In his previous life, Roman had never fully understood why intelligent men despised pure stupidity. He used to think arrogant fools were harmless — at worst they provided comic relief.
Since reincarnating into Westeros, he had learned a harsh lesson: when a fool holds real power, their blundering ignorance can wreck carefully built plans without them even noticing.
And right now, he stood before the pinnacle of that arrogant stupidity.
Queen Cersei Lannister.
When Roman and King Robert returned to the banquet hall, chatting and laughing like old comrades, Cersei's jealousy finally snapped.
She had hated Robert since the day they wed — for killing Rhaegar, for whispering Lyanna's name on their wedding night, and now for publicly befriending the bastard who had humiliated her twin brother.
Fueled by wine and spite, Cersei decided to spring what she believed was a brilliant trap. Right in front of the assembled Lord Paramounts, she stepped forward to humiliate Roman and brand him a traitor.
"Ser Roman," Cersei said, her voice cutting through the noise like venom, "disturbing rumors have reached the Red Keep. I hear you have gathered the loyalties of House Darry, House Mooton, and the savages of Crackclaw Point. Tell me, what important matters require so many historically rebellious families to assemble their strength in secret?"
The entire hall fell into dead silence. Even the musicians lowered their lutes.
The implication was clear: a coalition of Targaryen loyalists uniting in secret meant treason.
Cersei had failed to consider one crucial factor: King Robert's current attitude toward the Whent heir.
You stupid woman, Roman thought, eyes narrowing. The King was laughing and shaking hands with me three minutes ago. For you to interrupt his feast and accuse his new financial ally of treason… how badly are you humiliating your own husband?
Robert's face shifted from jovial to thunderous fury. He opened his mouth to roar at his wife, but Roman gripped his arm firmly and spoke first, voice calm and steady.
"Your Grace," Roman said with a polite smile that carried across the silent hall, "House Whent's recent dealings with our neighbors are standard, well-documented trade arrangements. Merchants travel constantly between our ports and naturally talk about our infrastructure projects. Since the Crown has heard of our economic cooperation, I would be honored to provide the Master of Coin with our public ledgers. Perhaps the Iron Throne would like to invest in the new trade routes."
The defense was airtight. Harrenhal had arranged no secret marriage alliances, so Cersei's claims of military rebellion were empty rhetoric. The irony was thick — Mace Tyrell had starved Stannis at Storm's End for a year, yet the Crown still bought grain from the Reach without crying treason.
Cersei saw that no other Lord Paramount supported her. Humiliated, she doubled down.
"I have also heard reports from the residents of Crackclaw Point," she sneered, stepping closer. "They say you subdued them with literal dragonflame. Are you using the cursed name of House Targaryen to terrify them into submission?"
Roman didn't answer. He simply looked at Robert, whose face had turned a dangerous shade of purple. The Queen had crossed the line. He was happy to let the King deal with his wife.
Just as Robert drew breath to unleash a torrent of abuse, a soft, sweet childish voice broke the tension.
"Mother? How exactly am I supposed to eat this strange shell? Can you help me?"
All eyes turned. A beautiful young girl with cascading golden curls and flawless fair skin sat at the royal table. She looked like an innocent mirror of Cersei.
Princess Myrcella Baratheon.
No wonder Ned figures it out, Roman thought. She is the genetic clone of Cersei and Jaime. There is zero Baratheon blood in that child.
Cersei glared at her daughter with embarrassed fury, silently blaming the girl for interrupting.
Robert seized the chance to defuse the situation. He slapped Roman on the back and forced a booming laugh.
"Hahaha! Well, Roman, since you designed this exotic Riverlands menu, go teach Princess Myrcella how to crack those shells!"
Roman bowed and stepped away. Lady Shella quickly ordered the musicians to play a lively Northern jig. The nobles exhaled and returned to their food and drink.
As Roman walked away, Cersei grabbed Robert's sleeve, eyes blazing. "Why are you defending that bastard?! He is clearly—"
"I do not care what paranoid delusions are rotting your brain, Cersei!" Robert hissed, ripping his arm free. "You will never embarrass me in front of Lord Stark and the entire realm again. Do you understand?"
"You favor him only because he humiliated Jaime!" Cersei hissed back.
"He didn't just humiliate Jaime — he knocked your golden brother unconscious with a single punch!" Robert sneered, breath thick with wine. "Has the legendary Kingslayer fallen so low that he needs his sister to fight his battles at the dinner table?"
Cersei nearly exploded with rage, but Robert cut her off again.
"If Jaime wants his pride back, he can strap on his armor and face the Whent boy in the joust tomorrow like a real man. I will happily watch him get knocked off his horse."
