It was a beautiful day, yet the servants of Harrenhal trembled with fear.
Lady Shella Whent had brought home a monster.
Inside one of the sprawling castle's private chambers, the maester stared helplessly at the figure on the bed.
"My Lady, we are blessed by your mercy, but you should not have brought back a dying man."
"What this poor soul needs is peace," the old man urged.
The maester had good reason to protest, as the body before him was little more than mangled meat.
Bruises and deep lacerations covered the boy's flesh. His chest was torn open wide enough to expose his internal organs.
His arms and legs were bent at grotesque angles, looking as though he had been hurled from a high cliff.
Were it not for the stubborn heartbeat thumping away, the maester would have declared the boy dead on the spot.
Then there was the long black tail protruding from his spine.
Covered in pitch-black scales and as thick as a grown man's forearm, the draconic appendage had thoroughly terrified the castle staff.
When the servants first laid eyes on the ruined body Lady Shella brought through the gates, whispers immediately spread.
They all agreed it was a punishment from the Seven. It was the legendary curse of Harrenhal made flesh.
"Please heal this child," Lady Shella commanded, entirely ignoring the nervous gossip.
"My Lady, I must remind you that the servants are in a state of panic."
"For the sake of peace within your lands, you should dispose of him at once," the maester pleaded.
Lady Shella merely shook her head and continued arguing with the maester.
Meanwhile, Roman had already regained consciousness.
His mind was still flashing with the final, violent image of a truck smashing into his face.
A strange ceiling greeted his eyes, looking cold, gray, and filthy.
This was Roman's first coherent thought before blinding pain and agonizing thirst seized his brain.
He tried to speak but could not force out a single word. He only managed to squeeze pitiful gasps from his ruined throat.
His vision suddenly cleared. He saw an old man in maester's robes and a richly dressed elderly woman.
Where am I? Who are these people?
Lady Shella and the maester heard the raspy breathing. They turned to see Roman's desperate, pleading eyes.
"By the Seven! He is actually awake!"
The maester stared in utter shock. The boy with an exposed heart was gazing around as if he had seen a ghost.
Lady Shella reacted instantly.
"Maester, stop your gaping and save this child at once!"
Summoning his professional discipline, the maester immediately called the servants to bring medical supplies.
Yet he had never seen injuries quite like these. Not even during his extensive training at the Citadel in Oldtown had he encountered such a nightmare.
Left with no better options, he applied thick poultices of blood-clotting herbs and wrapped the boy tightly in linen bandages.
"Good lad, this is all I can do."
"From this moment on, only the gods can weigh your fate."
Muttering soft prayers, the maester carefully fed the bandaged Roman a spoonful of herbal broth.
Roman realized with a sinking dread that he had transmigrated directly into his shattered body.
Exhaustion and agony quickly overwhelmed him. Before he could make sense of his surroundings, he plunged back into a deep, heavy slumber.
In his dreams, Roman saw himself clearly.
He did not look like the man he was before the accident. He now possessed striking European features.
He stood over six feet tall with flowing black hair and pale blue eyes. His face was impossibly sharp and perfectly sculpted.
Yet the most glaring details were the sweeping horns, leathery wings, and thick tail.
These monstrous, draconic features blended seamlessly into his human frame.
Roman observed his new body with sheer disbelief.
He wanted to inspect the scales closer, but a chilling presence suddenly drew his attention.
Through the haze of the dream, he caught sight of the Night King.
The icy demon stared directly back at him.
Panic seized Roman's heart.
He snapped awake instantly. His entire body burned with fever, yet his hands and feet felt like ice.
Was that the Night King? Have I been thrown into the world of A Song of Ice and Fire?
There was no mistaking that terrifying visage.
A deep sense of surreal dread washed over him.
I must be losing my mind. How could this be real?
Reality provided a swift and painful answer.
"Lady Shella, the boy has nearly recovered."
"The Seven be praised! For someone to survive such catastrophic wounds is a miracle."
"The archmaesters at the Citadel will have to write a new record for this!"
