CHAPTER 229
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CHAPTER 229
295 AC
POV THIRD PERSON
For the next two weeks, Aermir meticulously observed the movements and strategies of the Vale forces, eavesdropping on their every plan. He patiently waited for more of the Vale's manpower to be stationed at the coastal regions. Meanwhile, Lord Stark had journeyed to Oldcastle to serve as the intermediary between Aermir and Jon Arryn.
Aermir had chosen to go to him at Oldcastle, not just because he was the Warden of the North and needed to maintain appearances, but also because he had no desire to have Lord Stark's constant nagging for peace nearby. Thus, he informed Ned that he should stay in Oldcastle and that Aermir would travel to meet him there.
As Aermir and his retinue made their way towards Oldcastle, the commander of Locke's forces approached them with a customary offer of bread and salt. However, Aermir, already informed by his familiars of the tension within the castle and the animosity from the local septons, declined the gesture.
The commander's expression resolute, and politely but firmly replied, "My lord, you can enter with your weapon, but I cannot accept 200 men with their weapons."
Aermir, his tone growing even more serious, countered, "If I wanted to harm someone in this castle, do you think I would come with 200 men? They are here to protect me. I will not enter a place that accepts the Seven as their god without protection. Lord Stark is waiting for me; I can wait here, but can you make him wait?"
The commander hesitated for a moment, weighing his options. Aermir didn't let up and added with a touch of mockery, "What is it? Is a castle full of Locke men so fearful of 200 men of Drasil? I know my men are superior, but I wasn't aware they were this intimidating."
The commander's expression shifted from hesitation to one of anger, and he retorted, "They can enter, but, my lord, do not forget you refused bread and salt. As for your men, they can enter the city, but only 20 of them can accompany you into the keep."
...
As Aermir ascended the path leading to the keep, he couldn't help but notice the air of tension that seemed to hang over the people of Oldcastle. Many of them regarded him as if he was a dreaded plague. The reason for this animosity was clear – most of Oldcastle's inhabitants were devout followers of the Faith of the Seven. In stark contrast, the rest of the Locke lands had converted to the worship of the Old Gods. The septon of Oldcastle, in particular, was deeply disgruntled by this shift in religious allegiance, as his coffers had grown significantly lighter with the loss of followers. He seized every opportunity to denounce Aermir and the Druid, voicing his discontent loudly.
The septon was desperate for Lord Ondrew Locke to take action against these religious changes, but the aging lord's hands were bound by the situation. While House Locke may have been an older house than House Drasil, they were not as formidable. The combined forces of House Locke, along with the levies, could muster nine thousand men, but without the levies, their number dwindled to a mere three thousand. Lord Locke had no means to exert authority over the Druid's commander, who could control an army of soldiers rather than levies.
As Aermir and his two hundred men escort approached the gate of the keep, he could see a mob collecting in front of them. Septon Alwyn, a greasy clergyman of Oldcastle, stood at the forefront of a fervent mob that blocked Aermir's way. His glistening jowls wobbled as he led the charged group, his round face reddened with zealous fervor. Clad in opulent robes adorned with gilded threads and amulets, he wheezed through his impassioned speeches, his voracious appetite for fine food and wine evident in his portly frame.
As he denounced the Old Gods and the Druid, spittle flew from his plump, red lips, and the many rings on his pudgy fingers clinked and clattered. Alwyn's beady eyes darted about, scanning Aermir's escort, who might challenge his authority, but none of the men following Aermir even flinched at the fat man's provocations.
Aermir's knights stood in perfect formation, unwavering and disciplined. These elite warriors, the Juggernauts, represented the best among his forces, composed of 100 paladins and 100 knights of Drasil. Their emerald green armor shimmered brilliantly under the sun's rays, distinguishing the Paladins from the Knights by the symbols adorning their chests. Paladins bore the weirwood tree on their green chest plates, while the Knights of Drasil displayed a black weirwood tree.
Standing resolute in front of the assembled crowd, Aermir addressed the septon with a voice as cold as ice, "Septon, do you really want to do this here when I have no patience for you or any other jester."
Aermir's words sent waves of anger through the Septon, as no one, not even the Great Lord of Oldcastle, had ever dared to speak to him in such a manner.
"You godless pagan, how dare you speak to a holy man like myself in this way! I will..."
Aermir swiftly raised his hand, cutting off the septon's rant, and retorted, "You will what? First of all, if you are calling yourself 'a holy man,' it means you are not one; a true holy man would be humble and would never refer to themselves as such. Others will call them holy not themselves."
The septon's face turned a deep shade of red as anger coursed through him. He struggled to continue his threat, "I will make you—"
Once more, Aermir forcefully interrupted him, "You will not do a thing! You cannot do a thing! You and your gods hold no power here in the North, not even within your own city."
The crowd, clearly offended by Aermir's confrontation with their septon, began to inch closer to the scene. The rotund septon, sensing support from the smallfolk who were prepared to defend him in the name of the Seven, broke into a smug grin. How could he not be a holy man when his followers were ready to confront armed men to protect him?
However, Aermir swiftly drew his blood-red Valyrian sword, taking the septon by surprise. With a menacing tone, he added, "Hey, you pig... If a fight breaks out here, I will cut you down first."
The septon's reddened, pudgy face paled as he realized that the man before him was utterly capable of carrying out his threat. As Aermir unsheathed his sword, all two hundred of his men behind him did the same, their blades clashing against their shields.
"HuaaH! HuaaH! HuaaH! HuaaH!" Their war chant reverberated through the square.
The smallfolk, now visibly frightened, began to retreat. With each step they took, Aermir's warriors mirrored their movements, stepping forward in unison while striking their shields with their swords.
"HuaaH!" The war chant continued.
With every chant and synchronized step, the crowd continued to shrink back, creating a clear path between Aermir and the septon. Aermir closed the remaining distance between them, leaned in, with a whispering voice, he frightened the septon,
"Boo!"
As the septon fell to the ground, he let out a shrill, pig-like screech that echoed through the square, "Aoiigh!"
Aermir lowered the tip of Red Rain to the ground and crouched beside Septon Alwyn. "Septon, do you really want to fight me with this mob while I have 200 of my best men?"
The septon's gaze shifted nervously between the gleaming swords of the knights and their cold, unwavering eyes. At that moment, he realized the enormity of his mistake. He believed that Aermir would be powerless to harm him as long as he was protected by innocent smallfolk. However, the man before him showed no hesitation; he was more than willing to cut down anyone who stood in his way.
Unable to openly admit his defeat, the septon weighed his options. He had no desire to meet his end here, and he understood that there was no reasoning with the Lord of Moat Cailin. As the knights circled around them and the smallfolk, who had initially come to his defense, started to retreat, Aermir rose to his feet. He pointed Red Rain at the septon, using its tip to draw a shallow cut on the septon's cheek. With a voice as cold as ice, Aermir commanded, "Get the fuck out of my sight!"
The septon scrambled to his feet and hastily fled, still shrieking in pain. It was just a shallow skin-deep cut, but he was screaming like he was dying. The smallfolk regarded Aermir with fear as they, too, hurriedly dispersed, leaving the square in a hurry.