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CHAPTER 208
295 AC
POV THIRD PERSON
Aermir turned towards Artos Snow and Torren Reed, his gaze carrying a weight of expectation as he inquired, "Is everything ready?"
Artos, his trusted companion, promptly responded, "Yes, my lord. As you ordered, we've extended invitations to most of the Northern lords, all in the name of the Druid. With the exception of the Boltons, nearly everyone is either attending personally or sending someone of importance."
Aermir arched an inquisitive eyebrow, seeking further clarification. "What do you mean the Boltons aren't sending someone of importance?"
Artos explained, "Well, my lord, everyone else is either gracing us with their presence or dispatching their heirs. However, House Bolton has chosen to send Roose Bolton's bastard son as their representative."
The Druid's countenance remained impassive; he wasn't overly concerned about the specific emissary House Bolton had sent or anyone else for that matter. What truly mattered was that most houses were participating in the gathering he had orchestrated, a grand feast held in honor of the Old Gods and the Druid himself. Thanks to Robb Stark's and Ned Stark's attendance, most lords were coming, providing Aermir with the perfect backdrop for what lay ahead.
Aermir harbored a covert agenda concealed behind the festivities. He intended to use this occasion to formally declare war on the Sistermen, their punishment for brazenly burning his five ships. As he talked with Artos and Torren, his ships were sailing in the Bite. A meticulous plan had been put in motion: his sailors had undergone simulated training for shipwreck scenarios, and they would be towed to the shore, ensuring they would emerge as witnesses against the Sistermen lords.
The Sistermen Lords' unwavering trust in the Vale Lord had emboldened them to openly confront Aermir. They believed they had the backing of the Vale behind them, a conviction that played right into Aermir's hands. He had orchestrated this entire plan with the hope that the Vale Lord would indeed support the Sistermen when they launched their invasion.
If everything unfolded as Aermir envisioned, with the Vale Lord standing firmly behind the Sistermen, his scheme would come to fruition seamlessly. It was a gambit; if it didn't work, he would have burned five ships for no reason. Aermir's heart was filled with anticipation and a tinge of anxiety as he awaited the outcome of his grand design.
...
Amidst the grand festivities, nearly all the Lords of the North had gathered, drawn by the allure of making connections with the enigmatic Druid Emrys or simply to pay homage to the Starks. Aermir, as the gracious host, extended the traditional welcome of bread and salt to all the guests.
However, a hushed murmur rippled through the crowd as a small group bearing the banners of House Bolton arrived at the gathering. At the forefront of the Bolton entourage strode a young man, his demeanor somewhat unsettling. Aermir's heightened senses detected a faint, unmistakable scent—a tinge of blood, human blood. It was evident that this man had not arrived here without first shedding blood, casting a shadow of unease over his presence.
Ramsay Bolton presents a rather unsettling sight, even when adorned in his finest attire. His ungainly frame features broad shoulders and a stocky build, hinting at the likelihood of future corpulence. Ramsay's complexion is marred by blotches of pinkish skin, while his nose is disproportionately wide. Dark, dry, and unruly hair cascades down his head, framing a visage that does him no favors. His small mouth contrasts with the peculiar, wide, and fleshy lips that bear an eerie, almost worm-like appearance.
Ramsay's most chilling feature is his eyes, reminiscent of his father Roose's—small, closely spaced, and strangely pale, akin to two chips of soiled ice. A drop-shaped garnet, resembling a droplet of blood, dangles from his right ear, serving as a sinister embellishment to his macabre presence. His attire, though rich, includes calfskin boots, a velvet doublet, a silver-chased swordbelt, and a pale pink cloak of his house, a reflection of his twisted sense of fashion. In a slimy, emotionless voice, Ramsay uttered his words, his tone devoid of sincerity or warmth.
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"Thank you for inviting us, Boltons. My father isn't feeling well and can't attend these festivities. As you know, my brother Domeric is always sickly. I was the only true Bolton who could attend."
Performing a disingenuous bow, Ramsay wasted no time and accepted the offered bread and salt before making his way into the gathering. Aermir's attention, however, had drifted away from Ramsay's words, his focus consumed by the unnerving presence of the man before him. It was Ramsay's unsettling eyes that held him captive—their emptiness, the void within. Those small, detached orbs lacked any glimmer of emotion, be it positive or negative; they were bereft of humanity itself. They were devoid of everything.
...
