Following the massive, heavily funded establishment of Roman's public health initiative, the impoverished smallfolk of Harrenhal—and soon the wider Riverlands—finally gained reliable access to professional medical care.
The reputation of the central Harrenhal Hospital spread like wildfire across the continent the moment travelers discovered the miraculous truth: the localized alchemical medicines and sterile treatments were so heavily subsidized that even an elderly, destitute turnip farmer could freely afford life-saving care.
Among the grateful populace of the Riverlands, the clinics simply became known as "Roman's Sanctuaries."
Occasionally, other highborn nobles across Westeros would show fleeting moments of charity, handing out scraps during a festival. However, such a massive, long-term, systemic investment of unimaginable wealth directly into the physical well-being of the smallfolk had not been seen since the legendary reign of King Jaehaerys the Conciliator.
One sunlit afternoon, Roman was lounging comfortably in a heavy leather armchair within his solar, lazily eating grapes while meticulously reviewing a complex topographic river map. His head was resting peacefully in Fili's lap, while the young Apostle gently and carefully tended to his draconic horns with a polishing cloth.
During the past few months, the twin horns protruding from Roman's temples had grown significantly larger, gradually curving upward and backward through his thick black hair.
Because they were newly formed, the draconic keratin was still highly sensitive. If Roman wasn't careful during his heavy combat drills, the horns risked cracking. Although Roman's superhuman biology meant they would rapidly heal and grow back, Fili stubbornly insisted on aggressively maintaining them to prevent him from experiencing any unnecessary pain.
"Lord Roman," Fili asked softly, gently tracing the base of his left horn. "Are you planning to excavate a new series of irrigation canals?"
Roman had been obsessively studying the engineering blueprints for several days, and Fili had naturally grown intensely curious about his next massive project.
"Indeed," Roman replied, swallowing a grape. "Although the primary Whent territory is heavily crisscrossed by natural tributaries feeding into the Gods Eye, several outer agricultural sectors severely lack dedicated irrigation. The farmers there are still being forced to manually carry heavy buckets of water from the riverbanks to hydrate their crops."
"The dry season is rapidly approaching," Roman continued, tracing a line on the parchment. "I intend to conduct a thorough topographical survey next week, and then forcefully mobilize the engineering corps to carve out a massive, mechanized aqueduct system for those neglected sectors."
Hearing this, Fili immediately recalled the massive variety of exotic, sweet pastries she had been freely gorging on recently. Her blue eyes sparkled with excitement. "Does that mean we can grow even more grain next year? We can make even more food?"
Roman chuckled warmly, reaching up to playfully pinch the girl's nose. "Of course. And that day is approaching vastly faster than you think."
Roman's absolute agricultural supremacy relied on a flawless combination of modern aqueduct systems, mass-produced steel farming implements, advanced crop rotation, and the heavy application of chemical fertilizers.
The recent autumn wheat harvest had exceeded an absolutely staggering fifty bushels per acre. When Roman had first mathematically verified the yield, he was genuinely incredulous. After factoring in the lack of modern Earth machinery, he ultimately concluded that the ambient magical vitality inherently infused within Westerosi soil was the only logical explanation for such impossible bounty.
Because of Harrenhal's relentless, massive investment in public infrastructure, tens of thousands of desperate lower-class refugees had violently flooded into the Whent territory.
Massive tracts of Riverlands territory that had lain completely abandoned since Robert's Rebellion were now lush with thriving crops, and new farmland was being aggressively aggressively developed every single day. Even experienced, generational farmers from the famously fertile Reach had begun migrating to Harrenhal, bringing highly advanced southern agricultural techniques with them.
Just as Roman was comfortably envisioning the future of his breadbasket empire, a massive black raven flew directly through the open window, landing on the map table.
"Gah! Roman!" the raven squawked frantically. "The hospitals outside are completely overflowing! They are literally fighting in the streets! The Maesters require your immediate presence! Gah!"
Having delivered its urgent message, the raven casually hopped over to Fili's side and began aggressively eating from a bowl of birdseed.
