During this prolonged period of isolation, wild rumors regarding Harrenhal's lord ran rampant across the Seven Kingdoms.
Some terrified peasants claimed Roman had permanently metamorphosed into an ancient, humanoid dragon covered entirely in impenetrable scales, who aggressively patrolled his territory from the sky every single day.
Conversely, wealthy merchants who had formally traded with Harrenhal's economic guilds argued the opposite. They claimed Roman's physical appearance had remained exactly the same as before, and aside from the demonic horns sprouting from his skull, he was completely indistinguishable from a normal man.
There were even treasonous whispers circulating in darkened taverns claiming House Whent had used dark blood magic to forcefully forge a new dragon specifically to help the exiled Targaryens reclaim the Iron Throne.
Yet, regardless of what the rest of the continent hypothesized, Harrenhal issued absolutely no official comment. The Iron Throne similarly maintained a strict, deafening silence on the matter.
Gradually, the truth of Roman's draconic ascension devolved into a legendary tall tale, a mythical talking point that anyone could casually embellish over a pint of ale.
Very few outsiders had ever actually laid eyes on Roman. He actively despised attending trivial aristocratic banquets, royal hunts, and other time-wasting social obligations. Consequently, even the highest echelons of the nobility knew very little about his true nature.
For the vast majority of the realm, the Lord of Harrenhal was merely a terrifying campfire story.
But for Princess Myrcella, it was an entirely different reality. As the crown princess and Roman's official betrothed, she had access to far more classified intelligence than the standard nobility.
She knew the specific details of Roman's character, and Sansa Stark, as the eldest daughter of the newly appointed Hand of the King, was equally well-informed.
That sunny afternoon, Sansa and Myrcella sat together in the royal gardens because they had both received highly anticipated news: Lord Roman was officially traveling to King's Landing to attend the Hand's Tourney.
This exceptionally lavish martial arts tournament was a special celebration personally organized by King Robert to commemorate Lord Eddard Stark's official appointment as Hand of the King. Although Ned had tried desperately to dissuade his oldest friend from such reckless financial extravagance, Robert stubbornly insisted on proceeding.
"Robert, you only just managed to stabilize the crown's debt by heavily taxing Harrenhal's exports and forcefully recovering Baelish's embezzled gold," Ned argued exhaustedly in the Tower of the Hand. "Are you truly going to throw all of that hard-earned coin away to feed the vanity of a few southern knights?"
"Oh, Seven hells, Ned! Is that how you speak to your king?" Robert groaned, pouring himself another goblet of wine. "I am only doing this to grant you the proper respect your new station deserves!"
"But the treasury cannot sustain—"
"Alright, alright! I know exactly what I am doing," Robert waved a dismissive hand. "It is not as if I am spending your personal gold, Ned! Let the realm celebrate!"
Ned looked helplessly at his boisterous best friend. He could only heave a heavy sigh, knowing he would inevitably be forced to balance the ledgers and clean up Robert's financial mess long after the tourney ended.
Myrcella and Sansa, however, were entirely oblivious to the stressful political realities of the capital. The two young girls were vastly more interested in discussing which legendary knights would be attending the tourney, and more importantly, exactly when Roman would arrive.
Completely ignoring the fact that Myrcella had technically "stolen" her dream man via royal betrothal, the daughter of the Warden of the North and the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms bonded deeply over their shared infatuation with the Lord of Harrenhal.
Ultimately, to the profound surprise of their respective septas and handmaidens, the two girls quickly became close friends. The older servants could only smile and sigh, realizing that despite their heavy political titles, they were still just innocent young girls at heart.
When the opening day of the grand tournament finally arrived, renowned knights, hedge knights, and high lords from across the continent gathered in the capital. Regardless of their personal wealth or poverty, they all desperately sought to carve out honor and fortune at the royal event.
But none of this martial glory mattered to Lord Eddard. He was currently drowning in administrative chaos. Not only did he need to discreetly investigate exactly what Lord Jon Arryn had discovered before his sudden death, but he also had to untangle the catastrophic financial web left behind by Petyr Baelish.
Littlefinger had systematically borrowed staggering amounts of gold from the Lannisters and the Iron Bank despite knowing the Iron Throne possessed absolutely no means to repay the principle, successfully creating a massive, hollow illusion of economic prosperity to placate King Robert.
If Roman's intelligence network had not successfully uncovered Littlefinger's massive embezzlement scheme through a proxy porcelain merchant years ago, Robert would likely still be drowning in catastrophic debt.
Ned desperately wanted to physically throw Littlefinger out of the Small Council and banish him from the capital entirely, but Robert had firmly stopped him.
"If we kick Baelish out of the Red Keep, who exactly is going to serve as Master of Coin?" Robert argued. "That brilliant bastard Roman absolutely refuses to accept the position, so we have no other choice but to keep Littlefinger on a tight leash."
Roman. It always comes back to Roman! Ned thought with a frustrated sigh.
Ned was quickly discovering that Roman Rivers was heavily involved in several of the most crucial political and economic positions across Westeros. The young lord was the silent architect holding the realm's fragile stability together.