Amidst the grandeur of the festivities, Aermir's keen eyes never ceased scanning the horizon by connecting to Erebus. Out in the vast expanse of the sea, his five ships sailed, a testament to his meticulous planning. The skeletal crew aboard each vessel executed their roles with practiced precision, knowing that the time had come for their dramatic performance.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the waters in hues of orange and pink, the situation out at sea grew tense. In the distance, ominous shadows on the horizon signaled the approach of Sistermen ships, their sails billowing in the evening breeze. The moment of reckoning was upon them.
The chaos that unfolded at sea was a sight to behold. Just as the Sistermen began their daring boarding attempt, the crew of Aermir's ships executed their plan with meticulous precision. In a carefully orchestrated ballet, they abandoned their posts, moving swiftly and with purpose. Their intent was clear – to set their vessels ablaze.
The crackling flames erupted, hungrily consuming the sails and masts of the ships. Smoke billowed upwards in thick, dark columns, obscuring the fading twilight sky. The once-proud ships, symbols of Aermir's aspirations and ambitions, were now transformed into towering infernos, casting an eerie and captivating glow across the darkening waters.
As the flames rose to the sky, Aermir's men were towed toward the shore, already far from the burning ships on their life rafts. In the end, it was chaos that reigned supreme. Flames devoured the Sistermen ships that were at boarding distance as uncontrollably as they did Aermir's, causing the raiding fleet to scatter in disarray. The cost was high – ten small raiding ships and one warship lost to the merciless inferno. Aermir's plan had unfolded flawlessly, and the damning testimony against the Sistermen lords had been sealed in the fiery crucible of this deception.
Amidst the flickering flames and the rising plumes of smoke, Aermir stood as the puppet master of this intricate performance, watching it from the skies, knowing that this was merely the opening act of a grand theatrical display.
...
As the drama unfolded on the open sea, Aermir's sharp eyes scanned the Sistermen Lords' faces, etching their expressions into his memory. Lord Triston Sunderland, Godric Borrel, Rolland Longthorpe, and Alesandor Torrent, figures of ambition and greed, stood aboard their warships, their aspirations of wealth and prestige now up in flames – quite literally.
Their bewilderment was palpable, painted clearly across their faces. Aermir watched from a distance as their initial anticipation and greed gave way to frustration and anger. They had come for the promise of riches, only to witness the very ships that held those dreams reduced to charred remnants before they could even take one piece of gold from them.
Rolland Longthorpe's face was contorted with a mix of fury and frustration as he launched his clenched fist at his spymaster's face, the blow landing with a sickening thud. His voice was a thunderous roar, echoing his seething anger.
"Didn't you tell me they were filled with gold to the brim? Didn't you tell me they were going to Essos to purchase riches beyond measure? Yet here we stand, and all of those ships are burned! Why did they burn their ship right as we boarded?"
His spymaster, blood streaming from his broken nose, fell to his knees, desperate to placate his enraged lord.
"My lord, I swear by all that is sacred, that was the chatter we picked up in Moondrift Port," he pleaded, voice trembling. "Every sailor's tongue wagged about how their backs almost broke from the weight of the chests. The entire port buzzed with talk of the grand trade that would unfold in Braavos. My lord, they might have had orders to burn everything in case of pirates; Lord Drasil might have ordered them to burn all rather than lose them."
Longthorpe's rage simmered but did not subside entirely, and his thirst for wealth had clouded his judgment. The game was far from over, and Rolland Longthorpe was determined to turn the tides in their favor once more.
As the chaos unfolded on the waters of the Three Sisters, Aermir stood at the center of it all, a silent observer of the grand performance through Erebus's eyes. The Sistermen Lords, consumed by their greed and frustration, had taken the bait, and their decision to raid Moondrift played right into Aermir's hands.
Amidst the commotion, Aermir's supposed shipwrecked sailors had successfully reached the shores of Moondrift; of course, they were not the real sailors since they were still on the sea, their fabricated tale of survival ready to be spun. Meanwhile, a messenger, his horse lathered in sweat, raced towards Moat Cailin with the urgent news.
Aermir couldn't help but marvel at how perfectly his scheme had played out. The Sistermen Lords, driven by their insatiable greed, had fallen into his trap even more deeply than he had anticipated. While he had expected them to be tempted by the rich cargo aboard his ships, their audacious decision to raid Moondrift itself had exceeded his wildest expectations.
Greed, he mused, truly had the power to cloud a person's judgment and make them blind to the consequences of their actions. In their relentless pursuit of wealth and power, the Sistermen Lords had unwittingly sealed their own fate, and Aermir watched with a mixture of satisfaction and anticipation as the events continued to unfold according to his carefully laid plans.