The year was 298 AC. The inevitable had finally come to pass. Lord Jon Arryn was dead.
Upon returning to Harrenhal, Roman immediately sought out Lady Shella to discuss the monumental betrothal with the Iron Throne.
"My lady, I believe House Whent must seize this opportunity," Roman explained. "We can utilize this royal marriage to permanently elevate our political status. It will ensure the surrounding Riverlords can never suppress our economic expansion again."
Lady Shella naturally understood the gravity of the situation. For Harrenhal, the political protection granted by marrying the king's daughter far outweighed any potential risks from the Lannisters.
However, the aging matriarch still harbored personal concerns. "My child, how do you intend to handle Fili moving forward? That girl has been instrumental to Harrenhal's rise, and your relationship with her is far beyond that of a lord and his servant."
"I will manage the situation with absolute care, my lady. Please put your mind at ease."
Roman and Harrenhal had meticulously engineered this geopolitical advantage, and they absolutely could not let it slip away.
Shortly after, Lady Shella wrote to King Robert in her official capacity as the Lady of Harrenhal, formally accepting the betrothal between Roman Rivers and Princess Myrcella Baratheon.
The news rapidly exploded out of the Red Keep. Nobles and commoners across the Seven Kingdoms soon learned that King Robert had secured a terrifyingly powerful husband for his gentle princess.
The smallfolk of the Riverlands were overjoyed by the announcement. The countless citizens who had directly benefited from Harrenhal's labor laws and subsidized food actively prayed to the Seven for Roman and Myrcella's future happiness.
The nobility, however, had vastly different reactions. Allied factions like House Mooton and House Darry, who had long-standing, lucrative trade agreements with Harrenhal, were genuinely thrilled.
Conversely, the jealous Riverlords who had actively tried to cripple Roman's rise were suddenly silenced. They acted like ducks choked by their own necks, utterly terrified to utter a single hostile word against the king's future son-in-law.
Yet, the most violent reaction of all predictably came from Queen Cersei.
For days, the terrified servants of the Red Keep had endured the sound of shattering porcelain and the queen's shrill, venomous screams echoing through the corridors like a demon clawing its way out of the seven hells.
On the day Robert was finalizing his preparations to ride North, Cersei stormed into his chambers once again.
"Robert! You drunken fool! How dare you? You actually betrothed Myrcella, my beautiful daughter, to that horned beast!"
Robert had initially tried to avoid clashing with his wife, but her relentless screeching had finally exhausted his patience.
The king turned slowly and fixed Cersei with a lethal glare. He took a heavy, deliberate step toward her. The queen suddenly felt a terrifying chill run down her spine, freezing like a deer caught in the gaze of a monstrous brown bear.
Despite her sudden fear, she mustered her Lannister pride. In Cersei's eyes, Robert was nothing but an incompetent, hedonistic oaf who had never once cared for his children. How dare he interfere now?
"Am I wrong?" Cersei spat. "You sold your only daughter to Harrenhal for a few crates of cheap porcelain and steel! You threw her to a cursed bastard!"
"Is that truly what upsets you, Cersei?" Robert rumbled, his voice dangerously quiet. "Your hysterical reaction is simply because Roman humiliated Jaime in the training yard and went unpunished. Do not dare use Myrcella's happiness as a shield for your wounded Lannister pride."
Cersei stood completely paralyzed by the sheer, cold clarity in Robert's words. She suddenly realized the man standing before her was not the pathetic, drunken usurper she despised. For a fleeting, terrifying moment, the lethal warrior of the Trident had returned.
Robert stepped forward, forcing Cersei to physically retreat toward the heavy oak doors.
"My decision is absolute," Robert growled. "No amount of your venomous complaining will change a single word of the contract. If you cannot stomach the sight of him, then pack your bags and return to Casterly Rock! It will finally spare me from your endless nagging."
The king did not give the queen a single second to formulate a retort. He turned his back and marched out of the room.
Cersei stood frozen in absolute shock before erupting into a violent, shrieking fit of rage that sent the nearby guards scrambling for cover.
Unwilling to tolerate Cersei's endless scheming, Robert ordered his vanguard to begin the royal progress immediately. He dragged Myrcella and the royal court to Harrenhal first, leaving a furious, entirely helpless Cersei to trail behind in the massive wheelhouse.
When the royal procession arrived at Harrenhal, the sheer scale of the king's entourage was staggering. However, Robert had no intention of lingering. He summoned Roman to pack his armor and ride North with the royal family. The king insisted the three most powerful men in Westeros needed to privately discuss the realm's future at Winterfell.
And so, surrounded by an incredibly tense, hostile atmosphere, the massive procession began the long trek up the Kingsroad.
Along the journey, Robert intentionally arranged for Roman and Myrcella to share a carriage, hoping the two could properly bond over the grueling, months-long journey.
