The grand banquet at Harrenhal lasted late into the night. The lords and ladies enjoyed the luxurious feast and used the occasion to forge new alliances and assess their rivals. By the time the event ended and guests prepared to depart the next morning, most wore satisfied smiles — except for a few notably furious individuals.
As the Northern retinue prepared to mount up and return to Winterfell, Eddard Stark pulled Roman aside in the bustling courtyard.
"Ser Roman," Ned asked quietly, grey eyes serious. "How much do you know about what happened to Lord Roose Bolton after he left the King's Road?"
Roman feigned polite ignorance. "After Lord Bolton apologized and rode away, I marched my Vanguard south from White Harbor to Harrenhal. What happened after that?"
"Roose Bolton and his entire retinue have vanished," Ned said grimly. "They have not been seen or heard from since. With both Roose and his bastard son gone, the Dreadfort has fallen into the hands of a distant successor."
Roman's face showed shocked offense. "Lord Hand… are you implying someone suspects me of kidnapping or murdering a Lord Paramount's bannerman?"
Ned shook his head with a heavy sigh. He was an honorable man and would never make such an accusation without clear proof.
"I am not accusing you, Roman," Ned clarified gently. "The timing of his disappearance is suspicious. You were the last person to have a documented public conflict with him. I am simply warning you to be careful. Someone in the shadows may be trying to frame you and spark a war."
Roman was genuinely surprised by the Northern lord's sincerity. He had expected a formal confrontation, not genuine concern.
"I appreciate the warning, Lord Eddard," Roman bowed. "I will remain vigilant. Safe travels back to the North."
Ned nodded and offered Roman a firm embrace. The Stark children then stepped forward to bid their farewells.
The Northern children had grown fond of Harrenhal, especially Sansa, who still glowed from the romantic joy of receiving a personalized gift from the "Dragon Knight."
Arya watched her sister's swooning with open disgust and stuck her tongue out.
"Stop showing off, Sansa," Arya snorted. "Ser Roman gave expensive gifts to practically every highborn lady here. You are not the only one who received a pastry."
"How can you say it is the same?!" Sansa retorted, clutching her dress. "My gift was delivered by Ser Roman's own hands!"
Ignoring her sister's delusions, Arya marched up to the towering Whent heir. "Ser Roman, will you ever travel to Winterfell again?"
"Of course, Lady Arya," Roman smiled. "Is there something I can help you with?"
Before he finished speaking, he already knew what the fierce girl would ask.
"Do not call me 'Lady'!" Arya demanded, eyes burning with determination. "I do not want to be a proper lady! I want to wield a real sword! I heard you defeated the Kingslayer and Ser Barristan in single combat. Can you teach me how to fight like that?!"
As expected. Before Roman could reply, Lord Eddard and a horrified Septa Mordane appeared behind her. Their faces dark with embarrassment, they grabbed Arya by the arms and dragged her toward the carriages.
"I apologize for that breach of etiquette, Ser Roman!" Ned called over his shoulder. "We will see you next time!"
Ignoring Arya's furious protests, the Stark family rode out through the massive gates.
As the Northern column departed, Robb Stark kept glancing back at Harrenhal's imposing spires. His solemn mood caught his mother's attention.
"What troubles you, Robb?" Catelyn asked gently, riding beside him. "Are you thinking about Roman?"
Robb nodded, voice heavy. "The gap between Roman and me is widening fast. We are the same age, yet he commands an empire while I am still learning to rule a single keep."
"Do not despair," Catelyn comforted him, patting his arm. "You are not old enough to take charge of the North yet. Once you become Lord of Winterfell, your achievements will match his."
Catelyn believed her own words, but Robb did not. His pragmatic mind was already dissecting Roman's administrative and military methods, searching for ways to replicate the Whent lord's success.
Meanwhile, in the courtyard, King Robert — well-fed, well-drunk, and satisfied with the logistical support he had secured — stood chatting with Roman while nursing a fresh jug of Arbor gold.
Cersei's three royal children approached to say goodbye before their mother could intervene. Roman signaled his servants, who brought out a polished wooden lockbox and presented it to Princess Myrcella.
"Ser Roman?" Myrcella asked, green eyes wide with surprise. "What are these?"
Looking at the array of glass bottles, sealed ceramic jars, and strange wooden implements nestled in velvet, the princess looked bewildered.
"Your Grace, this jar contains 'toothpaste'," Roman explained smoothly, slipping into the role of salesman. "Used with this bristled 'toothbrush,' it will clean your teeth and keep them white while reducing the risk of cavities."
He picked up a glass bottle filled with viscous, fragrant liquid. "This is Harrenhal's new 'shower gel,' made for bathing. Use it with this sea-sponge to cleanse and exfoliate the skin."
"And finally," Roman presented a tiny crystal vial, "this is concentrated perfume — the same essence you smelled on my companion Fili last night. It is more fragrant and longer-lasting than the perfumes made in King's Landing. I am sure the noble ladies in the Red Keep will notice its superiority."
Roman patiently explained the use of each item. These were revolutionary everyday luxury goods from the Whent alchemical foundries.
