(Third-person perspective)
Aermir turned to Athos Snow and Torrhen Reed, his eyes filled with anticipation, and asked, "Is everything ready?"
His most trusted companion Athos, quickly replied, "Yes, sir. As you instructed, we have extended invitations to most of the lords of the North in the name of the Druid. Almost all of them, except for the House Bolton, will attend in person or send an important representative."
Aermir raised an eyebrow curiously, wanting to know more. "What do you mean by saying the House Bolton didn't send any important figures?"
Athos explained, "My lord, the others either attended in person or sent their heirs. However, the House Bolton chose to send Roose Bolton's illegitimate son as their representative."
The Druid remained expressionless, showing little concern for the specific messengers sent by the House Bolton or anyone else. What truly mattered was the presence of most of the families at his meticulously planned gathering, a grand feast in honor of the Old Gods and the Druid himself. Thanks to the attendance of Robb Stark and Eddard Stark, most of the lords were present, providing the perfect backdrop for Aermir's upcoming activities.
Aermir harbored a sinister purpose behind the celebration. He intended to use this opportunity to formally declare war on the Three Sisters as punishment for their blatant burning of his five warships. While he spoke with Athos and Torrhen, his warships were sailing on the Bit. A meticulous plan had been initiated: his sailors were trained to simulate shipwreck scenarios, and they would be towed ashore to ensure they could testify against the Three Sisters lord.
The Three Sisters lords' unwavering trust in the Vale lords emboldened them to openly oppose Aermir. Their belief in the Vale's support played right into Aermir's hands. He meticulously planned the entire scheme, hoping the Vale lords would support them should the Three Sisters launch an invasion.
If everything unfolds as Aermir envisions, with the Vale Lord firmly standing behind the Three Sisters, his plan will be flawlessly executed. It's a gamble; if it fails, he'll inexplicably burn five warships. Aermir is filled with anticipation and a touch of anxiety as he awaits the outcome of his grand plan.
During the grand celebration, almost all the lords of the North gathered together, drawn by the allure of establishing a connection with the mystical Emre the Druid, or simply to pay homage to House Stark. Aermir, as the hospitable host, extended a traditional welcome to all the guests with bread and salt.
However, when a small group carrying the House Bolton flag arrived at the gathering, a low murmur arose from the crowd. Leading the Bolton retinue was a young man whose demeanor was unsettling. Aermir's keen senses detected a faint, unmistakable odor—a hint of blood, the smell of human blood. Clearly, this man hadn't bled before arriving, casting an unsettling shadow over his presence.
Even in his most lavish attire, Ramsay Bolton exudes a rather unsettling aura. His thin frame, broad shoulders, and imposing stature foreshadow a future of obesity. Ramsay's skin is marred by pinkish spots, and his nose is disproportionately wide. Dark, dry, and unkempt hair hangs from his head, emphasizing his unattractive features. His small mouth contrasts sharply with his oddly shaped, thick, fleshy lips, which appear sinister and almost worm-like.
Ramsay's most chilling feature was his eyes, reminiscent of his father Roose's —small, narrow, and strangely pale, like two murky blocks of ice. A teardrop-shaped garnet hung from his right ear, like a drop of blood, adding a sinister touch to his terrifying appearance. His attire, though ornate, included calfskin boots, a double-layered velvet tuxedo, a silver-trimmed sword belt, and a pale pink family heirloom cloak, reflecting his twisted sense of style. Ramsay spoke in a sticky, emotionless voice, devoid of any sincerity or warmth.
"Thank you for inviting us, House Bolton. My father is unwell and unable to attend these celebrations. As you know, my Domeric has always been frail and sickly. I am the only true Bolton able to attend."
Ramsay gave a perfunctory bow, accepted the bread and salt offered without ceremony, and went into the party. However, Aermir's attention had already shifted from Ramsay's words; it was drawn to the unsettling man before him. Ramsay's unsettling eyes held him captive—empty, lifeless eyes. Those small, cold eyes contained not a trace of emotion, neither positive nor negative; they were devoid of humanity. They were utterly empty.
Throughout the grand celebration, Aermir's keen eyes never ceased scanning the horizon connecting to Erebus. On the vast, boundless sea, his five warships sailed, a testament to his meticulously planned spectacle. The core crew members on each ship executed their tasks with precision, knowing that their moment for dramatic performance had arrived.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the sea turned orange and pink, and tensions rose at sea. In the distance, an ominous shadow on the horizon foreshadowed the approaching ships of the Three Sisters, their sails billowing in the evening breeze. The time for reckoning had come.