"Fully booked?" Roman sat up, his brow heavily furrowed in confusion. "There is absolutely no active plague or massive epidemic currently sweeping the Riverlands. How could a facility of that massive scale be fully booked? That makes zero logistical sense."
Roman and Fili exchanged a deeply bewildered glance.
"No. Something is fundamentally wrong with the logistics," Roman muttered, standing up and grabbing his sword belt.
Roman immediately led Fili down to the courtyard, mounted his destrier, and mobilized a squad of light cavalry to escort him directly across the river toward Harrentown.
Harrentown had drastically transformed since Roman's arrival. It was no longer a bleak, muddy slum cowering in the shadow of the melted castle. It was now fully encircled by sturdy, modern defensive walls, its permanent population had exploded past ten thousand souls, and it boasted sprawling, highly advanced civil infrastructure—including the massive central hospital.
When Roman's cavalry detachment arrived at the hospital gates, he instantly saw the problem. The sprawling outdoor waiting courtyards were absolutely overflowing with thousands of desperate people. And looking at their distinct clothing, weapons, and complexions, Roman realized a horrifying truth: the vast majority of them were absolutely not Harrenhal citizens.
"By the Seven..." Roman muttered, his draconic eyes narrowing as he spotted a group of men wearing distinctly light, desert-spun silks. "Are those Dornishmen?! What in the name of the hells are Dornishmen doing all the way up here?"
A deep, highly cynical realization dawned in Roman's mind.
He instantly dismounted and strode into the clinic, demanding a report from the frantic, exhausted medical staff. The head doctors quickly confirmed Roman's darkest suspicion. These tens of thousands of foreigners had heard the miraculous legends of Harrenhal's medical utopia. They had traveled from the furthest corners of the Seven Kingdoms to secure high-quality, impossibly cheap medical care.
Because population movement within Harrenhal had previously been highly localized and manageable, Roman had simply allowed his town officials to loosely record new arrivals.
But this was entirely different. After a year of explosive, utopian development, Harrenhal had inadvertently become the absolute holy land of Westeros.
Furthermore, the flawless, paved macadam highway Roman had built connecting Harrenhal directly to the bustling port of Maidenpool allowed thousands of desperate foreigners from across the Narrow Sea and the Bay of Crabs to rapidly, easily travel directly into the heart of his territory.
After grasping the sheer, terrifying scale of the crisis, Roman was deeply infuriated. He had bled and exhausted his own mind to build a subsidized medical utopia for his loyal people, and now half the continent was aggressively leeching off the Whent treasury!
"Fili!" Roman barked, his voice echoing with absolute authority. "Notify the central administration immediately! A massive, uncompromising territorial census must be conducted across Harrenhal by nightfall. I want every single loyal citizen formally registered."
Roman turned to the head doctors. "I refuse to allow foreign outsiders to casually bleed Harrenhal's resources dry. We are implementing a two-tier system immediately."
Fili knew the absolute gravity of the situation and instantly summoned a flock of ravens to blanket the territory with Roman's decree.
Fortunately, over the past year, Roman had heavily embedded a highly efficient, strictly loyal network of educated administrators across the land; they were vastly more reliable and competent than traditional feudal lords.
Within days, every registered local citizen of Harrenhal was issued a highly specific, stamped steel identification token. These nameplates were required to legally verify their household registration and grant them access to the heavily subsidized medical benefits and food stipends.
As for the tens of thousands of foreigners and medical tourists?
They can pay me the absolute, un-subsidized premium upfront in hard silver! Roman decreed.
However, Roman drastically underestimated the sheer, desperate enthusiasm of the outsiders. Because Harrenhal had aggressively constructed massive, industrial-scale herb plantations and localized chemical processing facilities, even charging the foreigners full price was still vastly cheaper and infinitely more effective than purchasing rotting herbs from greedy Maesters in their own hometowns.
But Roman ultimately didn't care. As long as the outsiders didn't cause political trouble, respected his laws, and paid their silver upfront, Harrenhal would happily accept their coin and treat their illnesses.
