Today was the day they lit the blast furnace.
Roman had invited Lady Shella and Maester Tom to watch the first pour. Lady Shella didn't understand ironworking, but even she could tell the towering furnace was something special. Maester Tom had already started scribbling notes at lightning speed.
He peppered Roman with questions while writing.
"My lord, if this works as you say, one furnace could match the yearly output of entire mining districts owned by the old iron lords!"
"Seven hells, where do these ideas even come from? Did the Crone kiss your forehead at birth?"
"Maester, don't exaggerate. Let's see how much iron actually comes out first."
Tom wasn't exaggerating. After years of serving Harrenhal he knew real progress when he saw it. The heat coming off the white flame told him everything he needed to know.
"Pity this has to stay secret," he muttered. "These records alone could have earned me a place in the Citadel's archives."
He looked at Roman with open admiration. When the Citadel first posted him to Harrenhal, Tom had felt nothing but despair. Now he believed the gods had sent him the one man who could finally break the castle's curse.
House Whent would be the first family to escape it.
While the three of them talked, the first batch of molten iron was ready.
The foreman shouted. Workers opened the tap hole.
A bright orange river of liquid metal poured out—smoother and hotter than anything made in a crucible. Slag flowed from a higher opening. A thin layer of white flame danced across the iron's surface until it reached the molds and finally died.
They had built a simple shelter around the tap to protect the iron from wind, but even that flimsy structure turned into an oven. Roman and Tom quickly sent Lady Shella away before the heat became dangerous.
The workers were drenched in sweat, yet every face wore a grin.
"Seven save us! Look at that iron flowing like a stream! Lord Roman's the Smith reborn!"
Later records would show the furnace produced roughly six tons of pig iron in a single pour. When the number was announced, everyone stood speechless until Roman promised bonuses and the celebration began.
With iron, everything else became possible.
Roman immediately started re-equipping the Harrenhal guard and mass-producing tools and farming implements. At the same time he turned his attention to the one problem that had haunted the castle for centuries.
The ruins.
After Aegon the Conqueror burned Harrenhal, the wreckage had been left to rot. Every house that followed lacked the money or the will to clear it. Harren the Black had once ruled both the Iron Islands and the Riverlands; he'd had the power to fill the entire castle with stone and blood.
Now House Whent controlled only the lands around God's Eye. The population was tiny, and the curse still clung to every broken tower.
Roman wasn't afraid of curses.
He lit his white flame and led soldiers and workers into the ruins.
The place was overgrown with weeds and moss, crawling with snakes, rats, and insects. Bats wheeled overhead in the gloom.
Roman closed his eyes and let the flame spread.
Through the fire he felt the old hatred—Weirwood trees cut down for support beams, children's blood mixed into the mortar. The same rage that had once belonged to Harren the Black.
This time he was ready.
He burned it all away, steady and methodical. The resentment dissolved just like Harren had.
When Roman opened his eyes again, the ruins had turned snow-white. Every weed, every insect, every trace of the old curse was gone.
Under his direction the workers began carefully dismantling the best stone blocks. Roman already had plans for every single one.
The lands around God's Eye were cut by dozens of small rivers and streams—too many to appear on most maps. Feudal lords had never been able to build proper infrastructure across them. That was why the Twins remained the only major bridge in the entire Riverlands.
Roman didn't need another Twins. He wanted something simpler and faster.
Small stone bridges between villages and towns—wide enough for carts, travelers, and soldiers.
"Careful with those blocks," he called. "They're going into bridge foundations. Don't crack them."
Maester Tom watched the men hauling the massive stones and frowned.
"My lord, isn't it wasteful to use all this stone just for roads and bridges?"
Roman smiled. "Maester, what good are these blocks doing us sitting here?"
"Well… none, at the moment."
"And if I use them to build bridges, will that speed up trade and tax collection?"
"…Yes."
"Then there's your answer. Better to invest them in the lands than let them gather dust."
Stone by stone, the ruins disappeared.
Some blocks repaired gaps in the castle walls. Others became piers for new bridges. The people of Harrenhal, including Lady Shella herself, watched with approval. The old ruins had been terrifying even with Roman protecting them. At night the place still felt haunted.
Now, after the white flame had touched them, the stones glowed a soft milky white and carried a faint, pleasant scent.
The smaller bricks went straight into new housing. Roman knew he would soon be bringing more people to Harrenhal; he wanted homes ready.
Sewers, clean-water channels, and proper stone roads were already being laid.
Blackheart Harren's five great towers—built with forty years of blood and terror—were being dismantled piece by piece by one young man.
And the blood tax Harren had taken from the Riverlands was finally being returned to the people who had paid it.