Settling the massive force of 1,500 soldiers within the capital was a logistical nightmare, and Old Jessy had no choice but to spend the evening managing the camps.
Roman, on the other hand, used the cover of night to scout the immediate terrain surrounding the Red Keep, mentally mapping out the escape routes.
Finally, deeply exhausted, the two men returned to their respective guest chambers to rest.
However, the moment Roman lay down on his plush bed, his honed instincts screamed that something was wrong. He closed his eyes and channeled his draconic magic, shifting his vision to perceive the auras of life force.
Sure enough, peering through the wooden floorboards, he saw the faint, flickering flame of a human soul hiding in the secret crawlspace directly beneath his room.
Ah, Lord Varys, Roman thought to himself with a smirk. I did not seek you out, yet you came slithering to me anyway. For your own sake, you had better hope I don't catch you doing anything overtly malicious.
Varys was merely testing the waters to see if this new player matched his intelligence reports. If the Spider actually tried to cause trouble, Roman knew it would only take one well-placed punch through the floorboards to end him.
As for Littlefinger, Roman knew the man was already a dead man walking. Petyr Baelish was a chaotic parasite desperately trying to drag all of Westeros into the mud just to satisfy his own selfish desires.
The truth was, Roman had absolutely zero interest in the Iron Throne.
Under the current feudal system, the Iron Throne was merely a gaudy chair. The Great Houses still operated as virtually independent kingdoms and did whatever they pleased within their own borders.
Whether sitting on a throne made of rusty swords was comfortable or not was beside the point. Sitting there painted a massive target on your back for every ambitious cutthroat in the realm.
Roman's ultimate goal was absolute centralized power. As the recognized heir, he would eventually take full control of Harrenhal, and he intended to completely modernize and centralize the Riverlands.
Jon Arryn was still alive, which meant the political situation was not yet critical. Harrenhal still had precious time to secretly stockpile wealth and develop its military.
The most important thing now is to maintain the illusion of compliance. I must build good relations with the major warlords, or at the very least, ensure they do not view me as an immediate threat.
Content with his strategy, Roman closed his eyes and drifted to sleep.
The next morning, King Robert was predictably incapacitated by a legendary hangover. With his royal audience delayed, Roman headed down to the training yards as usual to begin his solo drills.
Shortly after Roman began, Ser Barristan Selmy strolled into the yard.
Barristan was puzzled to see the young Lord of Harrenhal practicing entirely alone, with his guards merely standing around the perimeter to watch.
But as Barristan stepped closer, his confusion instantly morphed into absolute awe.
Clad in thick plate armor, Roman was wielding a massive, two-handed steel warhammer, violently unleashing a flurry of strikes against a heavy wooden training dummy.
Beneath the ferocious storm of blows, the thick steel armor strapped to the dummy crumpled and tore like wet parchment.
His footwork and technique are slightly lacking, Barristan analyzed silently. But his raw speed and physical power are completely beyond the realm of mortal men. Aside from King Robert in his prime, is there anyone alive with such terrifying strength?
Just as Barristan was processing the terrifying display, Roman stopped his swing and spotted the old knight.
"Ser Barristan! Good morning to you. I did not expect to see you down here so early."
"My lord," Barristan replied, offering a polite bow. "His Grace insisted on meeting with you first thing this morning, but I am afraid he is currently... indisposed. I came to inform you that your audience will be delayed."
"I see. Then who is currently standing guard over His Grace?"
"Ser Jaime Lannister."
Roman nodded. Leaving the Kingslayer to watch over a drunken king was certainly a choice.
Roman genuinely admired Robert's sheer audacity; keeping a man with Jaime's infamous reputation so close to his royal throat required a staggering lack of fear. Roman knew Robert harbored a demonic, all-consuming hatred for the Targaryen family, which was precisely why he kept the man who killed the Mad King draped in the white cloak.
"Well, since neither of us is required at His Grace's side for the time being," Roman said smoothly, leaning on his hammer, "would Ser Barristan be willing to teach me some proper combat techniques?"
"Me?" Barristan asked, genuinely surprised by the humble request.
Roman nodded, glancing around to ensure Old Jessy was out of earshot.
"My master-at-arms, Jessy, is a fine soldier, but he has already taught me everything he knows. If I wish to refine my raw strength into true martial skill, I must seek out greater masters."
Roman bowed his head respectfully. "You are arguably the greatest living swordsman in Westeros. I would be profoundly honored to learn from you, even if it is just for a single morning."
Seeing the burning, eager gaze in the young lord's eyes, Barristan did not agree immediately. Instead, he asked a probing question.
"My lord, what drives this desperate thirst for martial strength?"
Roman met Barristan's gaze. He knew exactly what chords to strike to move the honorable knight.
"Ser Barristan, during my time at Harrenhal, I frequently watched starving farmers come to our gates, weeping after being raided by river pirates. Once, a broken man arrived carrying the mutilated body of his young child. He fell to his knees and begged Lady Shella for justice."
Roman paused, letting a mask of genuine anger and bitter self-reproach settle over his features.