Roman, Fili, and Myrcella ended up sitting together in a suffocatingly awkward silence.
Roman frantically racked his brilliant mind for a diplomatic conversation starter. Fili sat quietly in the corner, looking between Roman and Myrcella with the melancholic, pitiful eyes of a loyal hound terrified of being abandoned.
Ultimately, the remarkably perceptive young princess took the initiative to break the ice.
"Lady Fili," Myrcella asked softly, her tone incredibly polite. "I am entirely unfamiliar with the inner workings of Harrenhal. Would you please tell me about the beautiful things you have built there?"
Fili blinked, pulled from her gloomy daydream, and quickly began answering the princess's genuine questions.
Once the initial tension shattered, the conversation flowed beautifully. Myrcella eagerly discussed Riverlands cuisine, local fabrics, and the magical stories circulating about the newly tamed giants.
Roman leaned back against the velvet cushions, silently observing the princess with growing respect.
Myrcella never once mentioned the betrothal. Even at eight years old, she possessed a masterful grasp of courtly etiquette and profound emotional intelligence. She clearly recognized the deep, intimate bond between Roman and Fili, and she intentionally avoided any topic that might humiliate or hurt the blonde aide.
Inside the swaying carriage, two girls who the political world expected to be bitter rivals were instead happily chatting about their shared future.
Because the massive royal wheelhouse was incredibly slow, it took the procession over a month to traverse the Kingsroad and finally reach Winterfell.
Looking down at the thick, unpaved mud sucking at their horses' hooves, Roman found himself deeply missing Harrenhal's paved, standardized industrial highways.
Robert rode up beside him and groaned. "Ever since I marched my army down your paved roads in the Riverlands, I have utterly despised the Kingsroad. When the crown finally has the coin, I am forcing you to pave the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms!"
"Your Grace," Roman replied dryly. "If you wish to afford such a project, you must completely abstain from expensive Arbor gold, halve your tourney purses, and cancel every royal banquet for the next five years."
"Go to the seven hells, Roman!" Robert barked, glaring at the youth. "How is a king supposed to live without wine and tourneys? Do not attempt to boss me around just because you are marrying my daughter!"
Before Robert could continue his boisterous lecture, a royal outrider trotted back down the column.
"Your Grace, we have arrived at the gates of Winterfell."
Roman dismounted his massive warhorse alongside the king. Fili and Myrcella stepped down from their carriage and flanked Roman on either side, a highly unusual arrangement that drew countless curious stares from the Northern lords.
House Lannister's core faction had also assembled in the courtyard. Cersei and Jaime stood together, radiating aristocratic disdain. However, Roman's glowing blue eyes immediately locked onto Tyrion Lannister, the Imp.
Roman had previously attempted to corner the brilliant dwarf during his visits to King's Landing, but Tyrion was perpetually hiding in high-end brothels. Roman had been too focused on industrial espionage to track him down, so their paths had never officially crossed.
Inside the sprawling courtyard of Winterfell, Lord Eddard Stark and his family knelt respectfully in the dirt. Seeing his oldest friend kneeling in the mud filled Robert's heart with a sudden, heavy wave of melancholy.
The king marched over to Ned, gesturing firmly with his hand for the Lord of Winterfell to rise. Ned hesitated for a brief second before standing tall to face his king.
Robert looked Ned up and down, his face entirely unreadable before breaking into a teasing, mocking smirk.
"You've got fat."
Ned did not say a word in response. He simply cast a pointed, highly skeptical glance over Robert's massive, protruding belly.
Seeing Ned's stoic, silent counterattack, Robert could not maintain his stern facade. He burst into roaring laughter and pulled his oldest friend into a bone-crushing embrace.
The king greeted the rest of the Stark family in turn. When he reached young Sansa, Robert noticed her eyes were red and slightly swollen. Assuming the young girl had simply suffered a petty argument with her siblings, Robert offered her a gentle pat on the shoulder and moved on.
After the formal pleasantries concluded, Robert demanded Ned take him down into the crypts to visit Lyanna's tomb, leaving the rest of the royal court to mingle in the freezing courtyard.
The very second Robert disappeared into the crypts, Cersei marched forward, grabbed Myrcella by the wrist, and physically yanked her away from Roman.
"Mother?" Myrcella gasped, startled by the sudden violence.
Before the princess could protest, Cersei dragged her daughter back toward the Lannister guards. The petty display immediately drew a mocking sneer from Tyrion.
"Careful, sweet sister," Tyrion quipped, waddling forward. "I believe Princess Myrcella was significantly happier standing beside her betrothed. You really should refrain from interfering in young love."
"Tyrion," Cersei glared venomously at her deformed brother. "What in the world are you doing out here in the freezing wind? I assumed you would have already crawled under the skirts of a Northern whore."
