To ensure the journey was secure, Lady Shella Whent specifically ordered Old Jessy to assemble a heavily armed force of 1,500 men to escort the royal tax money.
Ostensibly, this massive retinue was meant to deter river pirates from stealing the Iron Throne's gold. In reality, everyone knew the small army was meant to protect Roman Rivers.
The moment a force of 1,500 Harrenhal soldiers entered King's Landing, the political dynamic of the capital would shift significantly.
Roman remembered the original storyline all too well. When Eddard Stark was eventually outmaneuvered by Cersei Lannister, he had lacked the necessary military force to arrest her. Forced to seek help from Littlefinger and Janos Slynt's City Watch, Ned had ultimately walked directly into his own execution.
Roman had no intention of repeating the honorable fool's mistakes.
"I cannot help but worry what the future holds for us outside these walls. I hope this journey goes smoothly," Roman murmured as they stood on the docks.
Old Jessy scoffed, adjusting his sword belt. "Do not fret, my lord. Those peacocks on the Iron Throne rely on the Riverlands and the Reach to keep their bellies full. Unless King Robert has completely lost his wits, he will not dare move against you."
The surrounding Harrenhal guards seemed to agree, laughing and chatting without a care in the world.
Roman and his retinue slowly boarded the massive cargo galleys that would transport the Whent grain and gold dragons downriver to King's Landing.
As the richest and most resource-abundant territory in the Riverlands, Harrenhal possessed an incredible fleet of heavy transport ships. Roman had no doubt that if the downstream channels of the Blackwater Rush were wider, Harrenhal's shipwrights would have built even larger vessels.
Yet even the grandest warship in Westeros felt small when floating upon the Gods Eye.
The lake was as vast as an inland sea. A gentle breeze caused the crystal-clear water to shimmer beautifully in the sunlight, revealing massive schools of fish swimming below.
It was no wonder the people of the Gods Eye were so full of energy and stamina; having access to such a boundless, nutrient-rich food supply made all the difference.
Meanwhile, inside the Red Keep of King's Landing.
The atmosphere inside the Small Council chamber was suffocatingly heavy.
King Robert Baratheon, Hand of the King Jon Arryn, Master of Whisperers Varys, and Master of Coin Petyr "Littlefinger" Baelish were all gathered around the table.
None of them looked pleased.
House Whent of Harrenhal had always been a massive geopolitical thorn in the side of the Iron Throne.
The territory sat menacingly between King's Landing and the Trident, maintaining absolute control over the Gods Eye and the crucial Golden Waterway.
During Aegon's Conquest, when the Targaryens marched on Harren the Black, they had been ambushed from the water and suffered heavy casualties. The river defenses were so impenetrable that Aegon was forced to personally mount Balerion and burn Harren's longships to ash.
Originally, the Small Council had assumed Harrenhal would smoothly revert back to the Crown upon Lady Shella's passing. But out of nowhere, a boy named Roman Rivers had appeared to shatter their expectations.
King Robert stared at Lady Shella's raven scroll. He exhaled a heavy breath reeking of sour wine and glared at the council.
"Does anyone actually know who this Roman Rivers is? Varys?"
The Master of Whisperers, a plump, bald eunuch wrapped in powdered silks, was renowned across the realm as a master spy. He commanded a vast network of child spies he affectionately called his "little birds."
Yet, for once, the Spider looked genuinely troubled.
"Your Grace, I am afraid my little birds in Harrenhal have gone completely silent. The castle staff claims they were eaten by ghosts. Currently, all we know is that Lady Shella claims to have found this boy abandoned in the wild."
"A ghost? An abandoned foundling?" Jon Arryn scoffed in sheer disbelief. "And a high lord's widow simply bestows the noble name of Rivers upon a wild boy to make him her heir? Have you lost your mind, Varys?"
As the Hand of the King and a staunch traditionalist, Jon Arryn understood better than anyone how fiercely noble houses protected their bloodlines. He flatly refused to believe Varys's report; there had to be a deeper, more sinister political plot at play.
"Lord Arryn, calm yourself. We simply lack the necessary information to draw a conclusion. Let us investigate further before we panic," Littlefinger interjected smoothly, easing the tension with a charming smile.
"As it happens, Harrenhal's taxes are due, and this Roman Rivers is currently sailing down the Blackwater to deliver them. We will have the opportunity to meet the boy ourselves very soon."
Robert rubbed his temples. His hangover made his skull throb, and listening to his council bicker about an unknown bastard was making it worse. Trying to rack his brain over Riverlands politics was giving him a headache.