His goal was pragmatic: by gifting them to a royal princess, he turned Myrcella into a visible brand ambassador. When the vain noblewomen of the Red Keep saw her using the products, they would demand them — saving Harrenhal a fortune in marketing.
Myrcella, innocent as ever, simply believed Lord Roman had given her a thoughtful gift. After the demonstration she fell in love with the hygiene products and offered Roman a bright, happy smile.
"Thank you so much, Ser Roman!" she beamed. "I will cherish these!"
"No need to hoard them, Your Grace," Roman chuckled. "Harrenhal is mass-producing them. When you run out, send a raven and I will have a fresh shipment delivered to your chambers."
Myrcella shook her head enthusiastically, already planning where to hide the precious box.
King Robert watched the wholesome exchange with an amused smile. Before mounting his destrier, he couldn't resist a crude joke.
"Hahaha! Roman! You greedy rascal! You already have a legendary beauty like Fili at your side, yet you are still trying to woo my young daughter with shiny baubles?!"
Myrcella blushed, not fully understanding the implication. Cersei Lannister, standing nearby, went pale with fury. She was already furious at Roman's rising power and refused to let her daughter use anything made by the Whent bastard.
The second we return to the Red Keep, Cersei thought venomously, glaring at the wooden box, I am throwing that entire pile of Whent trash into the Blackwater Rush.
As the royal procession finally departed, Garlan and Margaery Tyrell lingered behind and approached only after most other guests had left the courtyard.
Roman observed the Tyrell siblings with calculating eyes. The previous evening he had noticed Garlan in quiet conversations with Margaery, Lord Renly, and Stannis Baratheon. From his canon knowledge, he deduced they were plotting to remove Cersei and marry Margaery to King Robert.
So, Roman thought cynically, if they plan to give the Little Rose to the King, what political scrap do they intend to throw at me?
"Lord Roman," Garlan smiled, offering a respectful bow. "We must thank you for the invitation. We genuinely enjoyed the banquet. Gathering the Great Houses in such a setting is rare. Harrenhal is clearly rising to prominence."
Roman waved a gauntleted hand dismissively. He had no patience for flowery Southern flattery.
"Let us skip the pleasantries, Ser Garlan," he said bluntly. "What business proposals did the Queen of Thorns send you with? Lady Shella was satisfied with our previous collaborations with the Reach. Now that you have come all this way, I assume you want to negotiate something more substantial than grain tariffs."
Garlan was briefly taken aback by the directness but recovered quickly. He stepped closer and lowered his voice, drawing Roman slightly away from the Whent guards.
"To be honest, Lord Roman," Garlan said seriously, "my grandmother entrusted me with a sensitive task. She desires a permanent bond between the Reach and Harrenhal."
Roman frowned, processing the implications. Margaery was Olenna's key to the Iron Throne. So who did Highgarden plan to marry off to Harrenhal to secure his military support?
"A collateral branch?" Roman asked, voice cold with cynicism.
Seeing that Roman had instantly deduced the offer, Garlan looked embarrassed. "My grandmother did not name a specific candidate. I dare not speak out of turn regarding her final designs."
Roman's hypothesis was clearly correct.
The scheme was obvious: Garlan and the Baratheon brothers had likely agreed to remove Cersei so Margaery could marry Robert and purge the Lannisters from King's Landing. To keep Harrenhal from interfering and to secure Roman's military strength, Olenna planned to offer some minor Tyrell cousin — buying his loyalty with table scraps.
Olenna still fixated on King's Landing as the center of power and did not take Harrenhal's independent threat seriously. Despite Garlan's reports about the Whent Vanguard, the Queen of Thorns still viewed Roman as a regional tool rather than a sovereign equal.
Roman kept his expression blank and offered a polite but dismissive farewell.
"A permanent alliance is a major undertaking that requires long-term calculation, Ser Garlan," he replied coldly. "We are the younger generation. We should let our elders dictate the terms before making reckless plans."
Garlan saw the cold, unapproachable attitude and knew Roman felt insulted. But he could not override his grandmother and offer Margaery when she was already earmarked for the King.
The two factions parted with strained politeness.
As the Tyrell wheelhouse and escort rolled out of Whent territory onto the southern road, Garlan rode beside his sister's carriage, face etched with concern.
"Margaery," he asked quietly through the window, "what is your honest assessment of Ser Roman?"
The Little Rose paused, brow furrowing in thought.
"Ser Roman gives the impression of being a thousand different men at once," Margaery said, voice laced with awe and caution. "He changes his persona depending on who he is speaking to. He plays the humble servant to the King, the chivalrous knight to the Stark girl, and the ruthless businessman to us. But beneath the masks, one truth is certain: he always places Harrenhal's supremacy above everything else. Every breath and every word serves his empire."
She looked at her brother, eyes serious. "He is a dangerous man to manipulate because he holds real power. You and I are extensions of Grandmother's will. But Roman… the name Roman Rivers is the power, and Harrenhal is merely the weapon in his hands."
Garlan stayed silent, chilled by her words. He had rarely heard his brilliant sister speak so highly — and so fearfully — of any man in Westeros.
"Not wanting to dwell on the diplomatic failure, Garlan spurred his horse forward.
"We will leave this nightmare for Grandmother to handle," he muttered. "Let us just go home."
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