The chaos at sea was dizzying. Just as the Three Sisters people began their daring boarding attempts, Aermir's crew meticulously executed their plan. In a carefully choreographed ballet, they abandoned their posts and advanced swiftly with a clear objective. Their intention was clear—to set their ship ablaze.
Crackling flames erupted, greedily devouring the ship's sails and masts. Thick smoke billowed, black pillars shooting into the sky, obscuring the gradually darkening twilight. The once proud warship, a symbol of Aermir's hopes and ambitions, had now become a towering hell, casting a sinister yet alluring light on the dark sea.
As flames soared into the sky, Aermir's men were dragged ashore, their life rafts already far from the burning ships. Eventually, chaos took over. The flames, like they had devoured Aermir's ships, uncontrollably consumed the Three Sisters ' vessels within boarding range, scattering the assault fleet in disarray. The cost was devastating—ten small assault ships and one warship perished in the merciless inferno. Aermir's plan had unfolded flawlessly, and incriminating testimonies against the Three Sisters lords were sealed within the fiery crucible of this deception.
Amidst flickering flames and rising smoke, Aermir stood in the position of the puppet master in this complex performance, watching it from the sky. He knew this was merely the opening act of a grand theatrical spectacle.
As this grand spectacle unfolded on the high seas, Aermir's sharp gaze swept across the faces of the lords of the Three Sisters, etching their expressions deeply into his memory. Lord Triston Sunderland, Godric Borrell, Roland Longthorpe, and Alexander Torrent —these ambitious and greedy figures stood aboard their warships, their thirst for wealth and prestige now extinguished—indeed.
Their bewilderment was evident, clearly etched on their faces. Aermir watched from afar as their initial anticipation and greed turned into frustration and anger. They had come for the promise of wealth, only to witness the ships carrying those dreams reduced to charred wreckage before they could even take a single piece of gold.
Roland Longthorpe's face was contorted with rage and frustration. He clenched his fist and slammed it into the spy chief's face, the blow landing with a sickening thud. His voice roared like thunder, echoing his fury.
"Didn't you tell me they were filled with gold? Didn't you tell me they were going to Essos to buy unimaginable wealth? But now we stand here, and all the ships are burned! Why did they burn their own ships the moment we boarded?"
His spy chief, his nose broken and bleeding profusely, knelt on the ground, desperately trying to appease the enraged lord.
"My lord, I swear in the holy name, that was the murmur we heard in Moon drift port," he pleaded, his voice trembling. "Every sailor was talking about how the weight of the chests was almost breaking their backs. The whole harbor was buzzing with talk of the grand trade that was about to unfold in Braavos. My lord, they might be ordered to burn everything in case of pirates; Lord Drashir might have commanded them to burn everything rather than lose it."
Although Longthorpe's anger had subsided, it hadn't completely died down; his desire for wealth had clouded his judgment. The game was far from over, and Roland Longthorpe was determined to turn the tide once again and bring them to victory.
As chaos unfolded in the Three Sisters Seas, Aermir stood at the center of it all, silently observing the grand spectacle through the eyes of Erebus. The Three Sisters lords, consumed by greed and frustration, had taken the bait; their decision to raid the Moon drift was exactly what Aermir had planned.
Amidst the chaos, the supposedly wrecked sailors, orchestrated by Aermir, successfully reached the Moon drift shore; of course, they weren't real sailors, as they were still at sea, their fabricated survival stories about to unfold. Meanwhile, a messenger, riding a sweat-soaked warhorse, galloped towards Caron Bay with an urgent message.
Aermir couldn't help but marvel at how perfectly his plan had been executed. Driven by insatiable greed, the lords of the Three Sisters had fallen deeper into his trap than he had anticipated. Although he had expected them to be tempted by the rich cargo on his ships, their audacious decision to raid Moon drift Bay had exceeded even his wildest expectations.
He thought to himself that greed truly has the power to cloud a person's judgment, making them blind to the consequences of their actions. In their relentless pursuit of wealth and power, the lords of the Three Sisters unknowingly determined their own fate, and Aermir watched with a mixture of satisfaction and anticipation as events unfolded according to his meticulously planned scheme.