The White Knife was notoriously rocky and possessed a fiercely fast-flowing current. After the Manderly barges navigated a significant distance upriver, the water became too shallow and treacherous, forcing Roman's expedition to disembark and transition their heavy cargo onto horse-drawn wagons.
During the past few months, the Harrenhal Vanguard had grown entirely accustomed to riding on Roman's flawlessly paved, waterproof macadam highways. When they were suddenly forced to march upon the notorious, muddy ruts of the northern Kingsroad, it felt as though they had been plunged backward into the dark ages.
The Whent soldiers couldn't help but complain bitterly as they marched.
"By the Seven, I used to think the Kingsroad was a marvel of engineering," a heavy infantryman grunted, pulling his boots from the muck. "But compared to Lord Roman's roads, this is nothing but a glorified pigsty!"
"Stop your whining," a veteran sergeant snapped. "Do you have any idea how many centuries ago the Old King Jaehaerys built this road?"
"That is exactly my point!" the soldier argued. "Why hasn't the Iron Throne bothered to upgrade it in three hundred years? It took Lord Roman practically a single moon to build a vastly superior highway across our entire territory."
"Shut your mouth and put your back into it! The rear wagon wheel has sunk into a mud pit, come help push!"
Despite their relentless grumbling, the disciplined Whent troops expertly muscled the heavy supply train through the incredibly difficult, freezing northern terrain. In truth, the road wasn't exceptionally horrific; Harrenhal's soldiers had simply grown spoiled by Roman's infrastructural "feasts" and naturally looked down upon the primitive, muddy reality of the rest of Westeros.
Roman deliberately utilized the arduous march as a live-fire logistical training exercise. He ordered the Vanguard to formally rehearse wartime escort protocols.
First, the light cavalry spread out in a massive, sweeping perimeter to act as forward scouts and flank harassers. The heavily armored infantry formed a tight, interlocking defensive square directly around the vulnerable supply wagons, while the heavy cavalry remained centrally positioned as the devastating, rapid-response reserve.
However, the North was a notoriously vast, sparsely populated wilderness. They encountered almost zero pedestrians on the road, but they did run into plenty of aggressive northern wildlife.
Wherever Roman's perfectly coordinated Vanguard marched, the local wolf packs and shadowcats were violently, systematically wiped out.
Many of the Riverlands soldiers were visiting the North for the very first time and were brimming with profound curiosity. Because the legendary Long Summer was still in effect, the North was actually quite lush and green. Aside from the biting chill in the air—which required them to don thick wool cloaks beneath their armor—the landscape didn't seem all that terrifyingly different from the Riverlands.
Meanwhile, in Winterfell.
Roman had barely disembarked at White Harbor when one of Lord Manderly's traditional messenger ravens arrived at House Stark, bearing the formal seal of the Whent diplomatic mission.
However, mere moments later, one of Fili's magical ravens flew straight into the Great Hall of Winterfell.
"Gah! Eddard Stark!" the black bird squawked fluently in the Common Tongue, landing directly on the high table. "Roman Rivers is currently marching upon Winterfell! He brings a massive contingent of Whent steel and grain for the Wall, and additional luxury provisions specifically for House Stark! They have successfully disembarked from the White Knife and are advancing on foot! Gah!"
Completely ignoring the absolute, jaw-dropping shock radiating from the Stark family, Fili's raven arrogantly hopped over to a silver platter, pushed a roasted quail aside, and began aggressively eating from a bowl of fruit.
Several of the more timid Northern servants shrieked, instantly dropping to their knees and frantically muttering prayers to the Old Gods, believing a greenseer had possessed the bird.
Eddard Stark gripped the hilt of Ice, his grey eyes wide. Mustering his legendary courage, he leaned forward and addressed the bird.
"What... what exactly are you?"
"Hmm?" The raven swallowed a grape and clicked its beak. "I am a raven. I belong to Lady Fili. Lady Fili works directly for Lord Roman, so I deliver his messages. Simple as that. Gah!"
Eddard wanted to desperately interrogate the creature further, but the raven quickly finished its meal, let out a satisfied caw, and flew directly back out the high window.
Once the sheer, supernatural shock wore off, Eddard instantly mobilized his household guard and commanded Maester Luwin to aggressively review every scrap of intelligence they possessed regarding Roman Rivers.
Reviewing the recent spy reports, the Starks suddenly realized that the obscure Riverlands bastard they had previously ignored had violently evolved into a terrifyingly powerful warlord over the past year.
Catelyn Stark stood beside her husband in his solar, her brow deeply furrowed with anxiety.
"Ned, how exactly are we supposed to deal with this Roman Rivers?"
