To formally celebrate the unprecedented bounty of the autumn harvest, Lord Hoster Tully decreed a massive, region-wide banquet at Riverrun. The grand feast served a dual purpose: it was a traditional celebration, but more importantly, it provided a vital political arena for the Lord Paramount to summon his bannermen and assess the shifting balance of power within his territory.
While Lady Shella Whent meticulously prepared her diplomatic congratulatory messages, selected the honor guard, and curated the extravagant gifts for House Tully, what exactly was Roman Rivers doing?
He was enjoying a highly pleasant, incredibly rare moment of leisure, baking a cake in the central kitchens for Fili.
Ever since she had been pulled from the muddy slums of Harrentown, Fili had remained absolutely, fiercely glued to Roman's side. When Roman spent sleepless nights drafting architectural blueprints, she stood by with fresh ink; when he rode out to violently purge the local bandit camps, she managed the aerial reconnaissance and field logistics; when he marched into the freezing, apocalyptic North, she followed him directly into the snow.
Therefore, Roman actively utilized every possible opportunity to rest, not only to replenish his own terrifying draconic stamina but to explicitly care for Fili, aggressively preventing the young Apostle from burning herself out.
Although the girl frequently claimed that her workload would ease once Roman inevitably awakened the other Apostles, Roman simply treated that as a distant, theoretical dream. For now, it was just the two of them holding the empire together.
Since Roman's sweeping reforms, Harrenhal's localized agriculture had improved dramatically.
Roman understood that true societal health required vastly more than just wheat. From the very beginning, he had heavily zoned massive tracts of land specifically for diverse vegetable and fruit orchards. He had established massive apiaries for honey and cultivated specialized mushroom farms in the woodland villages.
Combined with his intensive, mechanized farming techniques, the Whent territory now produced a staggering surplus of meat, eggs, milk, and wool, while the livestock naturally provided massive quantities of manure to fertilize the fields.
Because the citizens of Harrenhal now consumed a highly diverse, perfectly balanced diet, their desperate, historical reliance on basic bread had drastically decreased.
This absolute surplus of complex ingredients had violently crashed the local market prices, making exotic pastries—traditionally a luxury restricted exclusively to the highborn—completely affordable for the ordinary smallfolk. The larger Whent towns now boasted numerous bustling bakeries, and every single day, peasant children could be seen happily eating sweet desserts.
Today, Roman had personally baked a highly specialized summer treat specifically for Fili: a lemon cake.
Thanks to Harrenhal's massive trade network, imported Reach flour, pure refined sugar, fresh eggs, and Dornish lemons were all readily available in the Whent pantries. Roman vividly remembered from his canon knowledge that this specific pastry was Sansa Stark's absolute favorite, and he correctly assumed Fili would love it just as much.
As the incredibly refreshing, perfectly sweet and tart cake melted in her mouth, Fili closed her blue eyes in absolute bliss, a radiant smile blooming across her face.
The girl desperately wanted to prolong the wonderful experience, so she took incredibly tiny, meticulous bites, which made Roman laugh out loud from his armchair.
"Fili, pastries are no longer a strictly rationed luxury in our territory," Roman chuckled. "Even the local turnip farmers can afford to buy a few cakes every week. You do not need to be so aggressively frugal with a single slice."
"But I do not want to develop a greedy, gluttonous habit!" Fili argued, chewing carefully. "If I do not strictly control my own appetite now, I am terrified I will eventually become like the fat, lazy lords in the stories!"
Roman felt a profound mix of emotions hearing her earnest defense: a deep sympathy for the starvation she had endured on the streets, immense admiration for her ironclad self-control, and profound gratitude that he had managed to secure such a fiercely loyal, pure-hearted companion.
He reached out, gently ruffling Fili's blonde hair, and extended his right pinky finger.
"Then let us make a pact. We will strictly keep an eye on each other, and ensure neither of us ever develops the bloated, corrupt habits of the Southern nobility."
Fili was deeply touched by his words, her azure eyes shining brilliantly. She didn't even bother to wipe the cake crumbs from her chin before she eagerly wrapped her pinky around his massive, calloused finger.
"Then it is an absolute promise! Lord Roman, you must promise to take better care of your physical health from now on. I will be aggressively keeping an eye on you!"
