Old Jesse's fifteen hundred soldiers were a logistical nightmare. Roman left the man to sort it out and used the free time to scout the terrain around King's Landing.
By the time both of them dragged themselves back to their rooms, they were dead on their feet.
Roman had barely lain down when something felt off. He opened his magical sight and scanned the chamber.
Sure enough, a faint spark of life glowed beneath the floorboards.
Varys, I didn't come looking for you, but here you are sniffing around. You'd better not let me catch you up to anything shady.
He needed to test the eunuch, see if he was as dangerous as the books made him out to be. If Varys tried to stir up real trouble, Roman would end it with one punch.
Littlefinger, though? That snake had to die. The man would burn the entire realm just to climb a little higher.
The Iron Throne itself held zero appeal. It was just a fancy chair in a feudal system. The great lords did whatever they damn well pleased anyway.
Sitting on that pile of melted swords wouldn't make anyone a real king. It would only paint a target on your back for every ambitious bastard in Westeros.
Roman wanted centralized power. As Lady Shella's heir, he would take Harrenhal and run it properly. That conversation could wait until he got home.
Jon Arryn was still alive and the realm wasn't on fire yet. Harrenhal had breathing room.
Right now the priority is making friends with the major houses. At least don't make enemies.
He closed his eyes and let sleep take him.
The next morning Robert was predictably hungover. Roman headed to the training yard like always and started swinging alone.
Ser Barristan arrived moments later.
The old knight watched the broad-shouldered young man in full plate hammering a training dummy into scrap and felt a cold ripple of surprise.
Technique's rough, but that speed and power… gods, besides Robert, who else hits like that?
Roman spotted him and broke into a grin.
"Ser Barristan! Good morning. Didn't expect to see you here."
"My lord." Barristan returned the bow. "His Grace has been bellowing for you since dawn, but he's still three sheets to the wind, so I came to warn you."
"Oh? Who's guarding him right now?"
"Jaime Lannister."
Roman nodded. The Kingslayer was an excellent choice. He had to admire Robert's sheer nerve for keeping the man close.
Robert's hatred for House Targaryen ran bone-deep. That was probably the only reason Jaime still wore the white cloak.
"Since the king's occupied, would you mind teaching me a few things, Ser Barristan?"
"Me?" The old knight looked genuinely surprised.
Roman checked that Old Jesse wasn't nearby, then met Barristan's eyes.
"Ser Jesse has taught me everything he knows. If I want to get better, I need more than just swinging until my arms fall off. You're one of the greatest warriors in Westeros. Even one day of your time would be an honor."
Barristan studied him for a long moment.
"Why do you hunger for strength so badly, my lord?"
Roman didn't hesitate. He let the memory of that poor farmer's murdered child rise to the surface—anger, shame, helplessness—and let it show on his face.
"When I was at Harrenhal, peasants kept coming to Lady Shella begging for justice against river bandits. One man carried his little girl's body in his arms. I wanted to ride out and slaughter every last one of those bastards, but I didn't have the skill. That's when I swore I'd never feel that powerless again."
Barristan's jaw tightened. Roman had hit the exact nerve he'd hoped for—the memory of Robert laughing while Tywin displayed Rhaegar's children's corpses.
The two men stared at each other, eyes locked.
Finally Barristan threw his head back and laughed.
"Very well! Just don't complain when this old man embarrasses himself."
He dropped into a fighting stance. Roman grinned and hefted his warhammer.
"It's an honor to learn from Barristan the Bold."
As the official head of House Whent's delegation, Roman should have been handling politics. Instead he was sparring in the yard.
Robert woke up cursing the wine that had tasted better than Arbor's finest.
"Water! For the love of the gods, bring me water before I die of thirst!"
Servants rushed to swap out the wine for cool water.
Robert gulped it down and growled, "Where the hell is that brat Roman? He kept pouring last night and now he's gone AWOL."
"My lord, Roman is sparring with Ser Barristan."
Robert's eyebrows shot up. Why was the kid wasting time with that stiff old knight instead of reporting to his king?
His mood brightened instantly.
"Fine. Let's go watch the show. I want to see why he's ignoring his king."
A small army of courtiers and guards followed Robert to the training yard. The sound of clashing steel reached them long before they arrived.
Soldiers packed the edges three deep, cheering every exchange.
Robert shoved his way through the crowd. Men who started to snap at him took one look at the royal belly and shrank back like quail.
When the king reached the front, he found Roman and Barristan locked in a furious, beautiful dance.
Barristan moved like a man half his age—precise, brutal, every angle deadly. Roman's raw power should have overwhelmed him, but the old knight kept slipping past the hammer, using Roman's own momentum against him.
The fight was even. Barristan had the skill. Roman had the stamina and the monstrous strength to punish every mistake.
Sweat poured down Barristan's face. His breath came hard. Roman was still smiling, moving like he could do this all day.
Finally Barristan saw his opening. He deflected a heavy swing, lunged inside Roman's guard, and laid his sword across the younger man's throat.
Roman's grin widened.
"You win, Ser Barristan."