At this point Lord Hoster Tully had not yet fallen ill. His heir, Edmure Tully, spent his days feasting and hunting far more than managing his family's affairs.
Edmure remained oblivious to the tension brewing between Harrenhal and Riverrun. At the feast he seized Roman by the arm and dragged him aside like an old friend.
He chattered about hunting boars, drinking Arbor gold, and the latest tales from traveling bards.
"I heard a dark rumor, Roman," Edmure leaned in, voice dropping. "They say you butchered Roose Bolton's bastard near the Wolfswood, and the Old Flayer paid a massive fine to Winterfell."
"Lord Edmure, the rumors are true," Roman replied, sipping his wine. "The bastard's crimes against the Northern smallfolk were undeniable. He tried to set his hounds on my Vanguard. He left me no choice."
Edmure, who held genuine compassion for the smallfolk and despised the skinning practices of the Dreadfort, nodded with satisfaction.
At that moment a group of older, more cynical Riverlands nobles approached with a sharper question.
"Ser Roman," Lord Bracken sneered, swirling his goblet. "We heard you had a violent confrontation with Lord Roose Bolton on the King's Road. You blasted his horse and knocked him into the mud. Then Bolton disappeared on his way back to the Dreadfort. Were you involved?"
Roman's face settled into perfect innocence.
"My lords, my Vanguard and the Northern outriders were present. Lord Bolton was furious about his son and insulted Lady Shella. I forced him to dismount and apologize. Once he did, I kept my word and let him ride away unharmed. Every man there can swear to it."
The nobles grumbled, unable to prove Roman had broken the King's Peace. They continued talking until Lord Hoster announced the harvest banquet and the crowd dispersed to their tables.
Thanks to Harrenhal's generous contributions, the feast outshone any recent gathering in the Riverlands. Beneath the celebration, however, every noble nursed calculating thoughts.
The ancient houses of the Riverlands—Blackwood, Bracken, Whent—had never truly accepted House Tully as their paramount lords. They remembered that the Tullys had gained their position by switching sides at the right moments during Aegon's Conquest and Robert's Rebellion. House Whent, though also a vassal, now possessed staggering wealth and military strength. Some lords saw an opportunity to rally behind Harrenhal and challenge Tully authority.
The seating in the Great Hall revealed the divisions clearly. Royalist nobles and opportunists clustered around the Harrenhal tables, eager to win Roman's favor. Loyal Tully bannermen gathered on the opposite side, glaring across the room. Ambitious lords formed whispered factions in the corners, while neutrals kept their heads down and enjoyed the Whent pastries.
On the surface everyone toasted the harvest and congratulated Lord Hoster. In truth, every lord calculated which side he would choose when civil war came.
The tension sharpened during the formal ball. Southern lords still feared the draconic horns on Roman's skull, but greed won out. They urged their marriageable daughters to invite the massive Whent heir to dance.
Edmure watched Roman dominate the feast with a mix of envy and smug satisfaction. He knew Roman had never been a skilled dancer.
"Roman, my friend!" Edmure laughed, clapping him on the shoulder after a clumsy waltz. "You need a dancing master. You spend all your time on ledgers or patrolling borders. Do you even know how to relax?"
Roman's polite mask stayed in place, but inside he scoffed. If I had the luxury of free time for court dances, Edmure, House Whent would have been wiped out by the Lannisters months ago.
He offered a self-deprecating reply, and the banquet ended in a tense, uneasy atmosphere.
Lord Hoster had hoped to reassert his dominance over his vassals. Instead the feast became an open display of Harrenhal's supremacy.
With his diplomatic duty complete, Roman mobilized the Vanguard and rode back to Harrenhal. He had far more pressing matters than the petty politics of the fish lords.
Phase Three: Crackclaw Point
Crackclaw Point was a rugged peninsula of treacherous pine forests, deep bogs, and dense valleys. When Aegon the Conqueror burned Harrenhal, the people of Crackclaw had submitted to Queen Visenya without resistance. In return she made them direct vassals of the Iron Throne, independent of any Lord Paramount.
The Crackclaw folk remained fiercely loyal to the Targaryen bloodline. They had fought to the end beside Prince Rhaegar during Robert's Rebellion and still called themselves the truest subjects of the dragon kings.
Roman meant to bind the peninsula to Harrenhal through his draconic reputation and forge a militarized alliance.
The terrain made unity among the local petty lords nearly impossible. In peacetime they fought savage blood feuds among themselves.
Roman had sent a raven ahead with a diplomatic letter. As the Vanguard moved through a thick, foggy pine forest, the savages ambushed them.
In the dense canopy Fili's aerial reconnaissance proved almost useless. Roman relied on his scouts and his Pale Flame Vision to spot thermal signatures.
