The Riverlands. Harrenhal Territory.
A dwarf, escorted by a heavy detachment of Northern guards, strode confidently into a bustling local tavern situated along the Kingsroad.
The dwarf was hideously ugly, his face marred by mismatched eyes and a flattened nose. The tavern's serving staff were initially highly reluctant to serve him, eyeing his strange proportions with deep suspicion. However, the exact second the dwarf casually slammed a heavy pouch of solid silver stags onto the wooden table, the waitstaff instantaneously swarmed him.
"Greetings, my lord!" a waiter beamed, bowing deeply. "What is your honorable name? And what exquisite delicacies may we serve you today?"
"Spare me the tedious flattery," Tyrion Lannister sighed, waving a hand. "Just bring me exactly one of every single signature dish your establishment offers!"
"One of... one of everything, my lord?!" the waiter gasped.
Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "What is the matter? Do you think I haven't placed enough silver on the table to afford it?"
"Oh, no, no, my lord! The silver is more than enough!" the waiter frantically backpedaled. "But ordering one of every signature dish would simply be an unfathomable amount of food! You see..."
The Imp chuckled dismissively. "Take a good look at the massive Northern guards standing behind me. Do you genuinely believe we cannot finish a large meal?"
However, Tyrion's confident smile rapidly vanished when the waiter began aggressively hauling out massive, groaning platters of heavily spiced stewed meats, roasted poultry, and an absolute mountain of fresh, exotic fruits and vegetables. The sheer volume of high-quality food was absolutely staggering.
"Wait," Tyrion blinked, startled. "I did not order a feast fit for a king?!"
"My lord, this is precisely what you ordered!" the waiter smiled proudly.
"But I only paid you a handful of silver stags!" Tyrion protested, staring at the massive spread.
A look of profound enlightenment washed over the waiter's face. "Ah! My lord, this must be your absolute first time visiting the sovereign territory of Harrenhal! Our agricultural prices are heavily subsidized by Lord Roman and are significantly lower than anywhere else in the Seven Kingdoms. With a handful of silver stags, you can purchase vastly more food here than you could ever find in the capital!"
In the end, Tyrion had absolutely no choice but to forcefully drag his heavily armed Northern guards to the table to help him eat the massive feast. Even with their combined appetites, half of the food remained untouched.
"Check, please," Tyrion groaned, rubbing his distended stomach. "We absolutely cannot eat another bite. Just pack up the massive leftovers and distribute them to the beggars outside the tavern."
The waiter offered a highly confused smile. "My lord, have you actually seen a single beggar in this town?"
"Um..."
Prompted by the waiter's question, the Imp thought about it carefully. He suddenly realized, with a profound sense of shock, that since crossing into House Whent's sovereign territory, he had not seen a single starving beggar, orphan, or vagrant.
The waiter proudly elaborated. "My lord, our great Lord Roman constantly has a massive surplus of highly lucrative infrastructure projects to build. In fact, there simply aren't enough local commoners to fill all the available jobs! If it weren't for Lord Roman's violently strict laws explicitly prohibiting child labor, half the town would happily send their children to work on the new highways for the extra silver."
Utterly bewildered by the concept of a poverty-free Westerosi town, Tyrion had no choice but to simply gift the remaining food directly to the poorer travelers staying in the tavern.
As he waddled out of the pub, Tyrion heavily altered his plans. Originally, he had intended to charter a horse and ride straight for the Westerlands to find his father. Now, his brilliant political mind was intensely curious. He absolutely needed to see exactly how this miraculous territory under House Whent operated.
Ironically, Tyrion's current freedom was born from a highly embarrassing political failure on the part of the Starks.
Originally, Robb Stark had fully intended to violently leverage Tyrion's captivity in Winterfell to ruthlessly blackmail Tywin Lannister into immediately withdrawing his invading armies from the Riverlands. In his raven scrolls, the Young Wolf had explicitly threatened that if the Lannister forces did not retreat, Tyrion would be severely punished.
