"Why? Why didn't you move aside?"
Ser Barristan, panting heavily, looked at Roman's calm face and asked the question loudly.
Roman was absolutely capable of dodging the final, desperate thrust, but he chose to stand his ground and let the old knight claim the victory. If Roman had simply taken a step back, Barristan would have undoubtedly collapsed from exhaustion after a few more exchanges.
"I came here to learn proper martial technique, Ser Barristan," Roman replied honestly. "A man cannot improve his skill if he merely relies on overpowering his opponent with raw physical stamina. I lost to you in terms of pure swordplay. That is undeniable."
This was the first time Barristan had ever encountered a young warrior who deliberately handicapped his own overwhelming physical advantages just to absorb a lesson. Recalling his own desperate, undignified panting a moment ago, the old knight couldn't help but laugh in exasperation.
"A battle on the field is strictly about living or dying, my lord. The only thing you ever need to ensure is that you do not lose."
Roman simply smiled, offering no rebuttal. He stepped forward and firmly gripped Barristan's forearm, helping the exhausted knight to his feet.
Feeling the severe trembling in the legendary knight's arm, Roman quietly wondered if he had pushed the old man a bit too far.
Just then, loud, boisterous applause broke out from the edge of the sparring ring.
The crowd parted to reveal King Robert, his face flushed red—whether from his morning wine or the thrill of the fight, no one could tell.
"Good! Very good!" Robert boomed, striding into the yard. "You are a bold one, Rivers! This is the first time in years I have seen anyone push Ser Barristan to the absolute brink. It seems House Whent has finally produced a proper warrior!"
"Your Grace," Roman and Barristan chorused, bowing respectfully.
Robert stepped forward, clapped Barristan affectionately on the shoulder, and then reached out to grab Roman's warhammer.
He tested the weight of the steel and frowned. "Hmm. This hammer is far too light for a lad with your monstrous strength. I will have the royal smiths forge you a proper, heavy maul! Consider it a personal gift to thank Lady Shella for her timely tax delivery."
However, before Roman could accept the King's generosity, an arrogant, drawling voice cut through the air.
"Your Grace, a royal boon from the King is worth more than all the gold in Casterly Rock. Is it truly appropriate to hand them out as mere charity to untested boys?"
The crowd parted again, revealing a man clad in pristine white scale armor and a flowing white cloak.
He was exceptionally tall and handsome, with flowing golden hair, bright emerald eyes, and a sharp, mocking smile that seemed permanently etched onto his face.
"My lord Rivers," the golden knight drawled, stepping into the ring. "Ser Barristan is an old man, and your little dance with him proved very little. Why don't you have a proper match with me?"
The knight rested his hand on his golden sword pommel. "If you actually manage to win, I will personally fund the forging of your new warhammer. How does that sound?"
Ser Jaime Lannister maintained his infuriatingly charming smile, but the blistering arrogance dripping from his words was undeniable.
Roman narrowed his eyes. He knew the Kingslayer was incredibly cocky before he lost his sword hand, but he hadn't expected the man to be this brazen.
With a single sentence, Jaime had openly insulted Barristan's age and mocked King Robert's generosity.
Roman glanced tentatively at Robert. The King's face darkened with rage, but when Robert saw that Roman remained perfectly calm, he stifled his outburst.
Robert turned a deadly glare on the Kingslayer. "You had better be as good as you think you are, Lannister."
The King stepped back and gave Roman a curt nod, silently giving the boy permission to break the lion's pride.
"Please, Ser Jaime. Enlighten me."
Roman spoke the few words with absolute, chilling calmness.
On the sidelines, the Harrenhal soldiers exchanged knowing, grim chuckles. They knew their young lord's temperament intimately; when Roman spoke softly and spared his words, it meant he was genuinely angry.
Regardless of why Jaime felt the need to posture, Roman was going to teach the golden lion the true meaning of respect.
The two warriors took their positions. With a sharp chop of his hand, Robert signaled the match to begin.
Without a single word, Roman exploded forward. He crossed the distance so violently fast that he blurred into an afterimage.
The sheer, terrifying speed drew gasps from the Kingsguard.
Barristan's eyes widened in sheer disbelief. By the Seven... did he not just exhaust himself fighting me? Does he still have that kind of explosive energy in reserve?
Instead of swinging the hammer directly at Jaime's head, Roman lowered his center of gravity and swept past the knight's flank. Using his terrifying momentum, he extended the heavy steel hammer outward like a battering ram.
It was like a heavily armored warhorse charging full-tilt with a sledgehammer strapped to its side.
Jaime's arrogant smile vanished instantly. Terrified by the crushing speed, he brought both hands up and braced his blunted tourney sword flat against his chest in a desperate block.
CLANG!
The impact was deafening. Jaime was violently launched backward, his boots skidding across the dirt as he desperately tried to dissipate the bone-shattering kinetic force.
But Roman did not give the Kingslayer a single second to recover.