"You little brat! Do not casually expand the scope of the contract!" Roman laughed, gently flicking her forehead.
Once the brief, leisurely vacation concluded and Roman had fully recovered his mental energy, he violently threw himself back into his next massive infrastructural campaign: the Whent Water Allocation System.
The Riverlands were canonically defined by their massive, sweeping rivers—the Trident and its tributaries. However, not every localized farming sector possessed convenient, immediate access to the water. In the higher-altitude Whent territories, desperate farmers were still forced to manually haul heavy buckets of water for miles just to hydrate their fields.
Furthermore, due to the natural geography, some major rivers were separated by mere hundreds of meters of land, yet merchant barges were forced to take massive, multi-day detours just to navigate between them.
Roman's goal was brutally pragmatic: to aggressively excavate a massive, interconnected grid of dams, canals, and aqueducts to perfectly streamline water supply, agricultural irrigation, and industrial transport.
While the rest of the Riverlands lazily prepared for the harvest feast, Harrenhal mobilized an army of engineers. They violently terraformed the landscape, constructing heavy stone cofferdams and carving deep shipping canals.
The industrial workshops across Harrenhal were the immediate beneficiaries. Previously, transporting raw coal and heavy iron ore from the borders to the central blast furnaces required a massive, exhausting convoy of draft animals.
Now, Roman had successfully carved a deep, mechanized aqueduct wide enough to allow two massive merchant ferries to pass each other side-by-side, allowing thousands of tons of raw ore to be floated directly into the foundry sectors effortlessly.
Simultaneously, the new localized irrigation canals violently boosted the hydration rate of the Whent farmlands to an absolutely astonishing ninety percent, guaranteeing an eternal, drought-proof food supply.
It was only after the massive water grid was fully operational that Roman and Lady Shella finally departed for the political battlefield of Riverrun.
Riverrun.
Lord Hoster Tully, the Lord Paramount of the Trident, stood upon the high balcony of his massive, triangular fortress, gazing down at the sprawling encampments of his gathered bannermen. His expression was deeply grim.
"Edmure," Hoster rasped, leaning heavily on the stone balustrade. "Have the eastern lords not arrived yet?"
"No, Father," Edmure Tully replied, adjusting his vibrant blue-and-red cloak. "Lady Shella sent a raven stating they were transporting a truly massive quantity of cargo and gifts, which has significantly slowed their march. They should arrive by midday."
A dark hint of profound, anxious impatience flashed in the old Lord's eyes. House Whent—or more accurately, the terrifying bastard Roman Rivers—was making him deeply, physically uneasy.
Hoster knew perfectly well that Lady Shella was entirely incapable of violently transforming the cursed ruin of Harrenhal into an industrial utopia. Only that mysterious, terrifying boy, Roman, possessed the absolute, god-like genius required to turn melted trash into unyielding gold.
Looking at the map in his solar, Hoster realized a terrifying geopolitical reality. The eastern Riverlands were now flawlessly interconnected. From the shores of the Gods Eye all the way to the bustling port of Maidenpool, the eastern territories had quietly, aggressively coalesced into a singular, highly militarized, absolute economic bloc under Roman's direct command.
A group of disillusioned, historically Targaryen loyalists (Whent, Darry, Mooton) had successfully regrouped and were now vastly more wealthy and militarily powerful than they had ever been under the Mad King.
If Roman Rivers were to secure a single, powerful marriage alliance with another Great House, it would instantly replicate the terrifying, continent-shaking power dynamic of the Stark-Tully-Arryn-Baratheon alliance that had violently overthrown the Targaryen dynasty during Robert's Rebellion.
Standing on the balcony, Hoster Tully suddenly, profoundly understood exactly how the Mad King Aerys must have felt when faced with the combined, overwhelming forces of his own rebellious bannermen. But unfortunately for Hoster, he possessed absolutely no legal justification—nor the military capability—to legally suppress Roman's rise.
The other Riverlords had been waiting at Riverrun for several days. Although tardiness was common, the fact that the Whent bloc was making the Lord Paramount wait deeply displeased the proud nobles of the Trident.
Finally, as the midday sun hit its zenith, the massive gates of Riverrun opened, and Lady Shella's envoy arrived.