When his glowing eyes picked out a large group of armed men hidden in the brush beside the road, he spurred his horse forward and called into the fog.
"I am Lord Roman Rivers of Harrenhal! I come at the formal invitation of your lords. Lower your weapons or face slaughter."
The Crackclaw men ignored the warning and charged with war cries.
A disorganized mob of lightly armed fighters stood no chance against disciplined professional soldiers. They slammed into the interlocking wall of Whent heavy infantry shields and died in droves—cut down by crossbow bolts, skewered on spears, or hacked apart by axes.
Roman ordered the heavy cavalry to form a protective ring around Fili. He drew his massive recurve bow and loosed three shots into the canopy, dropping three hidden archers who had thought themselves safe.
Under the all-seeing Pale Flame Vision, no ambush could succeed.
The sheer mechanical violence of the Vanguard shattered the attackers' morale. They dropped their rusted weapons and fell to their knees, begging for surrender.
A Whent sergeant stepped forward and punched the lead savage across the face with a mailed fist. "Speak, dog! Who ordered you to attack a diplomatic envoy?"
Roman dismounted in silence and walked to the front of the kneeling crowd.
He let his draconic aura flare. White flame and crackling blue lightning erupted across his gauntlets and shoulders. The scaled tail lashed behind him, horns prominent on his skull.
The resentment in the savages' eyes vanished, replaced by raw religious terror.
"By the Gods!" the leader screamed, pressing his forehead into the mud. "My lord, forgive us! We thought you were the usurper Baratheon's men come to tax us. We had no idea the White Dragon had come to the peninsula!"
"Forgive us, Your Grace!" another man sobbed. "We have always stayed loyal to the blood of House Targaryen. We will guide you to the keep at once!"
Roman stared down at them in cold silence. Just as they believed the Dragon King would burn them to ash, he waved his hand and extinguished the flames.
"I grant you one chance to live," he said, voice flat and commanding. "This ambush was treason against my banner. Your dead comrades paid the blood price for your ignorance. If there is a next time… you know what will happen to this forest."
The survivors thanked him frantically for his mercy and scrambled to help the Whent soldiers bury the corpses.
Guided by the terrified men, the Vanguard navigated the winding bogs and reached the local lord's "fortress"—a cluster of crumbling stone towers. Nothing larger could stand on the sinking ground.
The native houses—Brune, Crabb, Celtigar—were described in the old lore as half-savages. Seeing the squalor, Roman concluded the entire peninsula had gone feral. The smallfolk lived in appalling conditions, barely surviving the harsh winters.
The local nobles emerged from the crumbling gates, already terrified their subjects had sparked a war. They stopped short at the sight before them.
Roman sat alone at the head of the Vanguard on his white destrier, black bat sigil of House Whent on his chest. He made no effort to hide his glowing blue eyes, draconic horns, or the sparks of dragonflame on his armor.
"By the Gods…" Lord Brune gasped, dropping to his knees. "Are you truly Lord Roman? Has House Whent brought dragons back to Westeros?"
The isolated lords and people of Crackclaw distrusted all outsiders. Roman knew the only reliable path to their loyalty was this theatrical display of power.
The gamble succeeded. The Crackclaw families had never felt true loyalty to the Baratheon throne. Now a fellow Royalist house had produced a living dragon—even if he was young.
Wild rumors that Roman Rivers was the reincarnation of the Dragon Kings spread like wildfire. Roman neither confirmed nor denied them. Let the superstitious smallfolk weave their myths. The more exaggerated the tales became, the easier the Lannisters would dismiss them as swamp ravings.
With their religious awe secured, Roman and the Crackclaw lords quickly negotiated a trade and infrastructure pact.
Crackclaw would export ancient pine timber, specialized reeds, and rare bog herbs to Harrenhal. They would also send their troublesome mountain savages to join the Whent Vanguard, where they would be disciplined and trained as heavy infantry.
In exchange, Harrenhal would fund and build a paved macadam highway linking the peninsula to the port of Maidenpool, integrating Crackclaw into the wider economy.
Roman added one strict condition: blood feuds must never interfere with Harrenhal's trade caravans. Any lord who broke the peace would forfeit his lands, which the other nobles could seize.
Crackclaw could not be conquered by force alone—the bogs had swallowed armies before. Roman intended to assimilate the savages through economic development and steady pressure.
The peninsula had decayed into a wasteland from centuries of neglect. Under Harrenhal's oversight it would become a valuable, fiercely loyal military asset.
When word of Roman's bloodless conquest of Crackclaw reached Maidenpool, House Mooton grew even more eager to tie themselves to Harrenhal's rising power.
Roman's relentless expansion stirred the stagnant politics of the Riverlands and awakened dangerous ambitions among the surrounding lords.