Ser Brynden the Blackfish stared at the young giant standing before the high table, feeling a sudden, intense wave of unease wash over him.
Standing well over six feet tall and possessing an impossibly broad, muscular physique, Roman Rivers was an inherently intimidating figure. Clad in his pristine, heavy steel lamellar armor, he looked like a warlord born to conquer.
Yet, Roman's bright blue eyes were as clear and placid as a mountain spring. He looked around the Great Hall with the wide-eyed, innocent wonder of a sheltered boy seeing the wider world for the very first time, his gaze constantly darting back to Lady Shella for silent approval.
Is this truly the political mastermind who charmed King Robert and single-handedly revolutionized Harrenhal's infrastructure?
Both Brynden and Lord Hoster couldn't help but deeply ponder this glaring contradiction.
Sensing the heavy silence, Lady Shella stepped forward, leaning heavily on her walking cane.
"Lord Hoster," she began, her voice trembling with the perfect cadence of a frail, apologetic widow. "I must beg your profound forgiveness. Because the royal tax deadline was upon us, we were forced to sail directly to King's Landing to placate the Crown before reporting to Riverrun. Please, accept these heavy wagons of grain and fresh produce as a humble token of our apology."
Hoster looked at the old woman's deeply deferential posture and couldn't help but feel a twinge of cynical amusement. Is this truly all the mighty Harrenhal has been reduced to? Begging forgiveness with carts of cabbage?
But as the Lord Paramount of the Trident, Hoster had to maintain the formal decorum of a liege lord.
"Your generous tribute is accepted, Lady Shella. There is no offense taken," Hoster rumbled. "Now, madam, would you care to formally introduce us to this newly appointed heir of yours?"
"Of course, my lord. Roman is a distant cousin of the Whent bloodline. Following the tragic passing of my immediate family, he is currently the strongest remaining male heir to carry on our legacy."
"Is that so?" Hoster tapped his ringed fingers rhythmically against the armrest of his wooden throne, his tone devoid of all emotion. "Yet I heard a fascinating rumor from my spies. I heard you found this boy wandering abandoned in the wild. Did you feed King Robert this same convenient tale of distant cousinhood?"
"My lord, as you are well aware, Harrenhal has suffered agonizing tragedies regarding its line of succession," Lady Shella replied, bowing her head even lower to display absolute submission. "I had to obscure the boy's true lineage temporarily to protect him from the political daggers of our rivals."
She looked up, her expression a masterclass in desperate loyalty. "But I swear to you by the Seven, no matter which obscure branch of the family this child hails from, he is a Whent. And House Whent will forever remain the loyal sword of House Tully!"
Lady Shella's political strategy was flawless: offer zero concrete explanations, and instead build an impenetrable shield of absolute, subservient loyalty.
Hoster and Brynden knew perfectly well that the old bat was hiding something massive. But they were entirely paralyzed.
House Tully had historically never wielded absolute, iron-clad control over the Riverlands. They were a relatively young Great House, constantly forced to play peacemaker among their notoriously rebellious and wealthy bannermen.
If Lord Hoster suddenly decided to aggressively bully a frail, submissive, and heavily grieving old widow who had just sworn absolute fealty to him, the other Riverlords would view it as tyrannical overreach.
Furthermore, the sacred laws of Guest Right still held absolute power in Westeros. No lord would dare draw steel on a guest who had eaten their salt and bread.
Pivoting his strategy, Hoster bypassed the old woman and targeted the boy directly.
"Tell me, child," Hoster asked, his eyes narrowing. "What exactly were you doing before Lady Shella took you in?"
"I was just working as a servant and a manual laborer in the outer towns, my lord," Roman answered earnestly, his voice thoroughly polite. "Just hauling stones to earn my keep."
"Do you even know who your true parents are?"
"I do not, my lord. I only know that Lady Shella saved me from the mud, and I must do exactly as she commands."
Hoster leaned forward. "And is that the exact same story you told the King when you met him in the Red Keep?"
"Lady Shella carefully explained His Grace's preferences to me before we arrived," Roman answered with a dopey, obedient smile. "So, I simply did exactly as she suggested."
No matter what probing, complex political traps Hoster set, Roman effortlessly deflected them with a single, unshakeable defense: "I just do what Lady Shella tells me."
Roman painted a flawless picture. The incredible infrastructure projects, the masterful manipulation of King Robert, the aggressive tax reforms—Roman attributed all of it to Lady Shella's hidden genius, casting himself merely as the loyal, dim-witted muscle executing her will.
Meanwhile, Lady Shella stood there looking impossibly frail, essentially projecting the aura of: "I am just a harmless old woman trying to survive. You are the great Lord Paramount; you may do as you wish."
Hoster felt as though he were violently punching a wall of cotton. He knew with absolute certainty that this duo was lying through their teeth, but they were playing their roles so perfectly that he had absolutely no leverage to retaliate.
Unable to extract a single drop of actionable intelligence, Hoster gracefully surrendered for the evening. He signaled the servants to bring out the food, declaring that the welcoming feast must begin.
The banquet was relatively simple but highly substantial, featuring classic Riverlands fare: baked trout, thick white bread, roasted root vegetables, and heavily spiced venison.
As the wine flowed, Edmure and Roman both breathed a massive, hidden sigh of relief. Edmure absolutely despised the suffocating tension of formal court audiences, and he was thrilled the interrogation was over.
Looking at Roman's youthful, handsome face, Edmure grabbed his goblet and slid down the bench to strike up a friendly conversation.