"Deal with him?" Eddard frowned, pacing the room. "We do not deal with him, Cat. He is marching here to provide absolutely vital relief to the Night's Watch. Whatever dark, magical secrets he possesses, he is actively aiding the North. We will receive him with the utmost honor and hospitality."
Eddard was deeply unnerved by the talking raven, but his legendary honor dictated that he would never show unprovoked hostility to an ally offering genuine aid.
"But my father has sent several deeply troubling ravens recently," Catelyn argued, her voice tight. "House Whent has been aggressively expanding its borders and heavily militarizing. Lord Hoster even wrote that Harrenhal has formed a highly lucrative, exclusive trade bloc with the Darrys and the Mootons—the old Targaryen loyalists of the Riverlands! They are deliberately isolating Riverrun!"
Looking at his wife's deeply worried face, Eddard released a heavy, exhausted sigh. "Let us prepare the guest chambers and the feasts, Cat. Let Roman Rivers enter Winterfell first. I will judge the man's honor by looking into his eyes."
Roman, of course, cared absolutely nothing about House Stark's internal political paranoia; he had zero intention of provoking trouble in the North.
For Roman, the longer the continent remained at peace, the stronger his industrial empire became. Time was his greatest ally. Furthermore, knowing that the apocalyptic threat of the Night King was currently festering beyond the Wall, Roman had absolutely no interest in getting bogged down in the petty, suicidal Game of Thrones unfolding in the South.
After struggling through the muddy Kingsroad for a fortnight, the Harrenhal Vanguard finally arrived before the massive, ancient walls of Winterfell.
Upon receiving the outriders' report, Lord Eddard Stark formally led his entire family and his senior household guard out to the main gates to receive the Whents.
But when Roman's Vanguard finally marched into full view, Eddard instantly understood exactly why Lord Hoster Tully had frantically warned him to be careful.
The Whent troops did not look like a disorganized feudal levy. They were a terrifyingly uniform, professional military machine. The massive supply convoy was flanked by ranks of heavy infantry, their steel lamellar armor gleaming flawlessly under the northern sun.
The cavalry advanced in a strict, perfectly spaced wedge formation. The massive, armored heavy cavalry anchored the center, while the swift light cavalry aggressively screened the flanks.
As a veteran battle commander, Eddard instantly recognized it as a flawless, highly advanced cavalry charge doctrine. The light cavalry was designed to harass and bleed the enemy flanks with arrows. If the enemy infantry formation broke, the heavily armored destriers in the center would violently smash through the chaos. If the enemy held firm, the light cavalry would seamlessly encircle to the rear before the heavy charge commenced.
The hardened men of the North were famously fierce warriors who openly looked down upon the "soft" knights of the South. But when the Winterfell garrison saw the disciplined, silver-iron golems of the Harrenhal Vanguard marching toward them, their northern arrogance instantly wavered.
When Roman saw the Stark family waiting at the gates, he immediately halted the army. He gracefully dismounted his massive black warhorse and approached Winterfell accompanied only by Fili, leaving his intimidating guards behind as a gesture of peace.
"Lord Stark," Roman smiled warmly, offering a respectful, formal bow. "I have long admired your legendary name. I am Roman Rivers. Under the explicit orders of Lady Shella Whent, I have brought steel and grain to aid Winterfell and the Night's Watch!"
Eddard looked at the towering, handsome, and remarkably polite young warlord standing before him and returned the bow with deep respect.
"Thank you, Lord Rivers. Lady Shella's continued, honorable support of the Wall is deeply appreciated. The North remembers, and House Stark will not forget this debt."
Roman then politely introduced Fili, who was standing quietly by his side. The Stark family was profoundly surprised.
Based on the terrifying Westerosi stereotypes regarding blood magic, they had fully expected the person commanding the talking ravens to be a withered, horrifying swamp-witch. Instead, the "Apostle" turned out to be a breathtakingly beautiful, somewhat shy young maiden who offered a flawless, courtly curtsy.
Eddard then proceeded to formally introduce his family members one by one.
Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, and little Rickon were all lined up in their finest furs. Jon Snow, however, was notably absent from the noble lineup, likely standing somewhere hidden among the common guards in the background.
Roman was continually fascinated by how canonically precocious the children of Westeros were. Despite their young ages, several of the Stark teenagers already possessed a poised, aristocratic elegance.
Robb Stark, in particular, stared at Roman with a highly scrutinizing, almost provocative gaze.
Technically, Roman and the "Young Wolf" were of the same generation; Roman was only a few years older than Eddard's heir. However, Roman possessed the terrifying, impossibly muscular physique of a hardened apex predator, and his violent military fame had already spread across the Seven Kingdoms. Consequently, most political players unconsciously categorized Roman alongside legendary veterans like Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon, rather than viewing him as a youth.
