Roman followed the royal servant through the winding corridors of the Red Keep with a heart full of suspicion. King Robert had explicitly ordered him to attend this meeting entirely alone. Out of an abundance of caution, Roman had strictly instructed Fili and the Harrenhal Vanguard to remain on high alert in the outer courtyard.
The walk was exceptionally long, offering Roman an opportunity to properly observe the Red Keep's internal architecture.
This massive citadel, originally commissioned by Aegon the Conqueror, had weathered centuries of rebellion, fire, and storm. Under the care of various Targaryen and Baratheon kings, it retained its ancient, imposing charm. However, thanks to the recent influx of Harrenhal's luxury exports, the dark halls were now brightened by modern glass fixtures and exquisite porcelain decor.
If it were not for all the disgusting political treachery that breeds here, the Red Keep would actually be a magnificent place to live, Roman mused to himself.
But the mere thought of navigating the venomous webs spun by Littlefinger, Varys, Grand Maester Pycelle, and Queen Cersei gave Roman an immediate headache.
It was no wonder Robert often drunkenly complained to Ned Stark that he wished he had become a sellsword king, roaming freely across Essos, fighting during the day, drinking through the night, and passing out with a tavern wench.
After ascending a particularly long, winding flight of stairs, the servant finally ushered Roman into a massive, sunlit solar.
Because this chamber was located in the highest towers of the Red Keep, it possessed no defensive value, allowing the architects to design it purely for luxurious comfort rather than military fortitude.
The entire room was magnificently furnished. A plush, wine-red Myrish carpet covered the stone floor, surrounded by comfortable velvet sofas. Massive panes of flawless Harrenhal glass were set into the windows, flooding the chamber with brilliant afternoon sunlight.
A massive, ornate fireplace burned with clean charcoal, and several precious porcelain vases were displayed along the mantle. King Robert and Princess Myrcella sat together on the main sofa, bathed in the warm light.
Myrcella blushed furiously the moment she saw Roman enter the room. Robert, meanwhile, let out a booming laugh and stood up to greet him.
"You finally made it, lad! My daughter and I have been waiting for you for hours."
"Your Grace chose to meet in the most remote tower in the city," Roman replied with a polite smile. "It took me quite a while just to climb the stairs. Halfway up, I began to suspect the Gods were testing my endurance."
Robert chuckled, clapping a heavy hand on Roman's shoulder and pulling him toward the sofas. He pointed down at the blushing princess.
"Myrcella has been begging to see you all afternoon. But you were busy playing with swords in the yard with Barristan, so she was forced to wait!"
"Princess Myrcella," Roman offered a flawless, aristocratic bow.
Roman's standard, polite greeting now held an entirely different weight in the young princess's eyes. Myrcella nervously wrung her hands, suddenly too shy to look directly into Roman's glowing blue eyes.
"Your Grace, you must have a matter of utmost importance to discuss," Roman said, turning back to the king. "Otherwise, you would not have summoned me to such a secure, secluded location."
The moment Roman had entered the solar, he covertly activated his Pale Flame Vision, scanning the walls for thermal signatures of hidden spies or secret passages. Finding the room completely secure, he realized Robert had chosen this location specifically for absolute privacy.
Robert did not answer the question directly. Instead, he decided to beat around the bush.
"Roman, tell me honestly. What is your opinion of Myrcella?"
Roman blinked. Excuse me?
He looked at Robert's serious expression, then down at the furiously blushing Myrcella. Roman instantly deduced exactly what was happening.
Yet, Roman still found it difficult to process. Myrcella was barely eight years old. How could a little girl possibly understand the brutal, lifelong implications of a royal betrothal?
Robert quickly grew impatient with Roman's prolonged silence.
"Gods be damned, boy! Why are you dawdling? Speak your mind plainly, and I will pardon whatever you say!"
Roman could only offer his most diplomatic, objective assessment. "The Princess is a remarkably intelligent, compassionate, and courageous young woman. When she comes of age, she will undoubtedly unite her family, uphold the absolute dignity of the royal household, and—"
"Stop, stop, stop!" Robert violently waved his hands, cutting Roman off. "You miserable brat! When did you learn to spew that sycophantic courtier garbage? I have enough useless jesters blowing smoke up my arse in the throne room. I do not need another one!"
The king gripped Roman's shoulder, his broad, calloused hand squeezing with genuine strength. Roman mentally noted that Robert's recent efforts to cut back on his excessive drinking were definitely paying physical dividends.
"Let me be completely blunt with you, Roman," Robert said, his voice dropping to a serious, commanding timber. "Are you willing to marry Myrcella?"
Upon hearing the question asked aloud, the princess immediately buried her face in her hands, though she continued to peek at Roman through her fingers. She desperately wanted to gauge his reaction, terrified he might reject her outright.
Roman was genuinely taken aback by the king's brutal honesty. He knew Robert possessed a lethally sharp, albeit heavily suppressed, political instinct. This proposal was not a drunken whim; it had been carefully calculated.
Is he doing this to counterbalance the Lannisters? Is he trying to permanently bind Harrenhal's massive economic power to the Iron Throne? Or does he want House Whent to forcefully intervene in the Riverlands' politics?
Roman analyzed the geopolitical board for several long moments but could not pinpoint Robert's primary motive. He decided to probe cautiously.