"Gods be damned, forget about the Whent boy for now. We can deal with him when he arrives. Let us discuss the upcoming tourney..."
"Your Grace, absolutely not!" Jon Arryn slammed a hand on the table. "We already owe Lord Tywin Lannister millions of gold dragons! We cannot borrow another copper for your games!"
Here we go again, Jon Arryn thought, rubbing his eyes in utter exhaustion as Robert began to shout back.
Precious time wasted on meaningless, debt-fueled squabbles—such was the daily reality of the Red Keep.
Aboard the leading Harrenhal galley, Roman spent his days diligently practicing his magic.
After weeks of careful observation and reading through Maester Tom's dusty tomes on Valyrian history, Roman was absolutely certain his Pale Flame was a direct product of high magic.
It is strange, Roman thought, staring at a white ember dancing across his knuckles. The Red Comet has not appeared in the sky yet. How am I able to channel magic so freely?
According to canon lore, the worldwide resurgence of magic and the hatching of Daenerys Targaryen's dragons were intrinsically linked to the arrival of the Red Comet. Without it, her eggs should have remained stone.
Yet Roman could actively sense the flow of magic around him. Whenever he focused his draconic energy into his eyes, he could visibly perceive the spark of life energy within the people around him.
The aura surrounding Old Jessy was condensed and slightly dimmed by age, but still remarkably sturdy. In contrast, the life flames of the younger guards burned much larger and wilder.
Is this their soul? Their life force?
The ability to see the strength of a man's life force would be incredibly useful for spotting hidden assassins or evaluating potential threats in King's Landing.
Beyond simply summoning his Pale Flame, Roman had spent hours trying to infuse the fire into his steel weapons, though every attempt ended in frustrating failure.
He theorized his magical reserves simply weren't vast enough yet, as igniting non-flammable materials like cold steel required an immense output of raw power.
I suppose I am still a long way from being a true dragon.
Setting aside his magical experiments for the day, Roman shifted his focus to physical combat training on the ship's deck.
Ever since fully awakening his flames, Roman's physical strength had experienced another massive surge. The heavy steel warhammer he wielded now felt dangerously light in his hands.
Weapons that ordinary soldiers struggled to lift were swung by Roman so fast they left blurring afterimages in the air. Consequently, the guards had become entirely reluctant to spar with him.
Even in a group spar, Roman could easily shatter a man's wooden shield or dent a steel breastplate with a casual, restrained tap of his hammer.
Left with no willing opponents, Roman was forced to practice his forms alone.
Old Jessy carefully analyzed the boy's monstrous growth and devised a new training regimen.
"My lord, your greatest advantage is your overwhelming raw power. Traditional heavy-weapon techniques rely on momentum and gravity, which you no longer need," Old Jessy explained. "I suggest you adapt standard quarterstaff forms to your hammer."
The veteran figured that since Roman was swinging a heavy warhammer as effortlessly as a wooden stick, he might as well utilize the blinding speed and fluid transitions of staff fighting.
Under Old Jessy's expert guidance, Roman quickly found his rhythm.
Every morning and evening, the crew would watch Roman drill on the deck. Seeing the heavy steel hammer blur through the air in a fluid, whistling arc, every soldier silently agreed they would rather jump overboard than fight their new lord in open combat.
After several days of smooth sailing, the Harrenhal fleet finally drifted south from the Gods Eye, merging into the rushing currents of the Blackwater.
Soon, the towering red walls of King's Landing appeared on the horizon.
However, Roman's first impression of the royal capital was not awe at its grandeur, but sheer, overwhelming revulsion at its stench.
"By the gods... does this city not have a functioning sewer system? Why does it smell like a rotting corpse?" Roman gagged, leaning over the ship's rail.
He simply couldn't endure it. Having lived in the clean, windswept heights of Harrenhal, he had completely forgotten the canonical detail that King's Landing was an open sewer.
Reading about the filth in a book was one thing; experiencing the suffocating wall of odor firsthand was a completely different nightmare.
Old Jessy and the guards quickly pulled their cloaks up to cover their noses.
"King Robert can seemingly afford to host lavish tourneys every moon, yet he cannot spare a copper to dig a proper drain?" Roman muttered in disbelief.
"Alas, the mighty Demon of the Trident has fallen far," Old Jessy sighed, a hint of genuine sorrow in his voice for the once-great warrior king.
Roman, however, understood the bitter truth. This was Robert Baratheon's fundamental nature.
Some men were born solely to conquer on the battlefield. When you forcefully bound a warrior like that with a golden crown, they simply rusted away into useless iron.