"Oh, thank you for the wonderful reminder," Tyrion smiled, bowing mockingly. He turned and strolled away without a moment's hesitation, entirely unwilling to endure another second of Cersei's toxic presence.
As Tyrion waddled past Roman, the dwarf offered a sly grin. "Care for a drink, Lord Roman?"
"Not today, Lord Tyrion," Roman declined politely. "King Robert has pressing matters he wishes to discuss with me."
Knowing Roman was a dangerously busy man, the Imp simply whistled a bawdy tune and disappeared toward the guest chambers.
Completely ignoring Cersei's furious glare, Roman offered Myrcella a reassuring smile. Before he could turn to leave, he noticed Ser Jaime Lannister stepping into his path, his hand resting eagerly on his golden sword hilt.
"Tsk. I had nearly forgotten about the Kingslayer," Roman muttered under his breath. "It appears his bruised ego has never truly healed."
Roman had no desire to waste energy clashing with Jaime in the courtyard, but the golden knight clearly refused to let this golden opportunity slip away.
"Lord Roman," Jaime announced loudly, drawing the attention of the surrounding lords. "It has been several years since we last crossed blades in the capital. It is a rare occasion for us to be gathered together. Let us enjoy a friendly spar for the Northern lords."
The Harrenhal Vanguard and the seasoned Winterfell guards could not help but exchange highly amused smirks.
They had personally witnessed Roman obliterate four hundred wildlings in a claustrophobic ice tunnel and crush giant ice spiders with his bare hands. In the eyes of the Northern veterans, Roman Rivers was a terrifying god of war incarnate. Jaime Lannister was merely a mortal man in a shiny cloak.
However, since Jaime had issued a formal martial challenge in front of the entire Stark household, Roman could not simply walk away without appearing cowardly.
"Very well, Ser Jaime," Roman sighed, stepping into the center of the ring. "I suggest you exercise extreme caution."
Roman casually unbuckled his massive steel warhammer and handed it to Fili. He walked over to the weapon racks and picked up a simple, hardwood quarterstaff.
Seeing Roman select a wooden stick against castle-forged steel, Jaime felt profoundly humiliated. The hot-blooded Kingsguard drew his sword, fully intending to punish the bastard for his arrogance.
Roman stared blankly at the legendary knight. He truly wanted to shatter Jaime's sword hand right then and there to permanently curb his insufferable arrogance. But Roman quickly dismissed the intrusive thought. He was too pragmatic to cripple a Kingsguard in front of the Queen.
Jaime lunged forward with blinding speed, launching a probing thrust. Roman barely moved his feet, simply snapping the tip of the wooden staff up to effortlessly deflect the lethal steel. Roman began slowly, calmly circling the golden knight.
Every single time the young Kingsguard attempted a flurry of strikes, Roman easily dodged the steel or batted the blade away with a lazy flick of his wrist. Jaime's frustration rapidly boiled over, causing his famously perfect offensive rhythm to become sloppy and erratic.
Roman continued to toy with him, absolutely refusing to engage in a direct clash of strength.
The surrounding crowd of Northern soldiers had already begun loudly betting on the outcome, with several guards openly chuckling at Jaime's desperate, fruitless flailing.
The laughter infuriated Jaime further. He had not managed to land a single glancing blow.
Suddenly, Roman unleashed a sweeping strike aimed at Jaime's legs. Jaime easily hopped over the wooden staff. Overjoyed by the seemingly massive opening in Roman's defense, Jaime raised his sword high, aiming a brutal downward chop directly at Roman's exposed head.
The surrounding crowd gasped in sheer horror. Several noblewomen covered their eyes, terrified they were about to witness a royal execution.
It was a flawless feint.
Roman blurred out of the sword's path and snapped the quarterstaff upward in a vicious arc. The heavy wood smashed violently into Jaime's right hand. Even through the gilded steel gauntlet, the bone-jarring impact forced Jaime to instinctively stumble backward in pain.
Without breaking his momentum, Roman spun the staff in a blinding backhand arc. The reinforced wooden tip slammed directly into the side of Jaime's golden helmet with the sickening crack of a thunderbolt.
The blunt force trauma struck Jaime's temple perfectly. The Kingslayer's vision instantly faded to black, and he collapsed face-first into the muddy courtyard like a severed puppet.
"Summon a maester immediately!" Roman shouted, snapping the stunned crowd out of their absolute shock.
The Lannister guards finally realized what had happened and frantically rushed forward to carry their unconscious commander toward the healing chambers.
Roman tossed the wooden staff back onto the rack. He looked down at the freezing mud splattered across his polished boots and sighed in deep annoyance.
He lifted his gaze to the upper balconies of the Great Keep. His glowing blue eyes locked onto young Bran Stark, who was watching the courtyard with wide, fascinated eyes.
There you are, Roman thought coldly. The true catalyst of this entire war.
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