Lady Shella Whent and her maester pushed open the heavy wooden door. They froze when they saw Roman sitting upright on the bed.
"The gods have bless you, child. You are awake."
"How are you feeling?" Lady Shella asked with a gentle smile.
"I believe the worst has passed. May I ask who you are?"
Roman forced the words out in a raw, gravelly voice.
The maester immediately stepped forward to answer.
"This is Lady Shella Whent, the ruling lady of Harrenhal."
"You are currently resting within the walls of Harrenhal."
Roman's head spun at the revelation. He cast his gaze around the room.
The crumbling stone architecture and archaic decorations made his stomach drop.
I really have transmigrated into A Song of Ice and Fire.
And of all places, I am trapped in Harrenhal, the most cursed fortress in Westeros.
Roman composed himself and conversed with Lady Shella.
He expressed his profound gratitude for her care and subtly probed to learn how he had arrived.
It turned out the gloomy atmosphere of Harrenhal had been weighing heavily on the aging lady.
She had ridden out a month ago to clear her mind. During her patrol, a massive explosion rocked the countryside.
Amidst a crater of pale flames and shattered earth, she found Roman clinging to life.
Moved by sudden compassion, she ordered her guards to bring the ruined boy back to her castle.
"Thank you, My Lady. When my strength returns, I swear to repay your kindness."
Roman offered the vow without hesitation.
He remembered little about Lady Shella Whent from the original books, save that she was a friend to the Night's Watch.
She had eventually surrendered Harrenhal, lost her entire family to the curse, and died alone in exile.
Judging by her actions now, she was a genuinely merciful woman. Any other lord would have left a winged, tailed monstrosity to rot in the crater.
"There is no need to rush, child. I am simply glad you survived."
"We can discuss the future when you are fully healed."
Following her gentle urging, Roman lay back down against the pillows.
Over the next few days, he coaxed more information from the gossiping servants and the visiting maester.
The current year was 294 AC.
He had arrived exactly four years before the outbreak of the War of the Five Kings.
Worse still, he was anchored in Harrenhal.
Ever since the days of Harren the Black, every noble house that claimed this seat had been utterly annihilated.
Even Petyr Baelish, who would later be granted the castle, never dared to set foot inside, preferring the safety of the Eyrie.
This is incredibly troublesome. Even freezing in the North would be better than rotting in this cursed ruin.
Yet Roman had no intention of running away.
Lady Shella had saved his life against all logic and reason.
He could not simply abandon her to the miserable, lonely death written for her in the original story.
Since fate had dumped him here, he would use his foreknowledge to alter the timeline and prevent as many tragedies as possible.
Besides, his own body held too many terrifying secrets.
His catastrophic wounds were healing at a completely unnatural pace.
Injuries that should have crippled him for life vanished within weeks.
His nightly dreams were filled with relentless, bizarre visions.
He watched from a third-person perspective as his body mutated further.
First the black tail formed, followed by the sweeping horns on his brow.
Then leathery dragon wings erupted from his shoulder blades, and thick obsidian scales armored his flesh.
Each dream ended with him locked in brutal combat against nameless enemies.
He fought common men, savage beasts, rival dragons, and even the Night King.
He also battled a terrifying man wreathed in fire, bearing the ancient crest of House Hoare.
Though the faces of his dream foes were blurred, Roman understood the rule of these visions.
Every time he slaughtered an enemy in his sleep, his waking body grew noticeably stronger.
A full month after waking, Roman was finally strong enough to climb out of bed unassisted.
He immediately reached behind himself to check his lower back.
The black, scaled tail was undeniably real.
Thankfully, no one in the castle had correctly identified it as draconic.
Dragons had been extinct in Westeros for over a century and a half. To the common folk, they were nothing but myths and dusty bones.
The servants merely assumed the dark magic of Harrenhal had warped his flesh as punishment.
Surviving the crash and finding a patron in Lady Shella was his first miracle.
Now, Roman had to figure out how to shatter the doom hanging over Harrenhal and rewrite the fate of Westeros.