However, Lord Tywin acted as if he had never even received the letters. He offered absolutely no diplomatic response, completely ignoring Robb's threats as if he possessed no dwarf son at all.
Eventually, the sheer, callous indifference of Tywin Lannister caused Robb Stark to actually begin heavily sympathizing with his prisoner. Every time the Young Wolf visited Tyrion's cell, he looked at the dwarf with profound, agonizing pity—an expression that made Tyrion incredibly angry and deeply hurt.
Ultimately, realizing Tywin did not care about the Imp, Lord Eddard Stark had offered Tyrion a highly pragmatic deal: Winterfell would release Tyrion completely unharmed, provided Tyrion swore a sacred oath to travel directly to the Westerlands and utilize his brilliant intellect to persuade Tywin to accept a peaceful, diplomatic resolution to the war.
Ned Stark possessed the honor not to force Tyrion into an impossible situation if Tywin refused, so Tyrion had happily agreed to the terms.
However, the exact moment Tyrion crossed the Neck, massive rumors exploded across the Riverlands explicitly detailing that "Tyrion Lannister has been officially dispatched by the North to beg Lord Tywin for peace on behalf of Houses Stark and Tully."
The Imp immediately realized this highly weaponized propaganda was entirely the work of Roman Rivers' raven network.
Gods, Roman, Tyrion cursed internally, your relentless habit of aggressively gossiping about state secrets is actively going to get me killed!
Tyrion decided to casually stroll through the surrounding Harrenhal agricultural zones, deeply observing exactly how fundamentally different this land was from the rest of the continent.
His absolute first sensation was one of profound, shocking relief. He actively saw more genuine, stress-free smiles on the faces of the Harrenhal peasantry in a single hour than he had witnessed in King's Landing and Casterly Rock combined.
Even in the Westerlands—a region literally sitting on mountains of solid gold—the faces of the common smallfolk were constantly etched with a grim, hollow numbness born of extreme feudal poverty.
Simultaneously, Tyrion acutely noticed that the residents here were in vastly superior physical condition compared to the peasants of other regions. The vast majority of them were strong, robust, and heavily muscled, which only deepened Tyrion's obsessive curiosity regarding Harrenhal's economic miracles.
The Imp eventually flagged down a passing farmer, offering him a silver stag to explain his living conditions and Harrenhal's specific legal policies.
Upon seeing the silver, the farmer became incredibly excited. Realizing Tyrion was an out-of-towner, the man enthusiastically launched into a highly detailed, passionate lecture regarding Roman's revolutionary tax brackets, agricultural subsidies, and the dramatic, life-altering infrastructural changes that had transformed Harrenhal over the past four years.
Tyrion became increasingly, profoundly terrified as he listened. Eventually, he dismissed the rambling farmer and hastily mounted his pony, riding deeply into the heart of Harrenhal's territory.
As the Imp obsessively continued his socio-economic exploration, he encountered a terrifyingly well-developed network of paved stone highways, a highly advanced, automated water-wheel irrigation system, a massive, heavily industrialized steel manufacturing sector, and an army of fiercely, fanatically loyal subjects.
The profound, unconditional love the people of Harrenhal held for their draconic lord far exceeded Tyrion's wildest political comprehension. On more than one occasion, he actively witnessed grown men sitting in the dirt, weeping hysterically because the Vanguard recruiters had rejected their enlistment applications due to minor physical defects.
Why in the name of the Seven Gods are peasants actively fighting each other for the right to bleed in a war?! Tyrion thought, absolutely bewildered.
To the brilliant, cynical Imp, the more he explored Harrenhal, the more utterly terrifying the territory became. Even the absolute smallest administrative details revealed Roman's terrifyingly deep, systematic concern for public welfare and civic efficiency.
Most shockingly, due to Roman's violently strict anti-corruption laws, Tyrion frequently witnessed heavily armored Vanguard operatives publicly dragging chained, disgraced Harrenhal officials toward the massive black fortress. Upon discrete inquiry, Tyrion discovered these were corrupt magistrates who had been caught embezzling minor funds or abusing their authority.
