"Why didn't you dodge?"
Ser Barristan was still breathing hard, staring at Roman's calm face in disbelief.
Roman had every chance to twist away from that final strike. Instead he'd chosen to trade technique with the old knight, giving up the easy win his raw power could have delivered.
"I came here to learn," Roman said simply. "Bullying someone with strength alone won't make me better."
Barristan let out a short, incredulous laugh. "In a real fight you win by not losing. You just proved that."
Roman didn't argue. He simply stepped forward and steadied the older man with a hand under his arm. The tremor running through Barristan's muscles made Roman wonder if he'd pushed the legend too far.
A burst of applause broke the moment.
Everyone turned to see King Robert, face flushed—whether from wine or excitement, no one could tell.
"Well done! Well done! First time I've seen anyone push Barristan this hard. House Whent's got itself a real warrior!"
"My lord."
"Your Grace."
Robert clapped Barristan on the shoulder, then took the warhammer from Roman's hands.
"This little toy's beneath you. I'll have a proper one forged—big enough to match that arm of yours. Call it thanks to Lady Shella for sending her taxes on time."
A smooth, mocking voice cut through the praise.
"Your Grace, your promises are more expensive than Casterly Rock gold. Is it wise to hand out gifts so freely?"
The crowd parted. A tall, golden-haired man stepped forward, blue eyes sparkling with arrogant amusement.
"Lord Roman, Ser Barristan is past his prime. A victory over him proves nothing. Why not test yourself against me instead?"
"If you win, I'll pay for that hammer myself. How does that sound?"
Jaime Lannister smiled like a man who already knew the answer.
Roman's brow furrowed. He'd expected the Kingslayer to be cocky, but this was outright insulting. One sentence had managed to slight both Barristan and the king.
He glanced at Robert. The king's jaw tightened, but when Roman stayed calm, Robert exhaled and gave a short nod.
"Better live up to that mouth of yours, Lannister."
Roman met Jaime's eyes.
"Teach me, then."
The Harrenhal soldiers exchanged knowing looks. When their lord spoke that quiet and short, it meant he was done playing.
Whatever game Jaime thought he was playing, Roman intended to teach him respect.
They took their positions. At Robert's shout the match began.
Roman didn't waste a second. He exploded forward in a blur of black armor and steel, moving faster than anyone expected.
Barristan's eyes widened. "He still has that much left in him?"
Roman didn't swing at Jaime directly. He flashed past the Kingsguard, using his own momentum to bring the hammer around in a vicious arc. The heavy head whistled through the air like a cavalry charge.
Jaime's eyes went wide. He barely got his sword up in time.
CLANG!
The impact lifted Jaime off his feet and sent him stumbling backward, arms numb.
Roman didn't let up. He planted his boot, spun, and charged again—this time even harder. Hidden beneath the black cloak, his dragon tail flicked out just enough to keep his balance perfect.
Jaime was still reeling when Roman reached him. One clean, controlled punch snapped the Kingsguard's head back and dropped him like a sack of grain.
Silence.
Jaime lay flat on the dirt, out cold.
Robert broke the stunned quiet with a roar of laughter and thunderous applause.
"Ha! That's how you do it! Knocked the smug bastard flat in one go. You're every bit as good as I was at your age. Come on—drinks for everyone who wants them!"
He grabbed Roman by the arm and started dragging him toward the Red Keep. The Harrenhal men stayed behind under Old Jesse's watchful eye. This was politics, not a party for soldiers.
Robert was barely sober. Another round of wine would be a disaster. Roman tried to steer him gently.
"Your Grace, you need rest. More wine and your body won't thank you."
The fat king stopped dead, eyes narrowing.
"Oh? The new Whent pup thinks he can tell his king what to do?"
"No." Roman shook his head, calm as ever. "Your Grace, how long has it been since you swung a warhammer?"
Robert froze. The last time he'd lifted a real weapon had been the Greyjoy rebellion. Everything after that had been feasts, wine, and slowly expanding waistlines.
He didn't answer. His face flushed darker.
"What choice do I have? No wars left. No real battles. Should I just sit on that pile of melted swords all day?"
Roman smiled, but his eyes stayed sad.
"You're like the warhammer from the Trident, Your Grace—meant to ride across fields and battle lines. Now it hangs on the wall, soaked in wine and rusting. I'm only mourning what the Iron Throne has done to a true warrior."
He looked at his own hammer, then back at the king.
"I'm not mocking you. I'm grieving. I'd give anything to see the man who killed Rhaegar at the Ruby Ford one more time."
The words hit home. Robert's mind flashed back to that day—armor shining, warhammer rising, Rhaegar falling. He'd been unstoppable.
Now look at him.
He scratched his head, torn between pride and the three things he loved most: fighting, drinking, and fucking. Finally he glared at Roman.
"You little shit. You sound just like that old man. Fine. What are you offering to make up for stealing my wine?"
Roman drove the hammerhead into the dirt with a heavy thud and held out his open hand.
"When you reclaim the man you used to be, I'll give you a tourney worthy of legends. And as long as you act like a king, I will serve you with everything I have."
Robert stared, then burst out laughing.
"Ha! A vassal swearing loyalty with conditions? Even if your head wore the Tully fish I'd still be your king!"
Roman's grin turned sharp.
"The crown doesn't make you king, Your Grace. Men do. So tell me—has the warrior of the Trident lost his nerve?"
Fire lit in Robert's eyes.
"Fine, you cocky bastard. We'll see. I'll make you eat those words."
Roman bowed low, still smiling. Robert clapped him on the back hard enough to stagger most men, and together they walked back toward the Red Keep, laughing like old friends.