The exact moment the Harrenhal Vanguard marched into the valley, every single highborn lord present collectively gasped in absolute, jaw-dropping astonishment.
As was customary for Roman's diplomatic strategy, a highly festive, flamboyant procession led the way. Beautiful singers, vibrant Whent banners, and a massive team of servants freely distributing fresh, white bread to the local smallfolk created an atmosphere of benevolent prosperity.
Directly behind them was an impossibly long convoy of heavy wagons loaded with staggering quantities of highly expensive luxury goods, exotic banquet ingredients, and massive, iron-bound chests acting as 'tribute' for House Tully.
But it was the military escort anchoring the flanks of the convoy that truly terrified the Riverlords.
Marching in flawless, terrifying mechanical unison were eight hundred Whent heavy infantrymen, perfectly synchronized with five hundred massive Whent heavy cavalry. Every single man and horse was completely encased in flawlessly polished, interlocking steel lamellar armor, carrying terrifying five-meter Shuo lances that gleamed like a forest of silver death.
Seeing this display of absolute, overwhelming military supremacy, the seasoned veterans among the Riverlands nobility—Lord Blackwood, Lord Bracken, and Lord Mallister—all instantly came to the exact same, terrifying conclusion:
Under absolutely no circumstances can we ever engage Harrenhal on an open battlefield.
Putting aside the terrifying discipline, the sheer cost of the military equipment was mind-boggling. The flawless steel armor worn by those five hundred heavy cavalrymen was the kind of master-crafted gear that only anointed, highborn knights could afford in the rest of Westeros. Roman had outfitted common peasants like kings.
Seeing Harrenhal armed to such an apocalyptic extent, the Riverlords realized that absolutely no single noble house in the Trident could possibly stand against the Whents alone.
Furthermore, Lord Darry and Lord Mooton arrived immediately after the Harrenhal Vanguard, visibly and explicitly marching in the protective wake of the Whent banners.
It was an undeniable political statement: These three historical Royalist houses have absolutely united around the White Flame.
Nervous whispers rapidly spread through the Riverrun courtyards.
"By the Seven... it seems this harvest feast will not be a peaceful one."
"Why in the Gods' names did Harrenhal bring a heavy cavalry vanguard to a feast? What are they planning to conquer?"
"I heard from a merchant that Harrenhal's monthly tax revenue alone vastly exceeds the combined annual taxes of every single lord between Riverrun and the Gods Eye! The Whents are blatantly flexing their absolute superiority!"
Ignoring the frantic, paranoid gossip swirling around them, Roman and Lady Shella calmly dismounted and walked respectfully toward the high table to greet Lord Hoster.
"My Lord Paramount," Lady Shella offered a flawless curtsy. "Harrenhal prepared a truly massive quantity of goods to honor this magnificent banquet, which regrettably caused a considerable delay on the Kingsroad. We humbly ask for your forgiveness."
While Lady Shella formally managed the diplomatic niceties with the Lord of Riverrun, she subtly gestured for Roman to begin directing the Whent logistics.
At this point, Roman no longer bothered to conceal his supreme administrative abilities. He immediately stepped forward, utilizing Fili's magical ravens and Maester Tom's oversight to flawlessly, rapidly organize the unloading of the massive convoy, directing hundreds of men with the terrifying efficiency of a seasoned general.
Simultaneously, Roman began formally greeting the other Riverlords.
Every single noble Roman approached was filled with profound, sweating trepidation. Although the towering heir of Harrenhal was incredibly polite, highly articulate, and deeply humble in his speech, the lords simply couldn't stop looking at the demonic horns protruding from his skull, or stop imagining the terrifying Whent heavy cavalry violently charging under his command.
From the high table, Lord Hoster looked out over the courtyard and spotted his son and heir, Edmure Tully. The young man was currently standing near the Whent wagons, happily, casually, and completely naively chatting with Roman Rivers about local Riverlands gossip, utterly oblivious to the terrifying geopolitical threat the bastard represented.
The aging Lord of Riverrun clutched his chest, feeling as though he were about to physically faint from the sheer stress.
Gods be good, Hoster thought in absolute despair. How can the fundamental difference in competence between two young men be so agonizingly vast?
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