The massive Harrenhal cargo fleet eventually docked at the bustling port of the Blackwater Rush. As the ships dropped anchor, Roman and his towering escort immediately drew the attention of the local dockworkers.
Even though King's Landing was the largest port city in the realm, receiving a constant, daily influx of merchant vessels, it was still incredibly rare to see a single lord field such an immense private fleet all at once.
But when the dockworkers spotted the black-and-yellow crest of the nine bats fluttering from the masts, they immediately understood.
"Ah, the bats of Harrenhal. That makes sense."
House Whent certainly possessed the wealth and logistical capability to pull off such a display. The locals wisely scrambled out of the way, eager to avoid jeopardizing royal business.
Once Old Jessy stepped ashore, he barked a series of orders to organize the boatmen and begin unloading the royal taxes. Roman, naturally, did not need to assist with the manual labor. Having nothing else to do, he simply crossed his arms and took up a defensive posture near the main gangway.
To safely conceal the thick draconic tail sprouting from his spine, Roman had ordered his entire retinue to don long, flowing black cloaks over their armor for the duration of the trip.
To the passing smallfolk of King's Landing, Roman simply looked like an incredibly well-built, ordinary soldier.
"Gods, look at the size of that guardsman! He's practically bursting out of his boiled leather. He's completely different from the rest of his squad," a merchant muttered to his friend.
"By the Warrior's sword, I'd wager that lad is a seasoned killer!"
"If that brute ever fought in the King's tourney, I would absolutely bet my last copper on him!"
Roman was instantly surrounded by a buzzing hive of whispered gossip. Some praised his physique, some sneered in disdain, some women openly swooned over his sharp features, and several arrogant sellswords glared at him, eager for a chance to test his mettle.
It was unavoidable. Roman might technically be an unknown bastard, but with his ruggedly handsome face, glowing pale blue eyes, and towering, draconic physique, he naturally commanded the center of attention.
Roman ignored the whispers entirely. He kept his hand resting on the pommel of his weapon and scanned the crowd with predatory focus. This was his first time venturing so far from his sanctuary, and he absolutely refused to jeopardize Lady Shella's political mission.
After Old Jessy settled the exorbitant docking fees with the harbor master, the massive Harrenhal convoy, now escorted by a detachment of the gold-cloaked City Watch, began the long march up Aegon's High Hill to the Red Keep.
What Roman saw and smelled along the way instantly cemented his initial revulsion.
King's Landing was an absolute cesspool!
The stench of rotting garbage and raw sewage was overpowering. Even after enduring it for an hour, Roman's stomach still violently churned.
It seems that having drastically enhanced draconic senses is not always a blessing, Roman thought bitterly, pinching the bridge of his nose.
However, the agonizing smell was far from the only "surprise" the capital had in store for him.
Marching up the Street of the Sisters, Roman saw squalid brothels, gambling dens, and cheap alehouses packed tightly together. The sheer volume of emaciated beggars, crippled veterans, and brazen pickpockets flooding the streets made it look as though a slum had recently been carpet-bombed, forcing the desperate survivors to spill into the main avenues.
Seeing the look of absolute, unshielded disgust on Roman's face, Old Jessy couldn't help but burst into a raspy laugh.
"This is King's Landing, my lord! A grand, gilded city filled to the brim with horse shit and whores! You had better get used to the scenery, because as a lord of the realm, you will be summoned back here quite often!"
Roman had a thousand scathing insults he wanted to hurl at the capital, but he ultimately swallowed them, releasing a long, defeated sigh.
The chaotic misery and overwhelming squalor of Flea Bottom completely extinguished whatever romantic, high-fantasy illusions Roman might have harbored about the royal capital. Now, his only desire was to get behind the thick stone walls of the Red Keep as quickly as possible.
As the Harrenhal procession finally approached the towering bronze gates of the Red Keep, Roman was shocked to see King Robert Baratheon standing in the main courtyard, surrounded by his Kingsguard and Small Council, waiting to personally receive them.
"What is the meaning of this, Master Jessy? Is this a royal show of force?" Roman muttered, his eyes narrowing.
Old Jessy glanced at the royal entourage and answered calmly, "King Robert is likely standing out here purely because of you, my lord. The Crown rarely shows this level of formal respect for a simple tax delivery. You must step forward and address him yourself. You are the official voice of House Whent now."
Across the courtyard, Robert instantly spotted Roman in the sea of guards. The boy was undeniably the most physically imposing figure in the crowd.
Yet it wasn't Roman's striking black hair, bright blue eyes, or handsome face that caught the King's attention. It was the sheer, predatory confidence with which the boy carried himself.
"Lord Arryn," Robert rumbled, leaning toward his Hand. "Do you reckon that giant is the Rivers boy?"
"Your Grace, I have never seen the lad before today," Jon Arryn replied cautiously.
"Oh, do not play coy with me, Jon! Just look at the size of the lad! Look at the fire in his eyes! I guarantee you, he is a born killer!"
Jon Arryn sighed deeply. His royal foster son had instantly slipped back into his old, boorish habits.
For Robert Baratheon, unless a person was an immediate family member, they only held value if they could fight, drink, or whore.
It was plainly obvious that Robert desperately wanted to drag the Whent boy into the training yard for a sparring match. Jon Arryn knew he would have to work overtime to keep the king focused on politics rather than brawling.
Old Jessy stepped forward, signaling the Harrenhal vanguard to halt, and led the commanding officers in a deep bow.
"Your Grace. May the Father grant your reign lasting peace, and the Smith grant you victory. We bring House Whent's annual tax revenue."