Just as Tyrion was becoming completely overwhelmed by the sheer, utopian impossibility of it all, the massive crowds surrounding him suddenly erupted into deafening, fanatical cheers.
"Long live Lord Roman!!" the crowds roared, wildly waving their hands toward the clouds.
The Imp frantically followed the peasants' gaze upward. Violently cutting across the pristine blue sky at an absolutely unfathomable speed was a blinding, crackling sphere of white plasma.
"What in the seven hells is that?!" Tyrion gasped in horror.
A nearby passerby laughed brightly. "That is Lord Roman, of course! He is flying back to Harrenhal! Why are you looking so terrified, dwarf?"
At that exact, paralyzing moment, Tyrion realized that every single horrifying, mythological legend regarding Roman Rivers was absolutely, undeniably true.
No! Tyrion panicked internally. If this is the absolute reality of his power, I must physically force my father to withdraw his armies immediately! We absolutely cannot win a war against a literal god!
The Skies Above Harrenhal.
High above the clouds, Roman was aggressively pushing his physical limits, actively testing his maximum aerial velocity while simultaneously unleashing devastating magical bombardments.
Through years of grueling practice, he was now capable of maintaining absolute top speed for hours on end, effortlessly outpacing the fastest birds in Westeros.
Furthermore, Roman's mastery over his draconic magic had vastly evolved. He had entirely surpassed the rudimentary stage of simply vomiting chaotic streams of fire and electricity. He could now perfectly condense his volatile magic into hyper-concentrated spheres of crackling Pale Flame and raw lightning.
Compared to his massive, sustained pillars of fire, these "Magic Missiles" possessed significantly less area-of-effect damage, but they traveled at a terrifying, blinding velocity. This allowed Roman to aggressively execute high-speed, strafing attack runs across enemy lines without ever having to hover in place, completely eliminating the risk of being shot down by heavy scorpions or ballistas.
Executing a series of flawless, high-G aerial maneuvers, Roman violently cut through the sky in an unpredictable, zig-zagging arc and flawlessly launched a volley of Magic Missiles, completely obliterating a series of massive wooden targets situated in the Vanguard training fields below.
After conducting a rapid, mid-air damage assessment, Roman folded his wings and landed heavily in the center of the cratered field, highly satisfied with his devastating accuracy.
The moment his boots touched the dirt, Fili sprinted across the field, happily offering him a cold waterskin.
"Lord Roman, that was an absolutely flawless execution!" Fili cheered, gesturing to the smoldering splinters. "Every single target was completely vaporized! Moving forward, we can utilize this exact high-speed strafing tactic to effortlessly annihilate the Lannister logistical supply trains from the sky!"
Fili had immediately recognized the terrifying strategic potential of Roman's superior aerial mobility. However, deep down in her heart, she desperately wanted him to stick to destroying supply lines, rather than charging directly into the absolute center of the enemy's frontline formations, which she considered vastly too dangerous.
"I appreciate the tactical suggestion, Fili," Roman smiled, taking a long drink. "But I would vastly prefer to violently shatter the enemy's frontline formations head-on. It completely shatters their morale and massively reduces the mortal danger to our Vanguard infantry."
He wiped his mouth, his blue eyes softening as he looked at her worried expression. "Fili, it is fundamentally impossible for me to sit safely in the clouds and watch my soldiers bleed and die for me while I remain entirely indifferent. You know exactly what kind of man I am."
The young woman knew Roman possessed an unyielding, titanium moral code regarding his men. He would never back down from a principled fight. She stared deeply into his glowing blue eyes for a long moment, before finally stepping forward and burying her face in his chest, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist.
"Then you absolutely must promise me that you will not take unnecessary, suicidal risks!" Fili demanded, her voice slightly muffled by his armor.
Roman chuckled warmly, gently patting Fili's back. He softly assured her that he was absolutely not stupid enough to repeat the catastrophic mistakes of Meraxes in Dorne.
Now Get The FULL AVAILABLE NOVEL at Once!
Get 40% OFF for limited time only.
@patreon.com/Authorizz/shop