Roman received another heavily sealed letter from King Robert formally requesting his presence in King's Landing.
"Even his official royal summons are written this casually? That is just like Robert," Roman chuckled, studying the messy handwriting scrawled across the parchment.
As he read in his solar, Lady Shella entered, her face etched with maternal worry.
"My child," she said softly, closing the heavy oak door. "Our intelligence operatives in King's Landing report troubling whispers. Apart from Robert himself, none of the other highborn ministers on the Small Council look kindly on your rise. You must be careful in the capital."
"It is alright, Lady Shella. Please do not worry," Roman smiled, stepping forward to pat her wrinkled hand. "I am no longer afraid of the so-called big shots of the Red Keep."
Years earlier, Roman had recognized that raw military strength meant little without reliable eyes and ears. He had begun funding and training a loyal network of Harrenhal spies, recruited exclusively from veteran, multi-generational retainer families of House Whent.
Their ancestors had served the Whents with unwavering loyalty. Under Roman's administration, these families received generous wages, excellent healthcare, and guarantees that their descendants would never face starvation. Their loyalty, already strong, had become fanatical.
Though smaller in numbers than Varys's swarm of "Little Birds," every Whent operative was highly educated and rigorously trained. They infiltrated aristocratic households, merchant guilds, and the City Watch, compiling independent reports that flowed directly back to Roman's desk.
Unlike Varys's mysterious agenda or Littlefinger's mercenary informants, the absolute loyalty of Roman's operatives remained unmatched.
Just days ago, Roman had received a kingdom-shattering piece of intelligence: Lord Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin, had been illegally embezzling funds through complex fraudulent trade tariffs, saddling the Crown with the resulting debt.
Roman sneered at the report. In his previous life he remembered that the War of the Five Kings drew inspiration from the English Wars of the Roses — a civil war partly fueled by corrupt officials plundering the royal treasury.
It makes perfect sense, Roman thought coldly. Littlefinger's ancestral lands on the Fingers consist of a few dozen poor households. Even with the Master of Coin's salary, it is mathematically impossible for him to fund a kingdom-wide bribery network and buy off the City Watch with legitimate coin.
He must have been embezzling millions of dragons while supposedly managing Robert's treasury.
Roman locked the devastating ledger inside his iron vault. This proof would give him unquestionable legal justification to target Littlefinger. Once the Mockingbird lost his power base in King's Landing, countless quiet ways existed to make him disappear.
"Fili, it is time to mobilize," Roman commanded, strapping on his heavy steel gauntlets. "We are heading back into the King's Landing viper's nest. Have the quartermaster load the heavy wagons with our newest luxury exports. We have several powerful 'friends' to bribe."
"Yes, Lord Roman," Fili nodded and moved to carry out his orders.
Roman refused to travel anywhere in Westeros without a heavily armed escort. He avoided vulnerable sea routes unless absolutely necessary. In this brutal world, a single ambush or disaster could destroy an unescorted lord in moments. He would not risk his life — or Fili's — on random bandits along the King's Road.
Throughout the march south, Roman kept his newest invention — the massive mechanical ammonia absorption refrigerator — hidden inside a fortified secret wagon compartment. The pristine blocks of ice it produced far surpassed the filthy, sawdust-covered winter ice shipped from the North. He knew King Robert would love it.
The journey from Harrenhal to King's Landing passed surprisingly quickly. Robert had once complained bitterly about the treacherous potholes destroying his royal wheelhouse on the King's Road. The Crown had therefore granted Harrenhal a large infrastructural fund to pave and modernize that section. Roman's smooth macadam construction had earned Robert rare respect from traveling merchants.
As the disciplined Harrenhal Vanguard reached the gates of King's Landing, Roman halted his destrier and subtly scanned the surroundings.
Within moments his glowing draconic eyes picked out his deep-cover operatives blended into the crowds: a bearded merchant selling grain, a wandering minstrel tuning his lute, an unassuming beggar near the walls, and several high-ranking officers in the golden cloaks.
His agents within the City Watch stood out clearly. Thanks to Harrenhal's funding, these guards enjoyed better nutrition and modernized training. They appeared taller, stronger, and carried an aura of lethal discipline that set them apart from the corrupt, ragtag rest of the garrison.
After confirming his local network remained secure, Roman felt a surge of confidence. Even if Tywin Lannister attempted an ambush inside the city walls, Roman knew he could carve a bloody path out and keep Fili safe.
The terrified gate guards recognized the Whent banners and granted immediate clearance. The Vanguard reached the Red Keep with ease.
To Roman's surprise, King Robert invited him into his private solar rather than demanding a public audience.
"Roman! You magnificent bastard!" Robert boomed, pulling the towering warlord into a rough embrace. "Thanks to your addictive luxury goods, the Iron Throne's suffocating debt has actually decreased for the first time in my reign!"
"Is that so, Your Grace?" Roman asked, raising a brow. "How much of the principal debt were you able to clear?"
"No more, no less than five hundred thousand pure gold dragons!" Robert roared in triumph.
Roman blinked, genuinely stunned. Five hundred thousand?!
