When Myrcella first heard the voice from her balcony, she thought she was having an auditory hallucination. Ser Roman is drinking wine with Father in the solar. How could he possibly be outside my window?
But the deep, comforting voice spoke again. "Your Grace? What has happened? Why are you crying? Do you require my assistance?"
The young princess gasped, quickly wiped her tear-streaked face with a velvet towel, and tried to compose herself before unlatching the heavy glass balcony doors.
"Ser Roman… welcome," Myrcella said, her voice trembling slightly. "I apologize. It was nothing. I simply heard a distressing rumor in the halls."
Roman noticed her red, swollen eyes and the faint traces of tears, but he chose not to mention them. Instead, he smiled and gestured behind him. Fili stood there, effortlessly carrying a massive, heavily insulated wooden box.
Myrcella stared in disbelief. The slender girl in simple work leathers handled a crate that would normally require two strong Kingsguard knights.
"Ser Roman, what is this?" Myrcella asked, her sorrow momentarily replaced by confusion.
Roman undid the heavy iron latches. The moment the lid opened, a blast of visible white vapor rolled out, spilling across the floor of the sweltering chamber.
Myrcella, who had known only the endless heat of the Westerosi summer, stepped back in surprise. As the mist cleared, she realized what she was seeing.
Ice.
Neatly arranged inside the box, surrounded by a thick layer of frost, were large, flawless, crystal-clear blocks of ice. Nestled among them sat pristine glass containers filled with vibrantly colored fruit juices and a porcelain bowl holding dozens of perfectly rounded scoops of sweet frozen cream.
"Your Grace," Roman offered a theatrical bow. "The Southern weather is still hot even as the year ends. I manufactured some fresh ice and frozen delicacies to help you cool off."
Myrcella stood gaping at the impossible array of frozen treats.
After a moment, her natural generosity returned. "Ser Roman… may I invite my companions to share this?"
"Of course, Your Grace," Roman chuckled. "This was made as a gift for you. You may distribute it however you wish."
Myrcella beamed, her earlier heartbreak forgotten. She ran to the hallway to call her frightened handmaids back, then eagerly invited Fili to join them at the small table.
"Your Grace, I do not believe I am suitable to sit with you," Fili hesitated.
"Please, do not say that!" Myrcella interrupted, gently taking Fili's hand. "These are things we have never seen before. You have been by Ser Roman's side the entire time, so you must be the best person to teach us how to eat them."
Roman gave Fili a subtle nod. The young Apostle smiled gracefully and sat down, demonstrating how to enjoy the exotic Whent ice cream.
While the girls happily held their impromptu freezing tea party, Roman stepped onto the balcony. His glowing blue eyes narrowed as he scanned the Red Keep's thermal signatures with his Pale Flame Vision.
Fascinating, he thought, mapping the hidden architecture. Two undocumented secret passages run parallel to the King's solar, and at least five small, rapid thermal signatures — likely Varys's little birds — are moving through the walls. The Spider knows this castle's layout better than Maegor the Cruel ever did.
Before he could study further, the chamber doors burst open and King Robert stormed in, his booming voice filling the room.
"Roman! Where in the Seven Hells did you go? Didn't you say you only needed to relieve yourself…? Hey, Myrcella, my sweet darling, what are you doing with my drinking companion?"
"Father!" Myrcella beamed, holding up a crystal cup. "Ser Roman brought me fresh ice!"
Robert looked down at the flawless blocks of ice in the wooden box. He turned to Roman with mock drunken indignation.
"You treacherous Whent brat!" he roared, pointing an accusatory finger. "When you bribe me, your King, you give me filthy grey ice covered in Northern sawdust! But when you want to impress Myrcella, it suddenly becomes a crate of perfect crystal?! You have zero respect for the Iron Throne!"
Roman sighed and rolled his eyes. "Your Grace, use some basic logistics. The ice imported from the North requires heavy sawdust insulation for the long journey down the King's Road to prevent melting. The ice I made for the Princess is a fresh gift. It had to be prepared perfectly."
"Then why can't you make something flawless for your King?!" Robert demanded childishly.
Roman groaned inwardly. Whenever Robert got drunk and comfortable with someone, he shed his kingly persona and reverted to the boisterous, petulant warrior he had been in his youth.