"In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to ride into the pirates' camp and slaughter those beasts myself. But I lacked the martial skill to do so. That agonizing helplessness is what drives me. I must become strong enough to protect my people."
Barristan's eye twitched violently at the mention of the murdered child.
Roman knew Barristan's history perfectly. Ser Barristan the Bold was arguably the only man in the Seven Kingdoms who truly deserved to wear the white cloak.
Barristan often privately reflected that had he been present in the throne room when Tywin Lannister presented the brutally murdered bodies of Prince Rhaegar's children to Robert—and had he seen Robert smile at the corpses—he would have never bent the knee. He would have drawn his sword and killed Robert on the spot, damn the consequences.
By framing his desire for strength around the protection of innocent children, Roman brilliantly triggered Barristan's deepest sense of honor and lingering guilt.
Barristan quickly composed his features, staring deeply into Roman's bright blue eyes, as if trying to peel back the boy's flesh to examine his very soul.
Roman did not flinch, meeting the legendary knight's gaze with unwavering absolute conviction.
Finally, a warm, genuine smile broke across Barristan's weathered face, and he let out a hearty laugh.
"Very well, lad! Then please, try not to find an old man's lessons too boring!"
Barristan drew his blunted tourney sword and settled into a flawless stance. Roman excitedly gripped his warhammer.
"It is an absolute honor to face Barristan the Bold!"
While the newly minted heir of Harrenhal was happily crossing steel with a living legend, King Robert finally groaned awake.
"Gods damn it all. That Arbor Gold last night was magnificent," Robert grumbled, rubbing his throbbing temples.
"Water! Fetch me water! Are you blind fools trying to let your king die of thirst?"
A terrified servant immediately rushed forward, swapping a half-empty flagon of wine for a massive pitcher of iced water.
Taking a massive gulp, Robert wiped his beard and glared at his squire. "Where is that Whent boy? Rivers! He kept matching me drink for drink last night, and now I've slept past dawn!"
"Your Grace, Lord Rivers is currently in the training yard... sparring with Ser Barristan."
Robert's thick eyebrows shot up. Why was the boy, who had traveled hundreds of miles to pay him homage, playing swords with the stiff-necked Barristan instead of drinking with his King?
Suddenly energized by the prospect of violence, Robert threw his furs aside. "Hah! Let's go! I want to see what excuse this boy has for making his King wait!"
A grand, noisy royal procession quickly descended upon the training yards. Even before they reached the gates, the thunderous, rhythmic ring of steel clashing against steel echoed through the air.
Robert and Jaime Lannister immediately recognized the furious cadence of a high-level duel.
The entire garrison had abandoned their posts to crowd around the sparring ring. The yard was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with cheering, shouting soldiers.
"Make way!"
Robert forcefully shoved his way through the dense crowd. A few guards turned around, ready to curse at the man shoving them, but the moment they saw the King's furious face, they shrank back and bowed like frightened quails.
Breaking through to the front of the ring, Robert and Jaime were treated to a spectacular sight.
To say Roman was surprised by Barristan's prowess was an understatement. He had foolishly assumed the old man would fight with the slow, choreographed stiffness seen in television dramas.
He was dead wrong. Old Barristan was a terrifying force of nature. His footwork was flawless, his strikes were blisteringly fast, and his attack angles were impossibly tricky.
Despite Barristan's advanced age and Roman's monstrous, superhuman strength, the duel was incredibly balanced.
Whenever Roman unleashed a devastating, bone-crushing swing that could not be blocked, Barristan gracefully sidestepped, using the flat of his blade to gently deflect the hammer's momentum and guide the lethal force harmlessly into the dirt.
Roman relied on rapid, sweeping strikes to control the space, while Barristan constantly danced around the edges of his reach, pulling Roman out of position before lunging in for lightning-fast counterattacks.
To the seasoned veterans watching, it was plainly obvious that Barristan's technical skill vastly outstripped the boy's. However, Barristan faced one fatal problem.
Roman's draconic stamina was truly limitless. Even when Barristan successfully baited him into making a massive tactical mistake, Roman had the explosive speed and energy to instantly recover his defense.
Because Roman lacked the technical finesse to match Barristan's speed, he frequently resorted to wild, highly exaggerated athletic maneuvers to dodge the knight's blade.
These acrobatic evasions required so much explosive energy that a normal man would have collapsed from exhaustion after three attempts. Yet Roman performed them continuously without breaking a single sweat.
Conversely, Barristan's chest was heaving, and his breath was coming in ragged gasps. The old knight was rapidly losing his edge to sheer fatigue.
Realizing he could not outlast the boy's monstrous stamina, Barristan decided to risk everything on a final, decisive gambit.
Using every ounce of his remaining strength, Barristan parried a heavy swing, fully stepped inside Roman's guard, and lunged forward, snapping the tip of his blunted sword directly against Roman's throat.
Roman froze, staring at the steel resting against his jugular. A bright, exhilarated smile broke across his face.
"I yield. You win, Ser Barristan."