After weeks of exhausting preparation, the grand Tourney of the Hand finally commenced.
Standing on the high wooden platform overlooking the massive arena, Jory Cassel, Ned's captain of the guard, smiled excitedly. "My lord, the greatest knights from all over the Seven Kingdoms have traveled here to fight for your honor."
"If they were truly concerned for my honor, Jory, none of them would have come," Ned grumbled sourly.
But the gold was spent, and the tournament had already begun. To make matters exponentially worse, King Robert drunkenly announced he intended to personally participate in the grand melee.
"Your Grace, you are the King of the Andals," Ned pleaded. "You absolutely should not participate in such chaotic, dangerous knightly banter."
Robert glared at him, his face flushing with anger. "Screw you, Ned! I am the king! Are you telling me I cannot even participate in a melee that I personally paid for?"
Ser Barristan Selmy stepped forward, offering his calm, respectful counsel. "Your Grace, it is precisely because you are the king that the other knights will absolutely refuse to strike you with their full strength. They will intentionally let you win. Is a hollow, orchestrated victory truly the kind of martial glory you desire?"
Robert glared at the legendary Kingsguard, his frustration boiling over. "Barristan, you always talk entirely too much! You constantly tell me what is improper and what is forbidden. By the Gods, I have less freedom as a king than I did as a hedge knight!"
The king looked between his fiercely loyal Hand and his stoic Lord Commander. He finally threw his hands up in defeat. "Fine! If you two miserable old women do not want me to fight, I won't fight!"
Seeing the king finally abandon his dangerous whim, Ned breathed a profound sigh of relief. Now he could finally return his focus to investigating Jon Arryn's lethal secrets.
At that exact moment, Roman led the heavily armored Harrenhal delegation into the VIP viewing platforms.
"Lord Eddard! It has been far too long," Roman greeted warmly.
Roman and Ned shook hands with genuine respect. Lady Shella, however, simply offered the Hand of the King a perfunctory, slightly arrogant nod.
"Lord Roman, are you here strictly as a spectator?" Ned asked, genuinely curious. "Why hasn't Harrenhal entered a single knight into the jousts?"
Although Ned personally despised the tourney's extravagance, he still actively monitored the martial strength of the visiting factions.
Roman politely deflected Ned's probing question. He offered a brief, diplomatic greeting before quickly excusing himself under the pretense of locating his assigned seating.
Because the Harrenhal delegation had arrived slightly late, the massive arena was already packed to the brim with roaring spectators. Nobles, knights, and merchants from every corner of the realm were actively mingling and cheering in their respective viewing areas.
The royal tourney was a profoundly rare, large-scale entertainment event in Westeros. It provided the high nobility with a socially acceptable excuse to gather, gossip, forge political alliances, and negotiate lucrative marriage contracts for their heirs.
Down in the massive lists, the jousting lanes were vast and impeccably maintained, accommodating multiple knights simultaneously—a far cry from the cramped, muddy tracks usually found at minor regional tourneys.
Sansa Stark, having spent her entire life isolated in the freezing North, was absolutely mesmerized by the sheer, overwhelming spectacle of southern chivalry.
The Northern girl excitedly grabbed Myrcella's arm, pointing eagerly at the armored competitors.
The legendary knights were currently preparing for the opening jousts. They were clad in gleaming, polished plate armor, while their massive warhorses were draped in magnificent, brightly colored silk barding. The heraldic banners of a hundred different noble houses fluttered violently in the wind, and the deafening cheers of the smallfolk shook the very foundations of the stands.
Dozens of bards and musicians filled the arena, flawlessly playing sweeping, heroic melodies that perfectly matched the tension of the impending duels.
Looking down at the sheer, unfathomable scale of the event, Roman finally understood exactly how Robert had managed to burn through the crown's treasury so quickly. Even if the Iron Throne possessed the endless gold mines of Casterly Rock, they could not afford to sustain this level of catastrophic financial hemorrhage!
In stark contrast to Sansa's wide-eyed shock, Myrcella had been born into the suffocating wealth of the capital. She was entirely accustomed to such lavish displays of royal excess.
The princess was not particularly interested in the violent jousting below. Her emerald eyes frantically scanned the VIP stands, desperately searching the crowd for her towering betrothed. As the heralds blew their horns to signal the first tilt, Myrcella still had not spotted him.
Is he truly not coming to sit with me?
Just as the young princess felt a crushing wave of disappointment wash over her, she suddenly noticed a massive, imposing shadow fall across her seat, entirely blocking out the sun.
"Your Highness," a deep, incredibly gentle voice rumbled from behind her. "May I have the honor of sitting beside you?"
Myrcella gasped and spun around in her seat. A towering figure dressed in impeccably tailored, dark leather and black steel stood directly behind her.
Looking up into Roman's glowing blue eyes and devastatingly handsome, aristocratic face, Myrcella desperately forced herself to suppress her overwhelming excitement. She offered him a perfect, flawlessly elegant smile.
"Of course, my lord. The honor is entirely mine."
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