"Old Jessy, how is Roman's training progressing?"
One sunny afternoon, Lady Shella Whent approached the master-at-arms. The two stood together on a raised wooden platform, watching Roman drill in the yard below.
Roman was engaged in a brutal melee against four seasoned guardsmen armed with steel practice swords.
According to Old Jessy, honorable one-on-one duels were a rarity on a true battlefield. A soldier was far more likely to face multiple opponents at once. Therefore, Roman had to learn how to survive chaotic group combat.
Yet as Lady Shella watched the melee unfold, the situation did not look like a survival lesson.
"Old Jessy, from where I stand, it appears Roman is simply beating your four men to a pulp. Is something amiss?"
Lady Shella had witnessed countless grand melees during tourneys. She understood the flow of group combat perfectly well.
But Roman was clearly a different beast entirely.
To prevent the abnormally strong boy from accidentally maiming the other guards, the veteran drillmaster had confiscated Roman's wooden staff and replaced it with a solid iron rod.
Unexpectedly, this weapon swap only magnified Roman's terrifying physical power.
Because the four guards were clad in boiled leather and chainmail, Roman no longer felt the need to hold back. And a solid iron rod swung with draconic strength was a devastating force.
When Roman swept the heavy bar in a wide arc, the sheer momentum was enough to shatter stone.
Even when he deliberately pulled his punches, a glancing blow was enough to leave a guardsman bruised and gasping in the dirt.
Old Jessy's initial disdain for the strange boy had completely morphed into fierce appreciation.
"My Lady, the lad is relentless. He is eager to learn and trains harder than men twice his age. It will not be long before he is ready for night patrols."
"Though," the veteran added with a wry smile, "I suggest we forge him a proper weapon before he breaks all of mine."
Lady Shella watched Roman's towering figure weave through the guards and nodded in quiet approval.
A week later, Roman officially began his night patrol duties within Harrenhal.
Are they serious? How am I supposed to inspect this entire ruin by myself?
Roman had initially underestimated the task. He figured walking the walls of a castle would be simple enough.
But when he actually began his route, he finally understood the true, terrifying scale of Westeros's greatest fortress.
The five melted towers pierced the night sky like jagged black fingers. Even though the vast majority of the keep was abandoned, the sheer size of the remaining structures was mind-boggling.
Some of the cavernous halls were large enough to comfortably house thousands of men.
Because Aegon the Conqueror's dragonfire had melted the very stone, the collapsed, warped architecture looked profoundly eerie in the dead of night.
As the newest recruit, the veteran guards had naturally assigned Roman the longest and most remote patrol route.
Yet this suited him perfectly. Roman had been trying to find a way to investigate the deeper, abandoned sections of Harrenhal without drawing suspicion.
Fortunately, my draconic eyesight is far sharper than a normal man's. I can see perfectly in this pitch black.
The more Roman explored the ruins, the more he marveled at the impossible architecture. He seriously began to suspect that Harren the Black had employed dark magic to build the fortress, as the scale simply defied medieval engineering.
Amidst his awe and confusion, Roman began taking mental notes of the keep's layout.
Over the following weeks, exploring the darkest corners of Harrenhal became a routine. He even spent his daylight hours wandering the melted ruins.
The other servants assumed the boy was simply bored, but Roman had actually discovered something deeply unnatural hiding in the rubble.
Late at night, a bizarre shadow would frequently drift through the empty corridors. Even with his enhanced vision, Roman could never clearly make out the entity's face.
Every time he tried to approach, the shadow would melt into the darkness and vanish.
Tonight, he was determined to uncover the truth.
Roman finished his assigned patrol route early and found a dark, collapsed archway to hide beneath.
Harrenhal was an endless maze of rubble, providing countless blind spots for an ambush.
The ancient ruins were so desolate that not even the chirping of insects broke the heavy silence. Sitting in the oppressive dark for too long was enough to drive a normal man mad with paranoia.
A regular guardsman would sprint back to the barracks the second his shift ended. Who would willingly linger in the cursed shadows?
But Roman was no ordinary man.
Finally, after an agonizing wait, his target emerged.