Old Jessy then turned slightly, gesturing toward the towering young man beside him. "Furthermore, I present our liege, Lord Roman Rivers, the officially recognized heir to Harrenhal."
By explicitly declaring Roman as the undisputed heir in front of the entire court, Old Jessy caused a visible ripple of tension to pass through the Small Council. Varys and Littlefinger exchanged subtle, calculating glances.
Robert, however, seemed entirely unbothered by the political implications.
"Ha! Lady Shella wrote to me of your adoption! Welcome to King's Landing, boy!"
With a booming laugh, Robert stepped forward and aggressively grabbed Roman's right hand to shake it.
Roman initially assumed it was a standard, formal greeting. But the moment their palms connected, Robert's grip tightened like a steel vise.
Damn it! The fat stag is trying to test my strength!
Roman's expression shifted slightly. Without missing a beat, he channeled a fraction of his draconic power and squeezed back with equal, bone-crushing force.
Robert's eyes widened in genuine shock. He had expected the young man's hand to crumple. Thrilled to find someone whose physical power rivaled his own legendary strength, the King grinned and squeezed even harder.
But what happened next completely shattered Robert's expectations.
Instead of wincing or begging for mercy, Roman actively increased his own grip strength. The massive king and the young lord became locked in a silent, agonizing stalemate, their knuckles turning white.
At this point, Jon Arryn, Varys, and Littlefinger all noticed the tense, trembling standoff.
But Roman was a vastly faster thinker. Before the political tension could snap, he squeezed Robert's hand one final, dominant time, before smoothly relaxing his grip and shaking the King's hand vigorously.
"It is a profound honor to meet you, Your Grace. Your legend precedes you."
Robert flexed his aching, numb fingers. He knew he had just been outmatched in raw power, but because Roman had so smoothly transitioned the challenge into a polite greeting, the King couldn't possibly take offense. He could only laugh and clap the boy on the shoulder.
"You have an iron grip, Rivers! Very good!"
Roman then turned and offered polite, perfectly measured greetings to Jon Arryn, Varys, and Littlefinger.
His demeanor did not resemble the arrogant, boastful swagger typical of a newly elevated high lord. Instead, he acted with the deferential, humble grace of a junior speaking to his respected elders.
This completely threw the Small Council off balance. They had prepared dozens of political traps to test an arrogant, impulsive youth, but they had never anticipated Roman being this poised.
They had biting questions they wanted to ask, but Roman's flawless etiquette offered them no openings.
Later that evening, at Jon Arryn's insistence, Robert hosted a lavish welcome feast in the Great Hall.
Throughout the dinner, Varys and Littlefinger repeatedly tried to corner Roman to discern Lady Shella's true political leanings. But Roman expertly deflected their probing questions, offering polite, empty platitudes and insisting he left all grand strategy to his mother's infinite wisdom.
Instead of playing politics, Roman grabbed a flagon of strong ale and boldly offered a toast directly to King Robert.
Roman knew exactly what made the king tick. Robert despised the tedium of ruling; he only truly felt alive when recounting his glory days on the battlefield.
"Your Grace," Roman called out over the music. "I am told you are the greatest hammerman in the history of Westeros. I have recently taken up the warhammer myself. Would you honor me with the tale of your duel at the Trident?"
"Bwahahaha!" Robert roared, slamming his cup on the table. "You are a fascinating lad, Rivers! Come, sit by me! Let us drink and talk of proper steel!"
Thoroughly flattered, Robert enthusiastically launched into a thunderous recounting of his victory over Rhaegar Targaryen. He was so happy to relive his glory days alongside Eddard Stark that he completely abandoned Jon Arryn's strict plan to politically interrogate the Whent heir.
Watching from the lower tables, Littlefinger and Varys realized they were completely boxed out. As long as Roman kept the King entertained with war stories, they couldn't get close enough to extract a single shred of useful information. Jon Arryn could only frown into his wine cup.
This boy is vastly more cunning than we anticipated, the Small Council collectively realized.
The feast dragged on late into the night. Unsurprisingly, Robert eventually drank himself into a heavy, snoring stupor.
Ser Barristan Selmy, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stepped forward with two royal servants to haul the massive, obese king off to his bedchambers. It was a humiliating, physically exhausting daily chore.
As they hoisted the king's dead weight, Barristan suddenly felt Robert's massive bulk become incredibly light.
The old knight blinked in surprise and looked up. He was stunned to see Roman standing opposite him, effortlessly supporting Robert's entire upper body with his bare hands.
What monstrous strength!
Barristan's survival instincts flared instantly. A terrifying sense of lethal danger washed over the legendary knight. He could clearly sense that the young man smiling at him was no ordinary mortal.
"You must be the legendary Ser Barristan the Bold," Roman said, offering a warm, gentle smile. "It is an absolute honor, ser. Allow me to lend you a hand with His Grace."
With Roman easily carrying the lion's share of the weight, the procession to the royal apartments was exceptionally smooth. For the first time in years, the royal servants didn't break a single sweat hauling Robert to bed.
After tucking the king in, the exhausted servants bowed deeply and thanked Roman profusely for his help. Roman merely smiled kindly and waved away their gratitude.
However, as he walked back to his own quarters, Roman casually struck up a friendly conversation with those same servants, subtly and effortlessly extracting crucial details about Robert's daily habits, his moods, and the Queen's schedule.
Watching from the shadows of the corridor, Varys and Jon Arryn narrowed their eyes.
They finally understood exactly why the shrewd Lady Shella Whent had sent this particular boy into the viper's nest.