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CHAPTER 209
295 AC
POV THIRD PERSON
As Aermir observed the unfolding events in the Bite and Moondrift Port through the eyes of his familiars, he was abruptly brought back to reality when someone punched his arm. It was Robb Stark, who had a curious expression on his face.
"Why are you so absent-minded today?" Robb inquired, his brow furrowing with concern.
Aermir shook his head, dispelling his momentary distraction. "It's nothing, Robb. I was just reflecting on how fortunate we are to experience moments like these. Your family always says 'Winter is coming,' which serves as a reminder that times will change, and challenges will return. We must be prepared and at our best when they do."
Robb nodded, understanding the gravity of those words. In the unpredictable and often harsh lands of North, such moments of respite were indeed precious, and wise leaders like Aermir knew the importance of utilizing them to their advantage.
Robb skewered a piece of potato with his fork from the plate in front of him, offering a nod of gratitude as he spoke. "Thanks to you, the next winter will pass easier. We have enough food with these potatoes, and Moat Cailin is producing enough woodcoal for all of the North."
He savored the potato and continued the conversation, his curiosity piqued. "You could have claimed the rights to cultivate potatoes or demanded a share from anyone who cultivated them, given that you discovered the plant. But you chose to give it away. Why?"
Aermir's gaze turned thoughtful as he considered the question. "We need strong men, Robb, and our people shouldn't perish from hunger. If they have to meet their end, it should be as proud warriors of the North. Hunger is an adversary no one can defeat. I don't want to witness young children succumbing to winter's harsh grip simply because they lack food or heat. But I couldn't have made potatoes a viable source of sustenance without the aid of Druid Emrys."
Other lords around Aermir heard his impassioned speech, and a ripple of agreement spread through them. They raised their glasses, toasting to both Druid Emrys and Aermir. The boisterous Greatjon Umber, renowned for his hearty demeanor, lifted his glass high and bellowed,
"To Lord Drasil and the Druid! I hope none of us meet our end while lying on our backs, as the lord wisely said. A Northern warrior deserves a warrior's death! To a warrior's death!"
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"YEEAAAHH!"
Their voices joined in unison, and they all downed their drinks. A small, enigmatic smile played at the corners of Aermir's lips. Little did they know that their wishes might be fulfilled sooner than expected.
After the toast from Lord Umber, the atmosphere in the hall had grown livelier, with the guests engaged in various conversations and laughter. Among the crowd, Smalljon Umber slowly made his way towards Aermir. He approached with a respectful bow, a sign of both courtesy and his request for a duel.
"My lord," Smalljon began, his tone filled with determination and a touch of humility, "might I have the honor of a rematch in a duel? I have longed for the chance to face you again, and if, by chance, you best me once more, I shall trouble you no further."
As he spoke, Smalljon clenched his fist, his eyes locking onto Aermir's. "Since the day of our previous encounter," he continued, "you showed me that strength is not solely about physical might. It was a lesson I took to heart, my lord, and since then, I have poured my efforts into rigorous training to become a warrior worthy of Umber's name."
Aermir pondered Smalljon's request for a moment, his gaze unwavering as he assessed the determination in the Umber's eyes. It had been a while since he had a proper duel, and the idea intrigued him. Besides, it would be a way to pass the time while they awaited the messenger's arrival.
"Very well," Aermir replied with a faint, anticipatory smile. "I accept your challenge, Smalljon. Let us see how much you've improved since our last encounter."
With that, he gestured towards a relatively open area in the hall, signaling that they should prepare for their duel. The guests around them took notice, and a hushed excitement filled the air as they made way for the impending contest between the Umber and the enigmatic nobleman.
A murmur of anticipation rippled through the assembled guests as Aermir and Smalljon prepared for their duel. The hall cleared a space, creating a makeshift arena for the upcoming contest. Torches on the walls cast dancing shadows, adding an eerie yet captivating ambiance to the scene.
Smalljon Umber's expression remained resolute, his eyes locked onto Aermir's. He was determined to prove himself and to see if his years of hard training had paid off.
Aermir, on the other hand, exuded an air of calm confidence as he stepped into the designated area. His movements were deliberate, his body language composed. With confidence, Aermir asked,
"Wooden or steel swords?"
"Training swords would do, my lord."
Even though they were dulled, they were still steel swords. If they got hit, it wouldn't be lethal, but it would hurt like hell.
"To first blood or to a yield?"
"To a yield, my lord."
The two opponents stood facing each other, a palpable tension in the air. Young Lord Umber's sword was steady in his grip, and his stance was solid. Aermir's sword danced lightly in his hand, his stance a seamless blend of grace and readiness.
The crowd held its collective breath, awaiting the first move in what promised to be a captivating duel between the formidable Smalljon Umber and The Lord Commander of Templars and Paladins of the Old Gods.
...
Smalljon Umber's determination burned like a relentless fire within him. The memory of his defeat at the hands of Aermir, a child by comparison, had seared itself into his pride. He refused to let it define him any longer. From the moment he woke until he collapsed into restless sleep, his days were filled with unending training.
In the icy courtyards of Last Hearth, Smalljon hefted weights that would have crushed a lesser man. His muscles strained and bulged as he pushed his limits, sweat freezing upon his furrowed brow in the biting cold. Stamina became his obsession, and he ran through the frozen wilderness for hours, his breath forming icy plumes in the frigid air.
Swordsmanship was no exception. Smalljon sought the guidance of the most skilled warriors in his house, honing his skills with each clash of steel. Every night, he sparred with seasoned fighters, the echoes of clashing swords filling the halls of Last Hearth.
His determination was unwavering, his desire to reclaim his honor unyielding. He knew he had to reach new heights of strength and skill if he ever hoped to stand on equal footing with Aermir Drasil. In every swing of his sword, every bead of sweat shed in training, Smalljon Umber vowed to himself that he would one day rise above his past failures and become a force to be reckoned with in the North.