Roman politely greeted each of the Stark children, noting their incredibly distinct, canon-accurate reactions.
Robb offered a stiff, fiercely competitive nod. Sansa blushed furiously and hid behind her mother's skirts. Arya stared at Roman's massive sword with intense, unblinking curiosity. Bran seemed lost in his own detached thoughts, and Rickon was entirely indifferent.
"It is freezing outside these walls, and you must be deeply exhausted from your grueling march," Eddard said, gesturing to the open gates. "Please, enter Winterfell. We shall feast, and then we shall speak of logistics."
Thus, the Harrenhal forces officially entered the legendary heart of the North.
Winterfell was an impossibly massive, sprawling fortress. Because it was built atop natural hot springs, hot water was piped directly through the stone walls, turning the castle into a massive, heated sanctuary. During the apocalyptic, years-long winters, House Stark historically allowed thousands of freezing smallfolk to take refuge within the outer "Winter Town" to survive.
Finding space for three hundred Whent cavalrymen was incredibly easy. However, Roman's soldiers did not immediately collapse into their beds or rush the mead halls upon arrival.
Instead, under Master Jessy's strict doctrine, the Vanguard immediately established a highly fortified perimeter around their designated barracks. They deployed perimeter scouts, organized rotating guard patrols, and meticulously secured their supply wagons, ensuring their tactical defenses were flawless before a single man stepped into the Great Hall to eat.
Furthermore, during the welcoming feast, the Harrenhal soldiers refused to celebrate. They only ate until they were seventy percent full, they strictly refused to drink any alcohol, and they kept their weapons strapped to their belts at all times. They remained in a state of absolute, hyper-vigilant wartime readiness.
Prior to entering the castle, Roman had explicitly instructed his men: "Lord Stark is a famously just, honorable man. You do not need to fear being poisoned or betrayed by him. Therefore, I want you to treat this friendly feast as a live-fire training exercise for establishing perimeter defenses inside a foreign castle."
The Vanguard, eager to please their lord, treated the feast as a strict military drill.
However, this hyper-defensive, unyielding military posture deeply offended Robb Stark. After Roman had officially eaten the bread and salt of Guest Right, the future Young Wolf launched his first verbal attack from the high table.
"Lord Roman," Robb challenged, his voice carrying across the silent hall. "House Stark has offered you our finest hospitality and the absolute protection of our roof. Yet your men sit in our hall fully armed, refusing our ale, acting as if they expect to be slaughtered. Do you hold the sacred laws of Guest Right in such low regard?"
"Robb!" Eddard barked, slamming his cup down. "Hold your tongue!"
Accusing a guest of fearing a breach of Guest Right was an incredibly severe, highly insulting political accusation in Westeros. If word got out that the Starks couldn't even make their allies feel safe, it would damage Winterfell's honor.
But Roman wasn't the least bit angry. Instead, he stood up, offered a slight, respectful bow to Robb, and then turned his glowing blue eyes to Eddard.
"Forgive my men's offensive posture, Lord Stark," Roman's deep voice echoed through the hall. "The Warden of the North is renowned throughout the Seven Kingdoms for his unimpeachable honor. Everyone knows House Stark is just and true."
"My Vanguard's actions are absolutely not directed at you, my lord," Roman explained smoothly. "It is merely a vital military precaution. History is written in blood. There have been many treacherous men who dared to trample upon the sacred rights of guests. Even if the perpetrators are later brought to justice, the lost lives of my men cannot be resurrected. I simply refuse to let my soldiers grow soft and suffer that fate when we march South."
Roman glanced at Eddard out of the corner of his eye. Roman knew exactly who he was dealing with. Eddard Stark was a man who valued sacred honor and unbreakable oaths far above his own life. If there was a psychological shortcut to immediately securing a blood-brother alliance with the Warden of the North, it was to publicly demonstrate a fanatical devotion to oaths right in front of him.
Roman needed to flatter Eddard's honor, and a magical oath was the perfect mechanism.
Roman grabbed a heavy flagon of highly potent Northern liquor, filled his goblet to the brim, and raised it high. His voice shifted into a powerful, resonant roar that silenced the entire hall.
"But an offense to your hospitality has been made, and I will not deny it! Therefore, I shall offer a vow to balance the scales!"
"By the Old Gods and the New! I, Roman Rivers, solemnly swear upon my life and my magic, that I will do absolutely everything in my power to aid House Stark the next time you face the shadows of war!"
The very instant Roman completed the oath, the potent liquor inside his goblet violently erupted into a blinding pillar of roaring Pale Flame.
Under the absolute, jaw-dropping, terrified gazes of every single northerner in Winterfell, Roman raised the goblet and calmly drank the swirling white fire and the boiling liquor in a single, massive gulp.
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