296 AC
Harrenhal
King Robert Baratheon had sent five heavily stamped letters urging Roman to host a grand tournament. Lady Shella had little choice but to accept the royal command.
Roman knew the King was not simply honoring an old drunken promise from King's Landing. Harrenhal held too much geopolitical weight. For the Iron Throne to demand a gathering of the Great Houses here carried clear intent. Robert wanted something.
For now, Roman could only prepare the fortress and wait to see how the King's game unfolded.
In the high chambers of the Kingspyre Tower, Roman leaned against the doorframe and watched Lady Shella's senior handmaids dress Fili. They wrapped the young Apostle in an elegant gown of fine Myrish silk that radiated quiet nobility.
Fili, who had grown up starving in the slums of Flea Bottom, had never worn anything so delicate. She stood rigid, afraid to move her arms lest she tear the fabric. She looked at Roman with uneasy blue eyes.
"Lord Roman," she whispered, "is it truly appropriate for me to sit at the high table? I would much rather help Maester Tom in the kitchens with the roasting spits."
"Relax, Fili. It is fine," Roman chuckled, stepping forward to adjust her silver necklace. "You will stand by my side for the rest of our lives anyway. We might as well introduce you to the highborn vultures now. You do not need to speak to them if you prefer. I will handle the diplomatic venom."
Once Fili looked comfortable, Roman stepped onto the high balcony and looked down at Harrenhal's grand banquet hall.
The cursed black stone of the central keep, reshaped by his Pale Flame, now gleamed a smooth, haunting white. Visiting nobles had already begun calling it the "Milk Castle."
Roman despised the tedious nature of Southern banquets and rarely used the hall. Now, decorated with vibrant Whent banners and massive tapestries, the space felt almost alien to him.
"Alright," he muttered, draconic eyes narrowing. "Let us see what the fat stag is plotting."
When the feast began, the VIP guests arrived with punctual precision.
The royal Baratheon and Lannister families, the Starks of the North, the Tullys of the Riverlands, and the Tyrells of the Reach had all gathered under one roof. The courtyards felt more crowded and politically charged than they had been since the Year of the False Spring.
Lady Shella gazed down at the familiar sight of all the Great Houses assembled in her home. Memories of Prince Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark resurfaced, and the elderly matriarch trembled.
"Lady Shella," Roman stepped from the shadows and took her wrinkled hands in his gauntlets. "I am right here. History will not repeat itself."
Looking into Roman's steady, glowing eyes, Shella's panic eased. She took a deep breath, and together with Roman and Fili, she descended the grand staircase to greet the rulers of Westeros.
As Roman entered the courtyard, vibrant flags fluttered in the wind—direwolf, crowned stag, leaping trout, and golden rose.
After a brief exchange of formal pleasantries, Lady Shella led the royal procession into the newly renovated banquet hall.
The cavernous space was warmed by massive hearths fueled by contained embers of Roman's White Flame, creating a cozy atmosphere without smoke. New windows had been cut into the ancient walls and fitted with Harrenhal's perfectly flat, translucent glass—each pane costly enough to bankrupt a minor lord.
Royal musicians played from the gallery as the feast commenced. Under Roman's guidance, an endless parade of exotic dishes—complex Southern spices, specialized sauces, and preserved fruits—arrived on Harrenhal's signature blue-glazed bone china.
The hall was not garishly decorated with cheap gold, yet any experienced noble could sense the quiet wealth required to host such an event.
Roman and Lady Shella sat at the center of the high table, flanked by the Lord Paramounts. The younger nobles gathered at the lower tables according to house allegiance.
"By the Gods, you are a good lad, Roman!" King Robert boomed, slapping him on the shoulder. "You know your logistics! You promised me a proper feast and you delivered!"
"Come on! Let us drink!" Robert raised a massive horn of ale. "I have abstained from heavy drinking for a fortnight just for this day!"
Roman studied the King. The sickly, bloated look from two years ago had faded. Robert's voice sounded rough but steady, and the constant heavy panting was gone.
Eddard Stark looked visibly pleased by his old friend's recovery. Robert had once complained that the Iron Throne felt like a cage surrounded by treacherous lions. Now, free of constant inebriation, some of his old booming bravery had returned.
Nearby, the Tullys used the reunion to reconnect with old allies.
