(Third-person perspective)
Over the next two weeks, Aermir carefully observed the Vale army's movements and strategies, eavesdropping on their every plan. He patiently awaited the arrival of more Vale troops along the coast. Meanwhile, Lord Stark traveled to the Oldtown to act as a mediator between Aermir and Jon Arryn.
Aermir chose to go to the Oldtown to find him not only because he was the Warden of the North and needed to maintain his image, but also because he didn't want Lord Stark constantly nagging about peace nearby. Therefore, he told Ned that he should stay in the Oldtown, and Aermir would go there to meet him.
As Aermir and his retinue marched toward the Oldtown, the commander of Locke's army, as was customary, offered them bread and salt. However, having learned of the tensions within the Citadel and the hostility of the local monks from his familiar, Aermir refused the offer.
The commander, his expression resolute, replied politely yet firmly, "Sir, you may bring your weapons in, but I cannot accept 200 armed men."
Aermir's tone grew more serious as he retorted, "If I wanted to harm someone in this Citadel, do you think I would bring 200 men? They're here to protect me. I won't enter a place that worships the Seven 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 budge, adding with a hint of mockery, "What's wrong? A Citadel full of Mega Man members is so afraid of 200 Drasil? I know my men are superior, but I didn't know they had such a formidable presence."
The commander's expression shifted from hesitation to anger. He retorted, "They can come in, but, sir, don't forget you refused the bread and salt. As for your men, they can enter the city, but only 20 may accompany you into the Citadel."
As Aermir walked along the path leading to the Citadel, he couldn't help but notice the tense atmosphere that seemed to hang over the people of the Oldtown. Many regarded him as a terrible plague. The reason for this hostility was obvious—most of the Oldtown's inhabitants were devout believers in the Faith of the Seven. In stark contrast, the rest of Locke had converted to the worship of the Old Gods. The older monks, in particular, were deeply resentful of this religious shift, as his treasury grew increasingly empty with the loss of followers. He seized every opportunity to condemn Aermir and the Druid, loudly expressing his discontent.
The monks desperately hoped that Lord Andrew Locke would take action against these religious changes, but the aging lord was powerless to do so. Although the House Locke may have been older than the House Drasil House Drasil, they were not as powerful. The House Locke's combined forces, plus conscription, could muster nine thousand men, but without conscription, their numbers would dwindle to only three thousand. Lord Locke had no authority over the Druid commanders; he could only control the soldiers, not the conscription.
As Aermir and his two hundred guards approached the Citadel gates, he saw a mob gathered ahead. Septon Orwen, a slick-haired priest from the Oldtown, stood at the forefront of the fanatical mob, blocking Aermir's path. As he led the charge, his gleaming chin swayed, his round face flushed with fervor. Dressed in a magnificent robe adorned with gilded threads and amulets, he delivered a rousing speech, panting heavily, his voracious appetite for fine wine and food evident in his obese frame.
As he condemned the Old Gods and the Druid, spittle flew from his full, red lips, and the many rings on his chubby fingers jingled. Orwen's piercing eyes swept around Aermir's guards, for they might challenge his authority, but none of Aermir's followers flinched at the fat man's provocation.
Aermir's knights stood in neat, unwavering ranks, their discipline impeccable. These elite warriors—the "Sword Saint"—represented the most elite force in his army, consisting of 100 paladins and 100 Drashir Knights. Their emerald armor gleamed brilliantly in the sunlight, distinguished by the insignia on their breastplates. The paladins wore green breastplates adorned with a fir tree, while the Drasil Knights displayed a black fir.
Aermir stood firmly before the assembled crowd, and said to the monk in an icy voice, "Monk, I have no patience for you or any of the other clowns. Do you really want to do this here?"
Aermir's words enraged the monk, for no one, not even the lord of the Oldtown, had ever dared to speak to him like that.
"You heretic who doesn't believe in God, how dare you speak to a saint like me like that! I will..."
Aermir quickly raised his hand, interrupting the monk's roar, and retorted, "What can you do? First of all, if you call yourself a 'saint,' then you are not a saint; a true saint is very humble and would never call himself a saint. Others will call them saints, not them."
The monk's face flushed crimson, burning with rage. He struggled to continue his threat, "I'll make you..."
Aermir interrupted him again forcefully, "You can't do anything! You're incapable of doing anything! You and your god have no power in the North, not even in your own city."
The crowd, clearly enraged by the standoff between Aermir and their monks, began to approach the scene. The corpulent monk, sensing the popular support—their readiness to defend him in the name of the Seven —smiled smugly. How could he not be a saint when his followers prepared to fight off armed men to protect him?
However, Aermir swiftly drew his blood-red Valyria sword, catching the monk off guard. He added menacingly, "Hey, you pig... if we fight here, I'll kill you first."
The monk's flushed, chubby face turned pale instantly, as he realized that the person before him was fully capable of carrying out his threat. As Aermir drew his sword, his two hundred subordinates behind him also drew their swords, blades clashing against shields.
"Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah," their war cry echoed throughout the square.
The common people were now clearly frightened and began to retreat. With each step they took, Aermir's warriors followed suit, advancing in unison while striking their shields with their swords.
"Wow!" The battle cry continued.
With each chant and each step forward, the crowd retreated, clearing a path between Aermir and the monks. Aermir closed the remaining distance between them, leaned down, and intimidated the monks with a low, whispering voice.
"Bang!"
As the monk fell to the ground, he let out a shrill, pig-like squeal that echoed across the plaza, "Ah!"
Aermir lowered the tip of " Red Rain " and crouched beside Septon Orwen. "Brother, with 200 elite men under my command, do you really want to fight alongside this mob?"
The monk's gaze darted nervously between the knights' gleaming swords and their cold, resolute eyes. In that moment, he realized he had made a grave mistake.
He believed that as long as he was protected by innocent civilians, Aermir would be powerless to harm him. However, the man before him did not hesitate at all and said directly, "I am more than willing to cut down anyone who stands in my way."
Unable to publicly admit defeat, the monk weighed his options. He didn't want to die here, and he understood that there was no reasoning with the lord of Moat Cailin. As the knights circled around them and the commoners who had initially come to protect him began to retreat, Aermir stood up. He pointed at the monk with " Red Rain " and used its tip to draw a shallow gash on the monk's cheek. Aermir commanded in an icy voice, "Get out of my sight!"
The monk scrambled to his feet and fled, still screaming in agony. Though it was only a superficial wound, he cried out as if he were dying. The commoners watched Aermir in fear, then quickly dispersed and left the square.