After quietly and flawlessly eradicating the Old Flayer from the face of the earth, Roman confidently led the Vanguard back down the King's Road toward White Harbor.
The assassination had been perfectly clean and horrifyingly efficient; aside from Fili and perhaps the ancient Three-Eyed Raven watching from the weirwood nets, absolutely no one in the world knew the true fate of Roose Bolton.
Upon arriving at the bustling docks of White Harbor, Lord Wyman Manderly personally received Roman. However, the massive Northern lord looked deeply troubled. He pulled Roman aside, grasping his gauntlet with a highly concerned expression.
"Lord Roman," Wyman whispered urgently, his jovial demeanor entirely gone. "My harbor guards drank with your Whent outriders. I heard exactly what happened on the King's Road, and how Lord Bolton explicitly threatened Lady Shella. I must be honest... you handled it poorly!"
"Handled it poorly, Lord Wyman?" Roman asked, feigning innocent confusion. "I forced him to kneel in the mud and formally apologize for his insult! I could not allow him to disrespect my mother."
"An apology?!" Wyman Manderly shook his massive head in disbelief. "Lord Roman, I mean you absolutely should not have let that monster ride away alive! Roose Bolton is a profoundly cruel, deeply vengeful snake. If you step on a viper, you do not ask for an apology! You must..."
Wyman paused, his eyes turning terrifyingly cold. He pointed a fat, ringed finger directly toward a massive dockside butcher who was currently using a heavy cleaver to violently butcher a bleeding pig carcass. Wyman's dark implication was crystal clear.
Roman instantly feigned an expression of deep, honorable, profoundly naive shock. "By the Seven! Lord Wyman, I could never do such a thing! No matter how deeply I loathe the man, violently butchering a highborn Lord Paramount's bannerman without a formal trial violates the King's Peace! I am a man of honor!"
Wyman looked at Roman with an expression that clearly screamed, 'Are you completely out of your mind?'
The massive lord sighed heavily, mourning the young Riverlord's tragic, suicidal adherence to Southern chivalry. "In that case, lad, you had best sleep with one eye open. Roose Bolton is not a forgiving man. The Dreadfort will retaliate."
Roman warmly thanked Wyman for his profound, fatherly warning, internally amused by his perfect alibi. He then smoothly pivoted the conversation, taking Wyman's hand and beginning aggressive negotiations regarding Northern trade logistics.
To support his upcoming, massive industrial upgrades, Harrenhal desperately required an astronomical influx of raw iron ore and heavy timber. In return for a continuous, highly discounted supply of Northern raw materials, Roman officially contracted to export Harrenhal's monopoly of pure glass and fine bone china directly to White Harbor and Winterfell.
Having successfully secured a vastly lucrative, mutually beneficial trade alliance, the Whent fleet was fully loaded with heavy Northern cargo and set sail for the Riverlands.
When the heavily armed Vanguard finally marched through the towering gates of Harrenhal without having suffered a single casualty, the local smallfolk erupted into deafening, jubilant cheers.
Compared to the bleak, freezing, impoverished reality of the North, returning to the Whent territory felt like stepping into an advanced, utopian paradise. The paved roads, bustling markets, and warm stone houses were a stark, glorious contrast.
Roman immediately proceeded to the central keep to formally report to Lady Shella. After detailing the logistical success of the Northern expedition, he solemnly recounted the terrifying magical surge he had experienced atop the Wall, and his terrifying mental connection with the Night King.
Listening to his report, Lady Shella's expression turned profoundly grave. She reached out with a trembling hand, gently touching the hard, bony dragon horns that were visibly protruding through Roman's dark hair.
"My child," Lady Shella whispered, her eyes filled with maternal fear. "You must rapidly prepare for the apocalyptic storms to come. Dragons hold terrifying, world-altering political significance in Westeros. If the Lannisters or the King discover what you truly are, they will stop at nothing to butcher you. Without absolute, overwhelming military strength, the Iron Throne will never tolerate your existence."
Roman nodded firmly. He immediately presented his massive, vastly accelerated industrial expansion plans for Harrenhal to counter the looming threats. While Lady Shella didn't understand half of the complex engineering schematics, she possessed absolute, unshakeable faith in Roman's judgment and officially granted him total authority to execute his vision.
After Roman left the solar to visit the foundries, Fili quietly slipped into Lady Shella's chambers. The young Apostle blushed furiously as she detailed her profound failure to seduce Roman in his quarters at Castle Black, complaining that he stubbornly viewed her as a child.
Lady Shella simply smiled warmly, gently patting Fili's blonde head.
"You silly, impatient child," the Whent matriarch chuckled. "How can you expect to conquer a dragon's heart in a single night? Roman's mind is currently entirely consumed by the terrifying burden of protecting this territory. Do not rush him. As long as you remain fiercely loyal, standing by his side and meticulously managing his daily burdens, your position in his life will naturally, permanently cement itself when the time is right."
Lady Shella then leaned in and whispered several highly specific, highborn romantic "tips" into the girl's ear, leaving the innocent Apostle awkwardly clutching her skirts, her face entirely crimson, unsure of how to physically process the scandalous information.
Meanwhile, Roman immediately launched Phase Two of his grand societal reconstruction: The Harrenhal Public Healthcare Reform.
He sent out a sweeping decree, gathering dozens of frustrated Citadel apprentices, wandering hedge wizards, and local herbalists who had migrated to his territory. He brought these desperate intellectuals into his private laboratory.
"Gentlemen," Roman addressed the gathered scholars. "Harrenhal has achieved unprecedented agricultural and industrial wealth. However, true strength lies in the physical vitality of our population. It is time for us to fundamentally revolutionize the concept of human health."
