After confirming his body was sound, Roman threw himself into the daily labor of Harrenhal.
Lady Shella Whent had repeatedly urged him to rest and recover.
Roman refused, insisting on working alongside the castle staff to earn his keep.
At first, the servants were terrified of the outsider with the demonic black tail. Yet they dared not harm a guest favored by the Lady of Harrenhal.
Roman quickly proved his worth through sheer diligence.
He humbled himself, seeking out the castle's steward to learn proper Westerosi etiquette. While he knew the major players of the Game of Thrones from his past life, his knowledge of minor customs and daily interactions was woefully lacking.
He focused purely on completing his assigned tasks without complaint.
The people of Harrenhal soon realized the boy was not arrogant about Lady Shella's favor. On the contrary, he was serious, reliable, and always willing to lend a hand.
Gradually, Roman transformed from a frightening monster into a model worker.
The head steward even began using Roman to reprimand the lazier servants.
"By the Seven! Look at you all. You have served her ladyship for years, yet you are outworked by a recovering boy?"
"Sir, we do not have Roman's freakish stamina. The lad never seems to tire!" one of the servants complained.
"That is no excuse. Roman is strong, but why can you fools not even sweep a courtyard properly? No more excuses. If your tasks are not finished, you will not eat today!"
Lady Shella had been observing Roman closely from afar.
Since the end of Robert's Rebellion, the members of House Whent had perished one after another. The family had completely lost the immense glory it once held during the Great Tourney at Harrenhal.
Watching the earnest boy work, Lady Shella truly believed the Seven had sent him as a much-needed blessing.
"Maester Tom, how fares our young guest lately?" she asked.
Maester Tom was an inquisitive scholar tasked with observing Roman's recovery. He was far more interested in the boy's unnatural biology than his polite behavior.
"My Lady, his body is built far tougher than any ordinary man. Not only do his grievous wounds heal in days, but his physical strength is absolutely monstrous."
"I have already sent ravens to the Citadel inquiring about such traits, but they have no record of a creature like him."
Maester Tom's eyes gleamed with academic excitement. If he could study this boy properly and write a treatise, his name would be etched into the Citadel's highest archives.
Lady Shella merely sighed. It was a common flaw of her maester to lose his head over a new discovery.
As they spoke, Roman ascended the stone steps to join them on the balcony.
"Lady Shella, Maester Tom. Good morrow to you both. You look well today."
Maester Tom stared at the boy as if reading a fascinating scroll. Lady Shella, however, looked at Roman and saw the ghosts of her deceased sons.
A profound sadness washed over her weathered face.
"My Lady?" Roman asked, his brow furrowing in concern.
"Forgive me. I was simply lost in memories of the past. Child, you have learned the daily workings of Harrenhal quite well."
"The steward tells me you are ready for a proper role. How would you like to serve as my personal attendant?"
Roman was briefly stunned by the sudden promotion. He wondered if the grieving lady was projecting the image of her dead children onto him.
Despite his internal doubts, he knew better than to refuse such a golden opportunity.
"It would be my absolute honor, My Lady."
Roman's new duties required him to manage Lady Shella's daily affairs and guarantee her physical safety.
Naturally, this meant he needed combat training. He was promptly sent to the castle's master-at-arms.
The master-at-arms was a gruff man named Jessy. Being a bastard without a recognized surname, the castle simply called him Old Jessy.
Old Jessy was a hardened veteran. When he heard Lady Shella was sending her winged pet to train with the guards, he scoffed at the idea.
"Listen here, boy. I need to test your measure before I bother training you. Come at me. Let us have a spar."
Old Jessy casually tossed a wooden staff at Roman's feet.
The surrounding Harrenhal guards immediately broke into laughter.
"Come on, Old Jessy. At least give the lad a practice sword."
"What is he going to do with a stick? Poke you in the arse?"
A chorus of crude japes echoed across the training yard.
Roman ignored the soldiers completely. He picked up the heavy wooden staff and locked eyes with the veteran.
Old Jessy noticed an immediate shift in the boy's demeanor. The polite, reserved servant vanished, replaced by something entirely predatory.
Only then did the veteran notice the thick cords of muscle hiding beneath Roman's coarse tunic.
Did her ladyship not say this boy was bedridden a mere month ago? How has he built such mass?
Slightly unnerved but confident in his decades of experience, Old Jessy raised his dulled practice sword and settled into a defensive stance.
Roman's first strike shattered that confidence instantly.
The boy knew nothing of formal Westerosi swordplay. The martial techniques he possessed were lingering muscle memories from specialized youth training in his past life.
But technique hardly mattered when backed by overwhelming force.
Roman's draconic body was terrifyingly powerful. Old Jessy had heard the servants whispering about the boy's strength, but feeling it was another matter entirely.
Roman swung the wooden staff so fast it blurred into an afterimage. A sharp whistle tore through the air.
Alarm bells rang in Old Jessy's head. He threw his practice sword up in a desperate block.
A deafening crack echoed across the yard as wood smashed against wood.
The soldiers who had been laughing a moment ago fell dead silent. Several of the men who had placed bets swallowed nervously.
"This is not normal, is it?" one guard muttered.
Roman unleashed a relentless flurry of strikes. His footwork was chaotic and his technique haphazard, but his raw physical power was suffocating.
After several brutal exchanges, Old Jessy managed to stabilize his defense. Yet his arms were completely numb, and his lungs burned for air. He could not hold out much longer.
"Yield! Hold your swings!"
Old Jessy stepped back, gasping heavily as he massaged his trembling wrists. He looked at Roman with a mixture of fear and awe.
"You little monster. You hide your strength well. If you actually knew how to hold a sword, you would have cracked my skull open."
"You are training with me every single day from now on. You need proper technique if you are going to protect her ladyship."
Without giving Roman a chance to catch his breath, Old Jessy immediately launched into a punishing regimen.
Determined to win back the pride he had just lost in front of his men, the veteran pushed the boy to the absolute limit.
"Gods, Old Jessy is actually furious. Do you think the boy will last the week?" a guard whispered.
"I reckon he will. The lad is built as tough as that tail of his."
"First time I have seen the old man look so pathetic. Anyone want to make another wager?"
Hearing the whispers, Old Jessy snapped his head toward the gawking soldiers.
"Get back to your drills or none of you are eating lunch today!"
The guards scattered like frightened birds, leaving only muffled chuckles in their wake.
The following days were pure agony for Roman. Whether out of spite or genuine instruction, Old Jessy started him on the most grueling training program imaginable.
Even with physical abilities far exceeding a normal man, Roman's stamina had its limits.
He could only grit his teeth and pray he earned the veteran's approval quickly, lest he be beaten like a savage every day.