Seeing Roman's unimpressed expression, Robert ignored the logic entirely. He grabbed Roman's armored arm, intending to drag him back to the solar for more wine.
Roman planted his boots and gripped Robert's arm in return with draconic strength.
"Your Grace, please," Roman said quietly, tone turning earnest. "It is rare for you and your daughter to spend time together in peace without the Queen's presence. Why not stay and enjoy the ice with her? It would be good for both of you to have a normal conversation."
Robert tugged, but Roman's grip held firm. The King sighed heavily, pulled up a chair, and sat awkwardly beside his daughter.
As the massive King joined the table, the atmosphere grew subdued. The frightened handmaids bowed silently and left the room.
Roman tapped Fili on the shoulder. "Please take a bowl of ice to the ladies waiting in the hall. They must be sweltering."
Fili nodded and left, giving the royal family privacy. Only Roman, Robert, and Myrcella remained.
Robert looked deeply uncomfortable. He would have preferred charging into battle or hunting a boar over sitting in a dainty chair eating ice cream. Casual father-daughter conversation felt like torture.
With Roman gently guiding the conversation, the father and daughter began to speak. They started with safe, everyday topics. Myrcella, with her sharp emotional intelligence, carefully avoided "girlish" subjects she knew would bore or annoy her father.
The conversation eventually lulled into awkward silence. Myrcella cautiously broached the obvious subject.
"Father," she asked softly, staring at her bowl, "are you truly capable of remaining good friends with Ser Roman?"
"Huh?" Robert grunted around a spoonful of frozen cream. "Why would you ask that, Myrcella? We are already excellent friends!"
Roman, who had been leaning against the balcony polishing the armored scales on his tail, paused and narrowed his eyes.
"Indeed, Your Grace," Roman interjected smoothly. "His Majesty and I have maintained a profitable, mutually beneficial relationship. The trade network between Harrenhal and the Iron Throne is thriving. Where did you hear that we were politically at odds?"
Myrcella looked up, green eyes filled with genuine worry. "Many highborn lords and ladies whisper that you are a dangerous traitor, Ser Roman. They say you are using your wealth to gather the old Targaryen Royalists in the Riverlands for a rebellion, and that the King will eventually have to execute you to keep the peace."
She suddenly reached out and grabbed Roman's massive, calloused hand. "Please, Ser Roman. Please do not start a war. I do not want you to fight my father."
For a split second, Roman wondered if this was an innocent child's plea or a calculated political test. Looking into her clear, desperately pleading emerald eyes, his cynicism faded. He gently squeezed her small hand.
"Peace has always been my primary goal, Princess," Roman said with quiet sincerity. "Why would I want to destroy the economic prosperity I have spent the last two years building?"
He looked directly at Robert. "Princess, I assure you: I will never raise my Vanguard against His Grace… unless he loses his mind and becomes the second Mad King."
The vow was delivered casually, but across the table Robert's face twisted into thunderous fury.
"Those treacherous Southern cunts!" Robert roared, slamming his fist on the table and rattling the crystal. "I should have thrown every scheming courtier into the black cells the moment they opened their mouths! They are trying to manipulate me into destroying my own treasury!"
He grabbed Roman by the shoulder. "Listen to me, lad, and ignore their toxic nonsense. I have total trust in your loyalty. Aside from Ned Stark in the North, you are the only man in this miserable kingdom who actually understands what I need!"
Robert had finally found a competent, pragmatic confidant who was also his kingdom-saving financial backer. How could anyone think he was stupid enough to destroy the source of his newfound freedom?
His actual power in the Red Keep had grown because he had aligned his debts with Harrenhal's economic engine. Ned was a loyal friend but thousands of miles away. Roman was here, solving problems with hard cash and ice.
Robert could not comprehend why the paranoid sycophants believed he would target the White Flame.
Do they honestly think I am that phenomenally stupid? he thought furiously.
Roman stared speechlessly at the furious Baratheon King and his terrified daughter, both gripping his arms tightly.
"Alright, alright, let us de-escalate," Roman chuckled, gently freeing himself. "Our ice-cream party is not over yet. Besides, would I — a vulnerable guest deep inside your walls — be stupid enough to target my heavily armed royal host?"