"Your Grace, Princess Myrcella is still a child. Traditionally, she should be betrothed to the trueborn heir of a Lord Paramount. House Tyrell or House Arryn, for instance. Why are you offering her hand to a legitimized bastard?"
Robert pulled Roman closer, his voice dropping to a fierce, protective whisper. "Because I know you will actually protect her and treat her well. I will use my two sons to secure the political alliances with the great houses. But as for Myrcella... I only wish for her to be happy."
Robert looked Roman dead in the eyes. "I am not bargaining with you as your king right now. I am asking you as a father."
A royal marriage to Myrcella would instantly elevate House Whent into Westeros's absolute inner circle of power. Furthermore, Myrcella possessed a genuinely sweet, gentle disposition that had remained miraculously untainted by Cersei's venom. Logically, this proposal was an unprecedented, monumental victory for Harrenhal.
Yet, staring at Robert in the sunlit room, Roman saw no trace of political scheming in the king's eyes. It was exactly as Robert said. He was a father desperately trying to secure a safe future for his beloved daughter. If this were purely political, Robert would never have brought Myrcella to the meeting to seek her quiet approval.
In Westerosi high society, it was incredibly common for the bride and groom to never even lay eyes on each other until their wedding day.
Roman looked into Robert's sincere, pleading eyes. He stepped back and offered a deep, formal bow.
"Your Grace, it would be my profound honor to wed the princess. However, a matter of this magnitude requires the formal consent of my house. I must consult with Lady Shella before finalizing the contract."
Hearing the diplomatic delay, Robert and Myrcella both assumed Roman was politely trying to refuse. Their faces instantly fell with crushing disappointment, and Myrcella looked like she was on the verge of tears.
Seeing their despair, Roman stepped directly in front of Myrcella. He gently took the young princess's delicate hand and placed a soft kiss upon her knuckles. Reaching into his doublet, he produced a beautiful silver necklace adorned with a flawless, milky-white moonstone.
"Your Highness, I firmly believe Lady Shella will gladly accept the King's proposal," Roman smiled warmly. "Please forgive my forwardness, but I ask that you accept this necklace as a token of my intent."
Myrcella's tears vanished instantly, replaced by a massive, radiant smile. She practically vibrated with joy. She glanced up at her father, and with Robert's grinning nod of approval, the princess excitedly turned around, sweeping her golden hair over her shoulder.
Roman understood the silent request. He stepped behind Myrcella and gently clasped the engagement necklace around her neck.
After the impromptu betrothal, Robert and Myrcella enthusiastically insisted that Roman remain in the Red Keep for a private celebratory feast. Roman was completely trapped.
The exhausting social engagement he had so painstakingly avoided had finally caught up with him.
Later that evening, after the exhausting royal pleasantries concluded, Roman hurriedly departed the capital. He needed to return to Harrenhal immediately to discuss the massive political ramifications with Lady Shella.
As the heavy wheelhouse rolled out of King's Landing, Fili sat silently across from Roman. She already knew about the betrothal; Roman never kept secrets from his inner circle.
Fili's fiercely logical mind knew this engagement was an absolute masterstroke for Roman and the future of Harrenhal. Princess Myrcella was a kind, excellent girl who would undoubtedly grow into a virtuous wife and a loving mother.
Yet, logic did little to ease the crushing pain in her chest. Fili felt as though a massive, jagged hole had been violently carved out of her heart.
Even across the carriage, Roman could clearly sense the girl's emotional turmoil. He reached across the small space and pulled Fili into a tight, secure embrace, feeling her delicate shoulders trembling.
"It is alright, Lord Roman," Fili whispered, her voice wavering. "I am perfectly fine. Your political future is the most important thing. Do not worry about me... I am fine."
Fili's voice grew softer and softer until she finally forced herself to stop speaking, utterly terrified that if she opened her mouth again, she would break down sobbing.
Roman understood the depths of her quiet agony. Without a second of hesitation, he tilted her chin up and kissed her deeply.
"Listen to me, Fili," Roman commanded softly, his blue eyes glowing in the dim carriage. "No matter what political contracts I sign, no matter what happens in this world, I will always be by your side. I will never abandon you."
"Lord Roman!"
The blonde girl finally broke. She buried her face into Roman's chest and burst into a desperate, heartbreaking sob.
"I am sorry! I am so sorry!" she wept, clinging to his armor. "I am just so terrified of losing you! I know I shouldn't act like this. I am just a commonborn aide, I don't deserve—"
Roman silenced her with another deep kiss. He completely refused to let Fili tear herself apart with feelings of inadequacy. He loved Fili, and he absolutely did not care how many arrogant southern lords criticized him for keeping his loyal aide by his side.
Enveloped in Roman's silent, protective embrace, Fili gradually calmed down. Roman gently wiped the tears from her flushed cheeks with his thumb. The two remained leaning against each other in the swaying carriage, finding peace in the quiet dark.
Suddenly, the massive black raven perched beside Fili let out a sharp, piercing shriek.
Fili's blue eyes snapped open, her Apostle telepathy instantly intercepting the frantic message racing across the skies. She looked up at Roman, her expression turning dead pale.
"Lord Jon Arryn has just died."
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