In the chaotic weeks that followed, Harrentown officially became the absolute premier destination for Westerosi civilians. Whether they were seeking miraculous surgery for themselves or desperately purchasing bulk medicine to ship back to their sick families on Crackclaw Point, Harrenhal was the center of the world.
The massive, unrelenting influx of medical tourists brought an absolutely staggering wave of secondary economic development to the Bay of Crabs.
Soon after, the wealthy highborn nobles of Westeros began flocking to the Whent territory as well. They certainly didn't lack basic medicine; they were simply traveling to Harrenhal to indulge in the sheer, luxurious novelty of the city and gather high-society gossip.
After all, traveling to the miraculous, rapidly modernizing "Land of Opportunity" had become a massive status symbol for southern lords to brag about at their tedious feasts. Furthermore, they could directly purchase Harrenhal's legendary pure glass, bone china, and canned delicacies at wholesale prices from the Harrentown markets.
With its flawlessly paved roads, pristine sanitation, heated inns, and highly secure borders, Harrenhal rapidly became a vastly superior, far more luxurious vacation destination for the nobility than the literal, feces-filled streets of King's Landing.
To manage the unending chaos, Roman and Maester Tom systematically optimized the hospital reception procedures.
They introduced the revolutionary concept of medical triage and specialized departments. The physicians were strictly divided into specialized fields (surgery, herbalism, internal medicine, obstetrics) to drastically increase efficiency. Roman personally drafted complex flowcharts detailing exactly how to receive patients, prioritize critical emergencies over minor ailments, and facilitate seamless cooperation between the different medical wards.
For patients suffering from minor, non-lethal ailments like common colds, Roman strictly rerouted them to the smaller, rural clinics, aggressively preventing them from hoarding the highly valuable beds and surgical resources of the main hospitals.
Fortunately, Westeros canonically possessed a relatively small overall population density, and there was no active, continent-wide plague. Following the strict implementation of triage and the census, the Harrenhal medical infrastructure finally stabilized and successfully weathered the crisis.
For the next several moons, Roman was kept agonizingly busy. Minor lords, wealthy merchants, and landed knights from across the Seven Kingdoms constantly arrived at the gates, eager to join the economic frenzy.
As the undisputed mastermind behind the industrial miracle and the official heir of Harrenhal, Roman was naturally forced by Lady Shella to formally host and greet the unending parade of highborn guests.
To his immense frustration, Roman suffered from terrible political face-blindness. Simply remembering the convoluted heraldry, sigils, and names of the major canon characters was already pushing his patience to the limit. Now, being forced to smile and remember the names of hundreds of utterly irrelevant, pompous minor lords was pure psychological torture.
However, the massive noble gathering had one undeniable advantage: Roman ruthlessly exploited the captive audience to negotiate and sign a staggering number of highly lucrative, long-term export contracts, raking in an absolute fortune in gold dragons.
Naturally, the visiting lords didn't solely come to discuss trade. Many aggressively brought their young, unmarried daughters and nieces, eagerly hoping to secure a highly coveted marriage alliance with the most powerful, wealthy bachelor in the realm.
However, there was one major complication for the Southern lords: Roman's draconic horns.
They had grown far too large to be casually hidden beneath his hair. When the deeply superstitious, sheltered Southern nobles laid eyes on the literal, demonic-looking horns protruding from the terrifyingly massive warlord's skull, many were utterly terrified. Assuming he was cursed by the Old Gods or tainted by dark magic, several lords rapidly, awkwardly rescinded their marriage proposals.
Although the reaction was somewhat insulting, Roman was profoundly relieved. It flawlessly protected his bachelor status without forcing him to politically offend the lords by rejecting them himself. He happily focused on the business contracts.
But one crisp autumn morning, a distinctly different, highly groomed raven arrived at the central keep, bearing a heavy seal of green wax stamped with a golden rose.
Roman was immediately summoned to Lady Shella's solar.
The Whent matriarch looked up from the parchment, her expression a mix of profound pride and deep political caution.
"My child," Lady Shella said quietly. "Prepare the Vanguard for an honor guard. Ser Garlan Tyrell of the Reach is riding for Harrenhal on a formal, official visit."
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