, human-like voice sounded incredibly ancient and exhausted compared to the others.
Roman glanced down at Fili. Her massive blue eyes were filled with nothing but clear, terrified innocence, her gaze darting wildly between Roman and the talking bird. She looked utterly, profoundly confused.
Roman looked back at the bird, crossing his arms. "And why exactly were you seeking her out? What could a flock of magical birds possibly want with my squire?"
The Old Raven stared back at Roman, violently clicking its beak in clear, unmistakable exasperation.
"Oh, cease this ridiculous mummery, dragon-blood!" the Old Raven squawked loudly. "Did you not explicitly take the girl under your protection because you recognized she was an Apostle of the Old Gods? Why are you pretending to be ignorant now?!"
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