(Third person)
As Aermir observed the events unfolding at Bite and Moon drift port through the eyes of his familiar, someone slapped his arm, abruptly pulling him back to reality. It was Robb Stark, a curious expression on his face.
"Why are you so distracted today?" Robb asked with concern, his brow furrowed.
Aermir shook his head, dispelling his momentary distraction. "It's nothing, Robb. I was just thinking how lucky we are to have a time like this. Your family always says ' Winter Is Coming,' which reminds us that times change, and challenges will return. We must be prepared and in top condition to meet those challenges."
Robb nodded, understanding the gravity of his words. In the unpredictable and often harsh North, such moments of rest and recuperation were indeed precious, and wise leaders like Aermir knew the importance of making good use of them.
Robb skewered a potato from the plate in front of him with his fork, nodding his thanks as he spoke. "Thanks to you, the coming Winter will be easier. With these potatoes, we have enough food, and the charcoal production from Moat Cailin is sufficient for the entire North."
He tasted the potato and continued the conversation, his curiosity piqued. "Since you discovered the potato plant, you could have demanded the rights to cultivate it, or asked for a share of the profits from those who grew it. But you chose to give up. Why?"
Aermir's gaze turned thoughtful as he considered the matter. "We need strength, Robb. Our people should not perish from hunger. If they must die, they should be the proud warriors of the North. Hunger is an enemy no one can defeat. I don't want to see young children succumb to the harsh winter simply because of a lack of food or warmth, but without the help of the Emre the Druid, I could not have made potatoes a viable food source."
The other lords around Aermir heard his impassioned speech, and a ripple of approval spread among them. They raised their glasses and toasted the Emre the Druid and Aermir. Greatjon Umber Amber, known for his boisterous manners, raised his glass and roared.
"Homage to Lord Drasil and the Druid! I hope we won't die lying on our backs, as the Lord has said. The warriors of the North died worthy deaths! Cheers to the warriors' deaths!"
"Yay!"
They drank it all in unison. A mysterious smile played on Aermir's lips. Little did they know, their wish might come true sooner than they anticipated.
After Umber Amber's toast, the atmosphere in the hall became even more lively, with guests chatting and laughing. Surrounded by the crowd, Smalljon Umber slowly walked towards Aermir. He stepped forward and bowed respectfully, both as a courtesy and as a gesture of his request for a duel.
"My lord," said Smalljon Umber, her voice firm yet humble, "May I have the honor of a rematch in our duel? I have long yearned for the chance to fight you again. If you can defeat me once more, I will not trouble you any further."
As he spoke, Smalljon Umber clenched his fists, his gaze fixed intently on Aermir. He continued, "From the day we last met, you told me that strength isn't just physical might. That's a lesson I've learned, sir. From that moment on, I've poured all my energy into rigorous training to become a warrior worthy of the name Umber."
Aermir pondered Smalljon Umber's request for a moment, his gaze unwavering as he studied the resolve in the Umber's eyes. He hadn't had a proper duel in a long time, and the idea intrigued him. Besides, it was a way for them to pass the time while waiting for the messenger.
"Very well," Aermir replied with a faint, expectant smile. "I accept your challenge, Smalljon Umber. Let's see how much you've improved since our last encounter."
As he spoke, he gestured towards a relatively open space in the hall, signaling them to prepare for the duel. The surrounding guests noticed this, and a low excitement filled the air as they made way for the upcoming contest between the Umber people and the mysterious nobleman.
As Aermir and Smalljon Umber prepared for their duel, a murmur of anticipation rippled through the guests. A space in the hall was cleared to create a makeshift arena for the upcoming match. Torches on the walls cast dancing shadows, adding a sinister yet alluring atmosphere to the scene.
Smalljon Umber's expression remained resolute, his gaze fixed on Aermir. He was determined to prove himself and see if his years of hard training had paid off.
On the other hand, when Aermir stepped into the designated area, he exuded a calm and confident aura. His movements were deliberate, and his body language was composed and collected. Aermir asked with confidence.
Wooden sword or steel sword?
"Just practice your swordsmanship, sir."
Although the swords are dull, they are still steel swords. If you are hit by one, it won't be fatal, but it will hurt terribly.
First blood or surrender?
"Give in, sir."
The two opponents stood face to face, a palpable tension hanging in the air. Smalljon Umber's grip on his sword was firm and his stance solid. Aermir's sword danced lightly in his hand, his movements a perfect blend of elegance and readiness.
The crowd held their breath, awaiting the first step of a spectacular duel between the Smalljon Umber Umber and the Templars and the Old Gods Knights.
Smalljon Umber's resolve burned like a relentless flame within him. Compared to him, Aermir was still a child, and the memory of his defeat at Aermir's hands was deeply etched into his pride. He refused to let that memory affect him again. From the moment he awoke, he began an endless training regimen.
In the frigid courtyard of " The Last Hearth," Smalljon Umber Snow lifted a weight heavy enough to crush an ordinary man. As he pushed his limits, his muscles tensed and bulged, sweat freezing on his furrowed brow in the biting wind. Endurance became his obsession; he ran for hours across the icy wilderness, his breath forming icy plumes in the frigid air.
Swordsmanship was no exception. Smalljon Umber sought instruction from the most skilled warriors in his household, honing his skills in every clash of steel. Every night, he would spar with experienced warriors, the echoes of swords striking swords filling the halls of Last Hearth.
His determination was unwavering, and his desire to reclaim his honor was indomitable. He knew that if he wanted to stand shoulder to shoulder with Aermir Drasil, he had to reach new heights in strength and skill. With every swing of his sword, with every drop of sweat shed during training, Smalljon Umber vowed to himself that one day he would surpass his past failures and become a force to be reckoned with in the North.