Like drops of black ink bleeding upward from the stone floor, a mass of chaotic, swirling shadows began to coalesce in the corridor.
This time, Roman did not rush out. He held his breath and watched from the safety of the dark archway.
He watched the twisting darkness solidify until it took the unmistakable shape of a man.
Roman suddenly recalled the chilling legends of Harrenhal's curse from the original books.
Could this be one of the Ironborn who burned to death when Aegon unleashed Balerion?
The shadowy figure, entirely unaware of Roman's presence, began to glide down the hallway.
Convinced he had just stumbled upon a genuine ghost of Harrenhal, Roman gripped his iron rod and silently tailed the entity to see what it was plotting.
The phantom drifted forward, and Roman stalked it through the gloom.
After weaving through a maze of collapsed corridors, the pair approached the inhabited wing where the servants slept.
Roman's heart skipped a beat. The terrifying rumors of Harrenhal were about to become a bloody reality.
The common folk always whispered that Harren the Black and his cruel henchmen still haunted the halls, hunting the living to exact their vengeance.
Just then, a sleepy servant stumbled out of his quarters to relieve himself, walking directly into the path of the phantom.
The groggy man froze, his eyes widening in sheer terror as the swirling black mist loomed over him.
He opened his mouth to scream, but the shadowy figure lunged forward with blinding speed.
Roman instantly broke from his cover and sprinted down the hall, but he was too far away. He would never close the distance in time. If he didn't act immediately, the servant was dead.
Gritting his teeth, Roman roared at the top of his lungs, "Get down!"
Without breaking stride, he planted his feet, twisted his waist, and hurled his solid iron rod with every ounce of his monstrous strength.
The heavy iron bar tore through the air like a ballista bolt, moving so fast it blurred into a dark streak.
The sheer air pressure generated by the projectile violently snuffed out the wall torches as it passed.
Seeing the torches suddenly extinguish and hearing a demonic roar, the terrified servant threw himself flat on the stone floor, covering his head in panic.
The phantom heard Roman's shout, but before it could turn around, the iron rod slammed directly into its back.
With a deafening CRACK that echoed like thunder through the tower, the iron bar pinned the shadowy mass violently against the far stone wall.
The explosive noise instantly jolted Lady Shella and the rest of the sleeping servants awake.
Roman sprinted forward, hauled the trembling servant to his feet, and ordered him to go report the incident to Lady Shella immediately.
With the civilian safe, Roman turned his attention to the pinned entity.
It was a baffling sight. The creature was made entirely of swirling, smoke-like shadow, yet the iron rod had somehow pierced its physical mass and nailed it to the masonry.
As Roman stepped closer, the swirling mist on the creature's face parted, revealing a blurry visage.
Wait... isn't that the face from my dreams?
Roman instantly recognized the snarling, hateful features. He had slaughtered this exact man dozens of times in his sleep. It was always one of the first grunts to die in his nightly dreamscapes.
The shadow writhed against the iron bar. It opened its mouth to scream but produced no sound. Thrashing wildly, it reached out with a smoky claw, trying to tear at Roman's face.
Roman had zero patience for the creature's temper. He pulled his arm back and drove a brutal punch directly into the ghost's face.
"You think you're tough? You try to murder a man in his sleep and still act arrogant?"
However, what happened next caught Roman completely off guard.
The shadow let out a silent, agonizing shriek as Roman's fist connected. Its ink-black body instantly shattered, rapidly dissolving into the air.
Before Roman could step back, the dispersing black mist surged forward and rushed directly into his mouth and nostrils.
Wait! What the hell is this?!
Before he could even cough, a torrential flood of memories violently forced its way into his brain.
Visions exploded behind his eyes: The bloody foundation of Harrenhal being laid... ruby-red sap weeping from slaughtered weirwood trees... thousands of enslaved laborers collapsing and dying in the sweltering quarries... innocent toddlers screaming as their blood was drained to mix into the mortar...
The sheer volume of dark, agonizing history slammed into Roman's mind, forcing him to his knees as he blindly leaned against the cold stone wall for support.
At that exact moment, Lady Shella Whent rushed into the corridor, freezing as she took in the scene.
"By the Seven!" she gasped in horror. "What in the gods' names is that?!"