As he spoke, Roman signaled his guards, who carefully brought out several strange, highly complex brass-and-glass instruments. They were the world's very first rudimentary microscopes, painstakingly crafted by Harrenhal's master glassblowers according to Roman's exact geometric specifications.
Standing before the awestruck scholars, Roman forcefully introduced the groundbreaking concept of microorganisms—the Germ Theory of Disease. He then stepped aside, allowing the hedge wizards and apprentices to physically look through the ocular lenses to observe contaminated water and blood samples.
The revelation was absolute chaos.
Once the invisible, microscopic world was physically confirmed by their own eyes, it was akin to dropping a massive, alchemical bombshell directly into the scholars' fundamental worldview. They frantically, aggressively shoved each other aside, vying for the right to look through the miraculous brass tubes, with several grown men nearly coming to blows just to observe the swimming microbes for a few seconds longer.
Watching the scholars' manic excitement, Roman was deeply reminded of the highly absurd, horribly disjointed state of canonical Westerosi medicine.
The Citadel's medical knowledge was extensive, yet terrifyingly unbalanced. It wildly incorporated highly advanced techniques alongside horrific, dark-age superstitions. You could find a highly skilled Maester successfully performing a complex cesarean section on a dying Queen, while in the very next room, a noble lord was actively bleeding himself to death to balance his "humors."
Roose Bolton, whom Roman had just gloriously reduced to ash, famously obsessed over sucking his own blood with leeches, genuinely believing the parasites were draining away his "bad blood"—earning him the highly accurate moniker 'Lord Leech'.
Roman knew perfectly well that the scholars standing before him were incredibly intelligent; they were simply hindered by thousands of years of systemic dogma. Therefore, Roman merely needed to provide the foundational scientific theory; these men could independently research and verify the rest.
Armed with the absolute, undeniable proof of Germ Theory, the scholars gained a terrified, reverent new understanding of their young lord. From that moment onward, they listened to every single word Roman spoke as if it were divine scripture.
"Contaminated water is the primary vector for mass microbial infection," Roman lectured, tapping a chalkboard. "We must instantly standardize the sterilization of all public water sources. Large-scale filtration tanks, basic chemical disinfectants, and the mandatory boiling of drinking water are absolute requirements."
Roman systematically laid out fundamental hygiene protocols—handwashing, sterile surgical environments, and quarantine procedures—tasking the newly enlightened scholars with verifying and optimizing his theories for the local populace.
He then specifically summoned Maester Tom, tasking the brilliant alchemist with mass-producing localized bactericides and concentrated disinfectants.
"Yes, my lord!" Maester Tom bowed deeply, his eyes burning with fanatical devotion. "I shall perfectly execute your vision!"
Maester Tom was now absolutely, fundamentally convinced of Roman's god-like genius. Originally, Tom had intended to utilize Harrenhal's wealth to secure a highly coveted, prestigious position back at the Citadel in Oldtown.
But at this exact moment, that ambition entirely evaporated. Tom realized a terrifying, geopolitical truth: Roman Rivers was actively, aggressively cultivating his own independent network of highly advanced scientific talent. With Harrenhal's limitless funding and Roman's impossible knowledge, the young lord wasn't just building a hospital...
By the Seven... Maester Tom thought in profound awe. I am going to live to see the construction of a Second Citadel!
Over the following months, amidst the bustling autumn harvest, Roman and his newly formed medical council officially authored the Harrenhal Epidemic Prevention Manual.
Simultaneously, under Roman's heavy financial investment, the Whent engineers achieved another massive technological breakthrough: the rudimentary printing press. By utilizing carved wooden printing plates and advanced alchemical inks, Harrenhal's literature production underwent a massive revolution.
The Epidemic Prevention Manual was immediately put into mass production.
Roman subsequently gathered all literate citizens within the territory and ordered the scholars to instruct them on the manual's contents. Because the guidebook was brilliantly authored in clear, highly straightforward language devoid of complex Citadel jargon, the common folk easily grasped the concepts.
These newly trained "Public Health Officers" were then deployed across every town and village in the Whent territory. They aggressively prioritized prevention over treatment, educating the impoverished peasantry to abandon their filthy, ignorant habits to prevent illness before it struck.
Furthermore, Roman cracked open the overflowing Whent treasury to fund the construction of massive public hospitals in the primary towns, and smaller, localized medical clinics in the rural farming sectors. The vast majority of the medical expenses were heavily subsidized directly by Harrenhal.
Roman quickly discovered a massive advantage: the native magical flora of Westeros was truly remarkable. Complex, highly effective anesthetics (Milk of the Poppy), natural bactericides, and fever-reducers (willow bark) already existed in abundance.
Roman had originally assumed he would need to arduously synthesize modern medicine like aspirin from scratch to shock the Westerosi. However, he realized he didn't need to reinvent the wheel. The existing botanical medicines were already incredibly potent; they were simply monopolized by the nobility due to high costs.
By applying massive, industrial-scale processing techniques, Roman violently shattered the Citadel's monopoly, making these formerly exorbitant, life-saving medicines incredibly cheap and completely affordable for the lowest peasant classes.
Within a staggeringly short period, the systemic implementation of sterile sutures, modern anesthetics, and mass hygiene drastically plummeted the mortality and infection rates across the Harrenhal territory.
Word of the miraculous "Whent Magic" aggressively spread like wildfire across the Riverlands, and soon, across the entirety of Westeros.
However, Roman was entirely unaware of the massive, unintended geopolitical consequence of his absolute success.
Driven by desperate, agonizing need, tens of thousands of desperately sick, crippled, and dying smallfolk from across the Seven Kingdoms were currently packing their meager belongings.
They were turning their desperate eyes toward the healing utopia of Harrenhal, migrating toward the Riverlands like an endless tide of starving, hungry wolves.
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