"It is a tragedy that my sister Lysa refused to leave the Eyrie," Catelyn sighed, looking at her father. "Otherwise our entire family could have reunited."
Her innocent words sent Lord Hoster into a long silence. The dying lord knew exactly how much trauma he had caused Lysa by forcing her to drink the moon tea to abort Petyr Baelish's child. It made sense that his broken daughter would not face him.
At the lower tables, Garlan Tyrell chatted and laughed with the Riverlords, but his sharp eyes never left Roman. He noted every subtle movement and the drastic change in the Whent heir's demonic appearance.
Loras Tyrell did the same. While the handsome Knight of Flowers charmed several young noblewomen with fresh roses, his competitive focus stayed locked on Roman.
Unlike his brother, Loras cared little for Roman's political or economic power. He had heard the rumors: that Roman had sparred with and defeated King Robert, Ser Barristan Selmy, and Garlan, and had knocked Jaime Lannister unconscious with a single unarmored punch.
Those stories fed Loras's arrogance and competitive spirit. He spent the evening assessing the physical gap between himself and the massive Riverlord, quietly calculating his chances in the upcoming joust.
Back at the high table, Roman deflected the King's boisterousness. "Your Majesty's ability to conquer the wine cup is a blessing from the Seven. With a sober, powerful stag leading the realm, it will prosper."
"Bah! Enough of your flowery Southern nonsense!" Robert laughed, waving his hand. "I see you have sprouted actual horns this time, lad! The maesters at the Citadel are writing ravens claiming you are some reincarnated dragon. Their heads must be stuffed with moldy books!"
"Your Majesty is wise," Roman replied with a self-deprecating smile. "If a fire-breathing dragon truly ran in my blood, how could the Targaryens have been defeated by your warhammer? The maesters of Harrenhal examined me. They say I suffer from a bizarre localized bone-growth ailment and are writing endless medical reports on my horns."
Roman's smooth deflection made Robert burst into genuine laughter. As the King turned back to drinking and reminiscing about the Rebellion with Eddard and Hoster, Roman slipped away from the high table.
Freed from the Lord Paramounts, he was immediately swarmed by ambitious noble ladies from the Great Houses.
Sansa Stark, ignoring the demonic horns thanks to her romanticized view of him as a chivalrous hero, approached with a flawless curtsy. "Ser Roman, I have waited eagerly for this moment since Winterfell. Please, you must not miss the opening ball!"
Roman felt awkward. Loras and Garlan stood across the hall—both far more elegant dancers and natural heartthrobs. Still, out of politeness to House Stark, he accepted.
The moment he escorted Sansa back to her mother, the "Little Rose" intercepted him.
"Lord Roman, it is an honor to meet you in person," Margaery Tyrell smiled, doe eyes looking up with calculated innocence. "I am Margaery Tyrell. My brother Garlan has spoken highly of you. We must thank you for hosting this banquet; it has united the entire realm."
Roman glanced at the political heirs of Stark and Tyrell, then spotted a large group of eager minor noblewomen maneuvering to reach him next. A headache began to form behind his eyes.
At that moment, a fresh, delicate floral fragrance cut through the heavy perfumes of the hall.
Roman smiled inwardly. Fili has arrived.
Under the stunned gaze of the entire court, Fili descended the staircase. In the understated Myrish silk, she radiated elegant, unapproachable nobility.
After two years of proper nutrition and safety, she had blossomed into a stunning young woman. Her presence combined innocent purity and quiet confidence, effortlessly overshadowing Queen Cersei's flamboyant arrogance and Margaery's composed dignity.
Robert and Eddard had met Fili before, but only in plain travel leathers. They had thought her merely a pretty servant. They were unprepared for how dazzling she now appeared.
"Hahaha!" Robert boomed, slamming his cup down. "The scholars say clothes make the man, and by the Gods, I finally understand! Roman, you lucky bastard! You struck gold pulling such a beauty out of the King's Landing gutters!"
Roman kept a polite smile, but inwardly he sneered. That is because King's Landing is a rotting cesspool. If I hadn't pulled her from the slums, she would have starved or been murdered by your Gold Cloaks. I didn't find her—I saved her.
Noticing Roman's exhaustion, Fili stepped forward with calm confidence and politely dismissed Margaery and Sansa.
"My ladies," she smiled warmly, tone leaving no room for argument, "Lord Roman must attend to private matters of state with His Grace the King. If you need assistance navigating Harrenhal, please direct your inquiries to me."