He pointed at their bowls. "The ice is melting fast in this heat. If you are both going to yell about treason instead of eating it, I am officially confiscating everything back to Harrenhal!"
After several minutes of humorous persuasion, Roman finally eased Myrcella's anxieties.
Meanwhile, Robert sat eating his ice cream, already happily plotting how to use Roman's ledger to rid his Small Council of the greedy lions.
Once Myrcella's fears lifted, her innocent curiosity returned. She looked up at Roman with wide, pleading eyes.
"Ser Roman… may I please touch your tail and your horns?"
"Of course, Your Grace," Roman smiled, kneeling to her level.
Robert immediately leaned forward with drunken interest. He watched as Myrcella cautiously ran her small hands over Roman's demonic features, stroking the heavy armored scales on his tail and examining the sharp, spiraling horns.
"Roman," Robert asked, voice laced with genuine curiosity, "what is the truth about your tail and horns? The maesters call it a bone disease, but the smallfolk swear you are magical. Could you actually be cursed by the Gods?"
Roman spread his gauntleted palms. "Who truly knows, Your Grace? Whatever the origin, it does not hinder my life or my work. Some frightened peasants call me a monster, but I believe you must judge a man by his actions and his economic output, not his appearance."
"Heh. Spoken like a true pragmatist," Robert chuckled. "You must get along well with the Imp, Tyrion Lannister. That stunted little man craves societal recognition more than anyone I have ever met."
Robert took a large sip of the iced milk and sighed. "By the Gods, if Westeros had more productive 'monsters' like you, Roman, I wouldn't have to deal with half this political bullshit."
Myrcella happily circled Roman, examining his draconic features, then returned to her father's side and peppered him with questions about Roman's legendary martial prowess during the tourney.
Through the safe, engaging topic of "Lord Roman," the King and the Princess finally bypassed the toxic estrangement Cersei enforced and connected in a pleasant conversation.
As they spoke, Robert realized with painful clarity how little he actually knew about his own children. He had long ignored Myrcella, viewing her as nothing more than a golden-haired prop under Cersei's influence.
Now he was surprised to discover that beneath her delicate aristocratic appearance lay a strong, pragmatic will and sharp wisdom. She read his emotional shifts instantly and responded with perfect tact — cautious enough to avoid topics he hated, yet firm enough to hold her own polite opinions.
This high emotional intelligence impressed Roman, who observed silently from the balcony shadows.
It is fascinating, he thought in quiet awe. How did a raging narcissist like Cersei Lannister accidentally raise such an empathetic daughter?
Myrcella only fully showed her innocent, childlike side when excitedly discussing Roman's magical ice and chivalry.
The warm conversation between the massive Stag and his daughter continued until late evening. By then Myrcella was physically and emotionally exhausted. Robert gently ordered his Kingsguard to escort her safely to her chambers to sleep.
Once the door closed behind the Princess, the King turned and grabbed Roman by the arm.
"I must thank you, lad," Robert said, voice surprisingly soft. "Thank you for letting my daughter and me speak like a normal family. Myrcella clearly cares more about your safety than she does about me as her actual father."
Roman was about to offer a diplomatic reply when Robert suddenly shifted the entire mood.
"Now, young man," the King said, voice dropping to a dangerous rumble, his boisterous smile gone and replaced by the steely stare of the warlord who had smashed the Targaryen dynasty, "I demand the unvarnished truth. Do you possess romantic intentions toward the Princess?"
Roman remained perfectly still. He met Robert's eyes, paused for several calculated seconds, and replied with icy neutrality.
"The Princess is far too young for such calculations, Your Grace, and the geopolitical situation in Westeros remains dangerously uncertain. I advise that Your Majesty should not act rashly regarding her future."
Robert stared hard into Roman's glowing blue eyes for a long, silent moment, searching for any hint of deception.
Finally, the tension broke. Robert let out a booming laugh and slapped Roman on the shoulder.
"You slippery little Whent rascal!" he scolded with a massive grin. "You are slipperier than a Dornish sea fish! Fine, we will shelve this discussion for later. But right now, you are coming back to the solar with me to drain a cask of Arbor gold — and this time you are not permitted to refuse your King!"
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