The number shocked his calculations. Good Gods, he thought, doing the mental math. Littlefinger's skill at price-gouging and up-charging the Southern nobility for my glass and porcelain is terrifying. Perhaps I have been under-pricing my wholesale exports to the Crown…
Robert was in an ecstatic mood. Paying off a massive chunk of the kingdom's debt gave him real political freedom. He no longer had to remain subservient to Tywin Lannister and his golden lions.
"Roman, I swear to the Gods, with your logistical engines behind me I feel invincible no matter which treacherous lord I face!" Robert laughed, pouring two massive goblets of Arbor gold. "Once I use your glass to pay off the rest of my debts, I can finally rule this damn kingdom with real freedom!"
As Robert toasted his newfound liberty, a loud alarm bell rang in Roman's mind. Shit. I have genuinely angered Tywin Lannister this time.
Roman had never expected that selling discounted soap and glass to the King would trigger such a crisis. Tywin had used the Crown's massive debt as his primary leash over Robert. By helping fund Robert's independence, Roman had cut that leash.
He was not afraid of facing Tywin on an open battlefield, but he did not want to provoke a continental war with the Old Lion this early in his industrialization phase.
Roman sighed inwardly. Since I have already accelerated the timeline, I must deal with immediate threats proactively. Littlefinger goes first.
He reached into his armored tunic and placed a meticulously documented ledger on the table before the King. It contained undeniable proof his spies had gathered: how Petyr Baelish had been embezzling massive kickbacks from Harrenhal trade tariffs.
Seeing Robert's confused, slightly drunken expression, Roman leaned in and spoke in a quiet, deadly whisper.
"Your Grace, I strongly advise you to quietly deploy your most trusted Kingsguard to investigate the unusual financial orders my Whent merchants have uncovered. There are treacherous scoundrels rotting the foundations of the Red Keep."
Even Robert, notoriously slow with economics, understood the lethal implication in Roman's tone. His jovial smile vanished. He folded the damning ledger and tucked it into his doublet.
"We will discuss these… other matters later, Roman," Robert said loudly, restoring a booming false cheer for any listening spies outside the door. "But today you must sit and share a few dozen drinks with your King!"
While Robert drank and plotted political executions with Roman in the solar, Princess Myrcella endured a nightmare in her private chambers.
She and her handmaids were happily using the luxury gifts Roman had given her at Harrenhal. Though Harrenhal now mass-produced the hygiene items for the general market, the set gifted to the princess consisted of flawless, master-crafted pieces personally selected by Roman — superior in quality and fragrance to anything in King's Landing bazaars.
The girls were brushing their hair when the doors crashed open. Prince Joffrey, bored and looking for something to torment, burst in. His cruel eyes locked onto the pristine Whent crystal in Myrcella's hands.
"Aha!" Joffrey sneered, pointing. "You dare use that mutant Whent bastard's filthy trash in the Red Keep?!"
"This is perfectly safe! It can be purchased in the public markets right now. Why can't I use it?!" Myrcella retorted, refusing to back down.
"Do not lie!" Joffrey spat, marching forward. "I saw that horned freak hand you the box at the tourney! You ignored Mother's commands and used a cursed object from our sworn enemy!"
"The 'enemy' you speak of is currently drinking wine in the solar with our father!" Myrcella fired back, clutching her perfume bottle. "Father proclaimed before the entire court that Lord Roman is a legendary help to our family! Are you going to contradict the King's word?!"
Furious that he could not win the argument, Joffrey cursed and sprinted off to tattle to Queen Cersei.
Cersei was already in a state of constant fury over her failure to destroy Roman. When Joffrey told her that Myrcella was treasuring the bastard's gifts, her sanity snapped.
She stormed into the chamber like a hurricane. Without explanation, she seized the wooden box, crystal bottles, and Myrish silk, then ordered her Kingsguard to throw the entire pile of "Whent trash" into the courtyard, ignoring Myrcella's hysterical pleas.
Seeing her daughter's tear-streaked face, Cersei knelt and adopted a falsely sweet tone.
"Oh, my precious, foolish darling," she cooed, wiping Myrcella's tears. "Those vile things belong to that wicked, unnatural monster Roman. If you touch his dark magic, you will be cursed and turn into a deformed, horned freak just like him. Throwing them away is for your own protection. Mommy would never hurt you."
"…Yes, Mother…" Myrcella whispered, voice broken.
Despite her heartbreak, the young princess maintained flawless aristocratic etiquette and numbly replied to avoid further punishment.
Cersei left satisfied, having reasserted control. She instructed her loyal Lannister guards to burn the gifts to ash in the courtyard and forbade Myrcella from ever touching anything from Harrenhal again.
Once the Queen's entourage departed, Myrcella's composure shattered. She collapsed onto her bed, buried her face in the heavy silk covers, and sobbed silently.
She was still only six years old. Having her innocent treasures ripped away and destroyed by her own mother was trauma she could not easily process.
She could not understand why her mother hated Lord Roman so viciously when he had only ever treated her with gentleness and kindness.
Myrcella cried harder, tiny shoulders shaking. She was terrified her carelessness had caused Roman's beautiful work to be burned to ash. She felt she had betrayed his kindness.
At that moment of despair, a deep, gentle, and unexpected voice reached her from the shadows of the balcony.
"Your Grace… whatever is the matter?"
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