Whether it was entirely due to the lingering magical effects of the legendary Long Summer, or simply the natural hardiness of Westerosi flora, the crops in the Riverlands possessed remarkably short growth cycles.
Roman had originally planned to expand the irrigation networks before the harvest, but the wheat ripened so quickly that gathering the grain immediately became the absolute priority.
Thousands of farmers waded into the sprawling, golden sea of wheat, wielding newly forged steel scythes. Their sunburned faces beamed with the sheer, unadulterated joy of an unprecedented harvest.
Under Roman's strict directives, House Whent had aggressively modernized local agriculture. They had constructed robust irrigation canals, paved macadam roads to seamlessly connect the farming villages to the storehouses, and actively promoted advanced, aerobic composting techniques.
Crucially, Roman had established two highly reliable, continuous sources of fertilizer.
The first source was the standardized, three-compartment septic tanks built next to every single rural household. While these simple tanks primarily ensured basic public sanitation and prevented waterborne diseases, they also safely processed a small, steady amount of night soil into usable fertilizer.
The second, vastly larger source came from intensive animal husbandry. Roman had spent a massive sum of Whent silver to hire several expert livestock breeders from the Reach. He tasked them with designing intensive, highly sanitary breeding farms and establishing strict disease management protocols for the local herds.
Under Roman's financial encouragement, the local crop farmers and the livestock breeders entered a symbiotic cooperative model.
The farmers aggressively planted high-yield alfalfa and nutrient-dense forage during their crop rotation cycles. They traded this forage and various types of surplus straw to the livestock breeders, ensuring the cattle and draft horses had a highly nutritious, blended diet.
In return, the massive volume of manure produced by the intensive livestock farms was scientifically composted and returned directly to the farmers to deeply fertilize the Whent fields.
Following this comprehensive series of agricultural upgrades, the veteran Riverlands farmers openly swore that they had never seen wheat grow so violently tall and thick in their entire lives.
Standing on a ridge overlooking the fields, Roman watched the smallfolk working themselves to exhaustion. Despite their joy, he still felt the manual harvesting process was agonizingly slow and inefficient.
Roman had briefly considered tasking the foundries with developing a mechanical, animal-powered reaper. But when he presented the concept to the master artisans at the Whent Crafts Academy, they simply shrugged in collective defeat.
They bluntly explained that even if they worked themselves to death, the current state of Westerosi metallurgy and machining simply wasn't precise enough to forge the complex, interlocking gears and cutting blades required for an automated harvester.
Roman thought about it carefully and realized he was pushing the technological timeline too fast. True machine tools and precision engineering were still entirely alien concepts. Even the most rudimentary animal-powered reaper required standardized gears—something Westeros simply couldn't manufacture right now.
However, Roman didn't let the setback bother him; he had plenty of other chemical methods to optimize the harvest.
"Maester Tom, what is the status of the pesticide production?" Roman asked, turning to the old scholar.
"The initial research phase is entirely complete, my lord!" Tom answered proudly. "Now we only need to wait for the specialized herbs planted in the botanical gardens to mature, and we can begin mass-producing the formula!"
Maester Tom proudly pulled a small, sealed glass vial filled with a vibrant purple liquid from his robes.
Roman took the vial and held it up to the sun. The light refracted beautifully through the pure glass, illuminating the violent purple poison within.
The natural flora of Westeros was incredibly diverse and famously included a massive variety of highly toxic, fast-growing herbs. Roman had specifically commissioned Maester Tom to synthesize a localized, organic pesticide from these lethal plants.
"How long does the toxicity linger in the environment, Maester Tom? The goal is to kill the locusts, not to accidentally poison the smallfolk when they eat the bread."
"You need not worry, Lord Roman," Tom assured him. "This specific herbal compound is highly volatile. It will naturally break down and expire within a week of application. Furthermore, it possesses an incredibly low toxicity threshold for humans. As long as the farmers don't drink it directly from the bottle, it is perfectly safe."
Hearing this, Roman finally relaxed.
Now, they were simply waiting for the final, ultimate metric: the actual wheat yield.
After several grueling weeks of manual labor, the autumn harvest was finally completed. When the village elders and Maester Tom formally weighed the staggering mountains of grain, deafening, weeping cheers erupted across the Whent fields.
"By the Seven! Can a single field truly produce this much grain?!"
"Praise the Gods! Praise Lord Roman!"
After frantically verifying the math on his ledger, Maester Tom practically sprinted up the hill to Roman.
"My lord! It is confirmed!" Tom gasped, his eyes wide with shock. "The average wheat yield has generally reached four hundred pounds per mu!"
(Author's Note: Imperial units are too counterintuitive. We will be using metric. 400 jin = 200 kilograms. 1 mu = 0.067 hectares).
Two hundred kilograms per mu. The sheer fertility of Westerosi soil under the Long Summer was absolutely terrifying. Roman had initially estimated that simply hitting one hundred kilograms per mu would be an incredible success. The actual yield had completely shattered his expectations.