Having humiliated his wife, Robert turned his back on her and stomped over to Eddard Stark's table to drink and loudly recount the Battle of the Trident.
Roman reached Princess Myrcella. The only dish before her was a plate of stir-fried Riverlands clams — already opened. She had not needed help.
He looked into her bright emerald eyes, sparkling with curiosity and warm intelligence.
She interrupted on purpose to save me from a treason charge.
Touched by the girl's kindness and political awareness, Roman offered a respectful knight's bow.
"Your Grace," he asked softly, "may I have the honor of sitting beside you?"
"Of course, Ser Roman," Myrcella smiled sweetly.
Under Sansa Stark's jealous gaze from across the room, Roman sat with the princess and introduced her to the local cuisine.
Harrenhal's freshwater clams tasted different from King's Landing seafood. Roman had combined them with Southern spices and rich butter sauces using modern techniques.
He patiently explained the dishes and engaged Myrcella in light, pleasant conversation suited to her age.
Roman was willing to spend time with someone as kind and doomed as Myrcella. Despite her youth and parentage, she showed a gentle wisdom Cersei lacked. It saddened him to remember her canon fate — losing an ear and half her face to Darkstar in Dorne.
Thinking of that tragedy, Roman's draconic aura softened. His tone grew gentle as he treated her with genuine respect.
Myrcella seemed surprised. As a royal princess she had never received such warm, uncomplicated kindness from her own family. Her mother was a paranoid narcissist, Robert ignored her, and Joffrey was a bully.
For a moment she looked dazed. Roman's massive presence enveloped her, but it felt safe rather than frightening.
Soon Myrcella opened up, a bright happy smile on her face as she chatted freely.
"Kittens are so cute, Ser Roman," she sighed. "But Mother refuses to let me keep one in the Red Keep. She says they are filthy and will ruin the Myrish carpets."
"That is a tragedy, Your Grace," Roman smiled. "I have heard Harrenhal has well-trained hunting hounds that catch mice and track bandits. But do you have any smaller dogs bred purely for companionship?"
"Ser Roman, this fish is delicious! What spices did you use?!"
Cersei watched Roman laugh and talk with her daughter. Jealous resentment twisted in her chest. She feared the bastard was manipulating the girl, but she dared not cause another scene after Robert's warning. She sat rigid, already plotting how to destroy Roman in the shadows.
At the Northern table, Sansa bit down hard on her silver fork, staring at Myrcella with open jealousy. The princess was monopolizing her chivalrous "Dragon Knight."
Roman, ever pragmatic, had other diplomatic duties that night. Once Myrcella seemed content, he excused himself and walked to the Stark table carrying a fresh slice of lemon cake on a porcelain plate.
"Lady Sansa," he smiled, setting the plate before her. "I remembered your fondness for lemon cakes from our time in Winterfell. I asked the head chef to prepare this batch with imported Dornish lemons just for you. I hope you enjoy it."
The thoughtful gesture melted Sansa's jealousy. She abandoned her sulking and happily lost herself in the sweet pastry and her chivalric daydreams.
Robb Stark shook his head with an amused sigh. "You can stop swooning, Sansa. Look — your gallant Ser Roman has already moved on to court the Tyrell Rose."
Further down the table, Jon Snow watched the royal family in silence. He glanced between the laughing Myrcella and the glaring Cersei, puzzled.
"It is strange," Jon muttered. "The Queen and the Princess look almost identical, yet their personalities are so different."
Bran Stark, busy stuffing his face with a pork and egg dumpling, spoke up casually between bites.
"Speaking of appearances, Jon, don't you find it weird? The Princess and the Princes look exactly like the Queen and the Kingslayer… but none of them have any of the King's features. Their hair is the wrong color. All of King Robert's Baratheon ancestors and his bastards have pitch-black hair."
At the high table, two men froze.
Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King.
Stannis Baratheon, the Master of Ships.
Bran's innocent observation hit them like a thunderbolt. The two seasoned politicians turned their heads and locked eyes. Then they both looked toward the royal children's golden hair and Robert's thick black beard.
A chilling suspicion took root. They realized they needed to investigate the royal lineage — in secret.
Cersei Lannister, seated nearby with sharp hearing, had caught every word.
Her face remained composed, but her blood ran cold. Terror and murderous rage gripped her.
She no longer had the luxury of worrying about Roman Rivers. A far more immediate, lethal threat had appeared.
Curse you, Cersei thought, green eyes locking onto the young Northern boy with cold intent. Curse you to the deepest hells, you talkative little Stark wolf pup.
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