Roman stomped his boot into the dirt, using the friction to halt his momentum. Beneath his flowing black cloak, his thick draconic tail whipped in a beautiful, hidden arc, instantly stabilizing his balance and allowing him to pivot on a dime.
He launched himself forward a second time.
When Roman materialized directly in front of Jaime, the golden knight was still reeling, his arms completely numb from the initial impact.
Roman dropped his warhammer and drove a vicious, lightning-fast left hook directly into Jaime's jaw.
Roman controlled the raw output of his draconic strength perfectly—striking just hard enough to scramble Jaime's brains without permanently shattering his skull.
To the absolute astonishment of the entire royal court, the legendary Kingslayer's eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed straight into the dirt like a felled tree.
"What? It is over already?" a City Watchman muttered into the dead silence.
The heavy silence was shattered by Robert Baratheon, who threw his head back and roared with thunderous laughter, clapping his massive hands enthusiastically.
"Bwahahaha! Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant! I did not expect you to flatten the golden boy so easily, Rivers! You fight exactly like I did in my youth! Come, lad! We are going to the feast hall to drink! Anyone here with a thirst is welcome to join!"
Robert grabbed Roman by the shoulder and began dragging him toward the keep, leaving Old Jessy and the Harrenhal soldiers to laugh at the unconscious Lannister.
For Roman, indulging the King was a necessary political chore. But seeing Robert's flushed face, Roman knew allowing the King to drink again this early in the day would end disastrously.
"Your Grace," Roman said firmly, gently resisting the King's pull. "What you truly need right now is rest. If you pour more wine into your belly this morning, I fear your body will genuinely fail you."
The obese king stopped dead in his tracks. Robert absolutely despised being told what to do by anyone, let alone a Riverlands bastard. His jovial tone instantly turned hostile.
"Oh? Is the newly minted pup of House Whent trying to command his King?"
"No, Your Grace." Roman shook his head calmly. "I am merely asking a question. How long has it been since you last swung your warhammer in anger?"
The simple, cutting question struck Robert like a physical blow.
The King froze, his mind racing backward. He suddenly realized he had not lifted a weapon in earnest since he crushed Balon Greyjoy's rebellion on the Iron Islands five years ago.
That was also precisely when his waistline had begun to rapidly expand.
Robert could not find the words to answer. A deep, humiliated flush crept up his neck.
"What else am I supposed to do?" Robert finally snapped, his voice tinged with bitter defensiveness. "There are no more wars to fight! There are no more battles to win! Do you expect me to just sit quietly on that miserable chair of rusted swords all day?"
Robert assumed Roman was mocking his dramatic physical decline. But the young Whent heir simply offered a sad, knowing smile and shook his head.
"Your Grace, you are the living embodiment of the warhammer you wielded at the Trident. You were forged to shatter armor on the open plains of battle."
Roman looked down at his own hammer, then looked Robert directly in the eye, his gaze filled with unconcealed sorrow.
"But now, that legendary weapon has been hung on a wall, soaked in sour wine, and left to quietly rust. I am not mocking you, Your Grace. I am simply mourning a legendary warrior who is being slowly corroded by the poison of the Iron Throne."
"I truly wish I could have seen the Demon of the Trident standing triumphant at the ruby ford."
Roman's calculated, emotional offensive hit Robert precisely in his most vulnerable scar.
The King's mind instantly flashed back to the roaring waters of the Trident, to the glorious, blood-soaked moment he caved in Rhaegar Targaryen's chest.
Gods, I was strong then, Robert thought miserably. He looked down at his massive gut, suddenly acutely aware of how far he had fallen.
Yet, Robert was a stubborn, prideful man, and he hated feeling lectured. He scratched his thick black beard in frustration and glared loudly at Roman.
"You brazen little brat! You are talking in circles just to tell me not to drink! Fine! But if you are going to deny your King his wine, how do you intend to make it up to me?"
Roman grinned fiercely. He slammed the butt of his warhammer into the dirt and extended his right hand toward the King.
"Your Grace, if you can shed the rust and regain your former martial glory, I promise to give you the most thrilling, bone-shattering duel of your life."
"If you commit to fulfilling your duties as a true warrior king, I will remain your fiercely loyal sword until my dying day!"
"Hah!" Robert barked, genuinely amused by the sheer audacity of the Whent boy. "Is it not the natural law that a vassal must be loyal to his King? And yet you dare to negotiate terms with me? Even if Lord Hoster Tully himself shields you, I am still the King!"
"Your Grace," Roman countered smoothly, his blue eyes flashing. "A man is not a true king simply because a golden crown sits upon his head. He is a king because the warriors around him recognize his strength and choose to follow him."
Roman's grin widened into a predatory smirk. "Or is it that the mighty victor of the Trident has finally lost his confidence?"
Robert's eyes blazed with a sudden, furious competitive fire.
"Fine! Fine, you arrogant little pup! You just wait! I am going to make you eat those words!"
Roman bowed deeply in response, a victorious smile playing on his lips. With a newfound, fiery purpose in the King's stride, the two men turned and marched back toward the Red Keep.