Looking down at the thousands of cheering, weeping smallfolk, Roman felt a massive surge of adrenaline. With the Whent granaries overflowing, his primary logistical bottleneck was permanently solved. He could now confidently unleash the next phase of his geopolitical plan.
News of the miraculous, golden harvest at the Gods Eye spread across the continent like wildfire.
When the staggering crop yields were combined with the rumors of Harrenhal's low 20% agricultural tax and Roman's free, paved infrastructure, the psychological dam broke. Smallfolk across the Riverlands began abandoning their ancestral homes in droves to flee toward Whent territory.
Early one morning, Roman was shaken from a deep sleep by Fili. She frantically explained that a massive mob of foreign farmers had gathered in the courtyard and were violently demanding an audience.
When Roman finally descended into the Great Hall, he found hundreds of ragged, starving, exhausted people huddled together, whispering nervously.
The moment they saw Roman's towering figure, the entire crowd dropped to their knees in absolute desperation.
"Lord Roman! We beg you! Please, take us in!"
Roman was completely bewildered by the sudden mass-begging. It took him a few moments of questioning the elders to understand that these were all runaway serfs who had fled from the domains of neighboring Riverlords.
Historically, the petty nobles of the Riverlands bled their peasants dry with extortionate taxes. But because every noble was equally greedy, the peasants rarely fled; moving to a different lord's land simply meant suffering the exact same crushing poverty, with the added risk of being caught and hanged for breaking their feudal bonds.
But Roman was the massive, disruptive catfish thrown into the stagnant pond. He had completely shattered the local feudal economy. Harrenhal's baseline tax rate was incredibly low, the predatory micro-taxes were abolished, and the infrastructure was free.
Furthermore, the traveling minstrels Roman had hired were aggressively publicizing the staggering Harrenhal harvest.
The starving peasants of the Riverlands looked at their empty bowls, looked at the golden utopia of the Gods Eye, and collectively decided: If we don't run now, we will starve this winter.
Thus, the massive refugee crisis unfolded. According to the exhausted elders weeping on the floor of the Great Hall, thousands more runaway serfs were currently marching down the Kingsroad toward Harrenhal.
"Lord Roman! Please!" an old man sobbed, pressing his forehead to the stone floor. "You must grant us sanctuary! We will gladly let you tax 60% of our harvest if you just let us stay on your lands!"
Standing beside Roman, Fili gasped in absolute horror. "Sixty percent?! By the Gods, what did you even eat?! What kind of miserable lives were you living before you came here?!"
Fili's horrified question broke the peasants. Remembering the brutal, systemic exploitation they had suffered under their previous lords, the entire hall erupted into bitter, agonizing weeping.
Roman, of course, had absolutely no intention of turning them away. As long as his new bureaucracy could manage the influx, human capital was his most valuable resource. He immediately summoned his magistrates, ordering them to register the refugees, allocate them wild acreage, and issue them the standard Whent iron tools.
As the weeping farmers were led away to the kitchens, praising Roman's name, Roman sat heavily on his throne, drinking a cup of strong tea to shake off his sleepiness.
Fili stood quietly by his side, staring at him with a deeply profound, almost reverent gaze.
The young Apostle finally truly understood why Roman was so fanatically beloved by his people. When she had first arrived, she had simply assumed all high lords were supposed to be protective and kind.
She thought back to her life in the Whent castle. Her time in Harrenhal had been the most peaceful, joyous period of her tragic life. She was well-fed, she wore warm clothes, she slept in a soft featherbed, and she was protected by a terrifyingly strong, yet incredibly gentle lord.
She no longer had to violently fight thirty other starving beggars in the mud for a single crust of moldy bread.
Lady Shella had once told her: "My child, it is a direct blessing from the Seven Gods that you found Roman. Millions of people in this world would gladly die just to have him as their lord. You must cherish this opportunity!"
"Fili? What are you daydreaming about now?" Roman's sudden question pulled the girl back to reality.
"Ah! N-nothing, my lord!" she stammered, blushing furiously as she looked at Roman's handsome, aristocratic face. "I just remembered that Lady Shella specifically ordered me to serve you well!"
Roman didn't pay any mind to her flustered blushing; his tactical mind was already racing toward the next massive conflict.
"Alright, Fili, stop daydreaming. Go down to the foundries and summon Master Ben to the armory. I need to inspect the troops."
Roman stood up, his blue eyes flashing dangerously.
Now that Harrenhal possessed an absolute surplus of grain and an exploding population, the Whent industrial machine was fully fueled. It was finally time to shift focus to mass military buildup.
The Riverlands had been fractured for far too long. It was time to exterminate the petty, toll-collecting rats and unite the Trident under one banner.
Now Get The FULL NOVEL at Once!
Get 20% OFF for limited time only.
@patreon.com/Authorizz/shop