As Roman slipped away, the highborn guests stared at the impossibly beautiful Apostle in shock, forgetting the expensive delicacies before them.
The rest of the evening followed the tedious routine of Southern court dancing. Roman had no natural talent for waltzes and relied on his partners to guide his large frame. Strangely, his slightly awkward, stiff movements only made him seem more "martial" and charming to the noble ladies. Several highborn daughters began elbowing each other for the next dance, leaving Loras Tyrell visibly baffled.
Once his social obligations ended, Roman, flushed from the heat and crowd, slipped out of the hall and climbed the winding stairs of the Kingspyre Tower for fresh air.
On the secluded, windswept balcony, he was unsurprised to find King Robert waiting in the shadows.
"Your Grace?" Roman asked, stepping into the moonlight. "You requested me here?"
Robert nodded. His jovial, drunken mask dropped. He gripped Roman's armored shoulder and launched into a convoluted monologue praising Harrenhal's wealth, infrastructure, and abundance.
Roman's internal alarms rang. When did the blunt Stag King start speaking like a sycophant?
He raised a hand politely. "Your Grace, you cornered me on a dark balcony during the grandest feast in years. You did not do this merely to compliment my masonry. Speak plainly. What does the Iron Throne require of Harrenhal?"
"Ha! I love it when you drop the political poetry!" Robert grinned, visibly relieved. "The Iron Throne's treasury is bleeding dry. We are short on liquid coin. I need to borrow a substantial sum from House Whent."
Roman's face stayed deadpan. "…Really?"
"How much exactly does Your Grace wish to borrow?"
"Four hundred thousand gold dragons," Robert said casually.
"Four hundred…!" Roman nearly choked. "Your Grace, you overestimate Harrenhal's liquid reserves. Where am I supposed to find nearly half a million gold dragons in pure cash?"
Robert grew defensive. "Do not lie to your King, boy! My Master of Coin calculates your daily export revenue from iron tools, glass, and bone china at over ten thousand dragons a week. How could you not have the coin?"
"Gross revenue is not net profit," Roman replied firmly. "I must reinvest heavily into raw materials, wages, and the massive costs of rebuilding this ruin. My overhead is staggering. We are barely breaking even."
"I cannot loan the Crown such a sum without severe collateral," Roman continued. "The Iron Throne's debt to Tywin Lannister and the Iron Bank is already enormous and growing. This would be a terrible investment—I would never see that gold again."
Despite Robert's aggressive pleading and royal cajoling, Roman refused to yield. He would not become the Iron Throne's newest financial hostage.
Finally, Robert sighed and played his trump card.
"Fine. How about this," the King said, eyes glinting. "You agree to export your glass and porcelain to the Crown at a subsidized, lowered tariff rate. In exchange, I will issue a Royal Decree granting Harrenhal unchecked legal authority to expand your city borders and annex surrounding lands without interference from Riverrun. I will also open the Royal Fleet to transport Whent cargo across the Narrow Sea at a fraction of the standard costs."
Roman paused, eyes narrowing as he calculated the implications.
The proposal interested him. Instead of handing over hard cash, Robert offered to become Harrenhal's primary subsidized buyer. Roman would lose a small margin on sales, but he would gain legal certification for territorial expansion and access to Westeros's largest naval network—bypassing Hoster Tully's authority entirely.
This arrangement has no downside, Roman realized with satisfaction.
He met Robert's eyes. "The framework is acceptable, Your Grace. We will negotiate the exact tariff percentages and draft the decrees with our maesters tomorrow."
Robert let out a booming sigh of relief. He no longer needed liquid cash for his tourneys; he could buy Harrenhal's luxury goods at a steep discount and resell them to Southern lords at a profit. It was far easier than begging Tywin for another loan.
All it cost him was a few signatures granting the Whents more land.
The King and the Dragon shook hands in the moonlight, both satisfied they had gotten the better deal.
"Alright, Your Grace, we should return to the hall," Roman said, gesturing to the stairs. "With both the host and the King absent for so long, the lords below will start whispering dangerous rumors."
"Bah! Let them whisper!" Robert laughed, clapping Roman on the back. "They wouldn't dare say a word to my face. I am already generous by letting them eat my food. If they have a problem, they can take it up with my warhammer!"
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