"Lord Roman! I must admit, I am fascinated by your recent work. My outriders report that you have been aggressively renovating Harrentown and dismantling the cursed ruins of your own castle?"
"Your outriders are exceptionally well-informed, Lord Edmure," Roman replied, offering a polite, deferential bow of his head.
"It is quite simple, truly," Roman explained smoothly. "Lady Shella realized that maintaining those melted, cursed towers was a massive drain on our treasury. By dismantling the ruins and using the stone to build free bridges and mills for the peasantry, their crop yields will skyrocket. It is an investment. In a few years, when they are vastly wealthier, House Whent can easily extract far more tax revenue from them."
Hearing this, Edmure's eyes lit up with genuine interest. He eagerly pulled Roman into a deep, passionate discussion about agricultural development and infrastructure.
Roman was genuinely happy to converse with the heir to Riverrun. Unlike his fiercely paranoid father, Edmure was canonically a bleeding-heart lord who truly cared for his people.
Roman remembered the original lore perfectly. During the devastating War of the Five Kings, when Gregor Clegane set the Riverlands on fire, Edmure had ordered the gates of Riverrun opened to harbor thousands of starving refugees, even though it severely compromised the castle's food reserves for the impending siege. Later, to prevent Jaime Lannister from massacring the garrison, Edmure had honorably surrendered the castle.
Edmure might lack the ruthless, calculating brilliance of Hoster or the Blackfish, but his moral character was arguably the purest among the high lords of Westeros. Roman recognized that Edmure would make an incredibly valuable, loyal ally.
Throughout the feast, Roman and Edmure laughed and chatted like old friends. From the high table, Brynden the Blackfish quietly observed Roman's every micro-expression.
The veteran knight had spent decades commanding men and surviving wars; he was a master at reading a man's true nature. Yet, looking at Roman, Brynden couldn't find a single crack in the armor.
Roman perfectly embodied the persona of a down-on-his-luck youth who had suddenly been thrust into high society—he was deeply enthusiastic, endlessly curious, and openly trusting.
Eventually, Brynden was forced to abandon his intense scrutiny, deciding he would have to reevaluate the Whent boy at a later date.
As the banquet concluded and the Whents prepared to retire to their guest chambers, Lady Shella approached Hoster one final time.
"My lord Hoster," she whispered warmly. "Next moon, our trade caravans will be traveling North to deliver a massive shipment of iron tools and supplies to the Night's Watch. Would you perhaps like us to safely carry a personal letter from you to Lady Catelyn in Winterfell?"
Hearing the unexpected mention of his beloved eldest daughter, Hoster's rigid, political posture instantly softened. He was deeply moved by the gesture.
"That is... incredibly kind of you, Lady Shella. I would be profoundly grateful."
While ravens could deliver short messages, sending a heavy, personal package via a heavily armed Whent caravan was vastly safer and more intimate.
Before departing the hall, Roman, guided by Lady Shella, formally drew his sword, knelt before the high dais, and swore absolute, binding fealty to Hoster Tully.
Legally, House Whent was now officially bound to two masters: the Iron Throne, and their direct liege lords of House Tully. Roman knew this oath would be crucial later. When the War of the Five Kings inevitably erupted, House Tully would lead the Riverlords in rebellion against the Iron Throne to crown Robb Stark. Roman needed this legal alliance intact.
The next morning, the Whent retinue prepared to depart Riverrun. At the gates, Roman warmly embraced Edmure, promising to host him for a grand hunt at the Gods Eye.
Before mounting his horse, Roman pressed a heavy, master-crafted steel token into Edmure's hand. The steel had been uniquely folded and purified by Roman's Pale Flame, giving it an incredibly beautiful, rippling white sheen.
"Lord Edmure, consider this Whent token a symbol of our new friendship. If you ever require the finest steel Harrenhal can forge, simply send this token, and it shall be yours."
"Brilliant!" Edmure grinned, tucking the steel plaque into his belt. "Next time we meet, we must drink properly! The formalities last night ruined my thirst!"
As the Harrenhal forces finally rode back across the drawbridge, Edmure stood on the battlements, waving them off. Brynden and Hoster quietly stepped out of the shadows to stand beside him.
"Did you manage to extract anything useful from the Whent boy?" Hoster asked suddenly.
"Father?" Edmure blinked, startled by the sudden interrogation. "Useful? We mostly talked about his infrastructure work in the outer towns. Aside from that, we swapped hunting stories and debated the best ways to prepare venison."
Brynden and his brother exchanged a heavy, grim look. They both realized just how terrifyingly adept the new lords of Harrenhal had become at the Game of Thrones.
"Brother," Brynden said quietly, his hand resting on his sword pommel. "Should I ride after them? Investigate their supply lines?"
"No," Hoster sighed, leaning heavily on the stone parapet. "You must return to the Vale and continue your duties as the Knight of the Gate for Jon Arryn. Leave the Whents to me. Lady Shella has publicly cemented her absolute loyalty to Riverrun, and we have zero evidence to prove they are plotting treason. For now, we can only watch and wait."
Hoster turned to his estranged brother, his eyes softening slightly. "Let us keep in closer contact, Brynden."
Brynden glanced at Hoster in genuine surprise. He and his brother had been locked in a bitter, screaming feud for years over Brynden's refusal to marry. To hear Hoster speak so softly to him was a rare shock.
For once, the Blackfish did not sneer or turn away. He simply offered a low, solemn nod. "We will, brother."
Now Get The FULL AVAILABLE NOVEL at Once!
@patreon.com/Authorizz/shop