(Third-person perspective)
When the soldiers realized the gravity of the situation, a sense of panic swept through the entire Vale ranks. If they stayed, they would freeze to death. They laid down their cold weapons and began to flee; they were routed, crushed. No matter how much Yohn Royce cried out for the Vale and the Seven, no one listened to him.
He could still grip his sword tightly, and his bronze armor wasn't cold; though chilly, he could endure it. Just as he shouted his command, an eagle swooped down, throwing him from his horse. Then, the eagle transformed into a man.
"It's truly fascinating. Your armor is at least 6,000 years old, yet it still possesses enough magic to keep you at least somewhat resistant to attack."
Aermir grabbed Yohn Royce by the neck and lifted him up like a child. Thanks to his buff, he had 18 Strength; at this moment, his strength was comparable to that of the Mountain.
He inspected the armor and said.
"You cunning dog, the armor you gave me is practically garbage compared to this. If I had this, I could spend half my time learning how to enchant."
Hearing this, Yohn was a little confused, but then he suddenly realized. He turned his gaze to the giant Shadowcat chasing his soldiers and the person on it.
"How could that be? You couldn't be him."
Aermir said calmly.
"You don't need to know."
He looked at his armor again and said.
"Looks like I'll have to visit Runestone sometime."
Yohn Royce struggled to break free of Aermir's iron grip, but when Aermir tightened his grip on his neck, Yohn lost all strength. With great difficulty, he managed to speak.
"For the sake of the Seven, stay... stay away from my house!!" His voice became a whisper as he struggled to breathe.
"You're a hypocrite! You claim to be loyal to the Seven, yet you still wear the armor offered to the Old Gods and are covered in their magic."
Aermir sneered at him and snapped his neck.
Aermir sat in the tent, flipping through documents. He looked up and asked Eddard Snow.
"What are the statistical results?"
"My lord, of the thousand people you healed, six hundred recovered successfully, but we still lost fifty knights and three hundred soldiers."
"Fifty knights is not a good number; we have lost too much. Make sure their families are fully compensated and, as always, exempt them from taxes for five years."
Eddard continued.
" The North Lords lost half their army, and we annihilated the Vale Army; their 9,000 men were reduced to only two or three thousand."
Aermir raised his hand and began to speak with Bo.
"Bo, go scout out the army in the Vale and see how many of them are still capable of fighting."
"I'll go right away, Father."
"Go scout out how many of them are left. Continue..."
Of the seven thousand men, four thousand were killed in battle, several thousand were seriously wounded, and two thousand were captured.
Aermir tapped his fingers on the table as he spoke.
"Let us heal the people of the Vale, free the commoners, and offer the same proposal to knights and nobles, whether black or iron."
Most of those arrested were conscripts, so releasing them would allow him to build relationships with the common people, and once he controls the island and the Citadel, his men wouldn't have any complaints about the labor force. Aermir thought for a moment and continued.
"Before we sit down at the negotiating table, I also want to conquer Paps and Pebble. Can we do that?"
Eddard glanced at his notes and shook his head.
"I don't recommend doing that, sir. Perhaps we can conquer Pebble, but Paps is too far even with your strength, sir; and providing support when needed takes too long."
After some thought, Aermir realized this as well, and then said...
"Alright then. Let's conquer Pebble first, pretend we're also going to attack Paps, and then sit down and negotiate with them."
Aermir performed several healing rituals, curing all 1,000 severely wounded Vale people; 700 recovered, the rest died. Through numerous experiments, Aermir's understanding of healing spells greatly improved. He realized that if a healing spell was cast on a person too many times, that person would die from organ failure. If the body was not strong enough, magic would be overused in the attempt to heal. This was similar to overdosing on medicine. When he finished his work, Po contacted him.
"Father, 700 of them look too badly injured to get up, and the rest look like they'd run away at the sight of you. They don't want to fight anymore."
The island's lords, both from the Three Sisters and the Vale, found themselves trapped in a suffocating defeat. Lord Cedric Harloban was now the most senior lord on the island. Before the war, he was merely a middle-class lord with a small Citadel, but after the war, almost all the Three Sisters lords were either dead or captured. At the grand dining table, only terrified faces met each other's. The surrounding slaughter left them no room for desperation; surrender was the only option.
Cedric whispered to Alaric, his voice trembling, "We can no longer withstand this onslaught. Look at the devastation around us. We must surrender to the North army."
Alaric's pride still burned, and he reluctantly nodded. "You're right. We have no hope left. Let's go to them and negotiate surrender. Maybe they'll spare our civilians."
A tense atmosphere filled the air as the lords cautiously approached. Aermir, disguised as Druid, stood between his familiar and the swordsman. Cedric and Alaric, surrounded by their advisors, faced an inevitable situation.
"Peaceful surrender, your names will be pardoned; all the men in your families will wear black robes, and your daughters will be married off to fine North nobles. The age of conflict is over," Aermir announced, his voice resolute. Cedric spoke, trembling. "We surrender, Druid. We beg you to show mercy to our people."
Aermir, a man of unwavering resolve, nodded in agreement. "We will be merciful. Lay down your weapons."
Lord Raynard Blackthorn, filled with resentment, whispered to his advisor, Sir Jonas Redwater: "I will not surrender like a coward! When the Druid approach, I will end this madness with lightning speed!"
Ser Jonas, eager to avert disaster, pleaded, "My lord, please reconsider. This is madness. We should accept surrender and negotiate for the safety of our people."
Raynard resolutely resisted, retorting. "Negotiate with invaders? I would rather die than submit to the tyranny of this Druid and his heretical gods."
Raynard knelt before Aermir, but as he charged at him, he drew a dagger from his gauntlet and declared, "I will not bow to you, Druid! The Vale serves only Arryn. Die, you godless heretic!"
Ser Jonas realized that reasoning was futile and tried to intervene, but it was too late.
"Foolish!" Aermir's voice pierced the chaos as he deftly dodged the attack. Then, he caught Raynard's dagger with his bare hands; seeing this, Raynard smiled wickedly, drew his dagger, hoping to cut the Druid's finger, but his sword remained unmoved. Aermir calmly reiterated his stance, then turned to the other lords and spoke.
"We accept your surrender."
Then he turned to Raynard and said in a cold voice:
"Let me send you on your way, to meet your Seven."
Aermir's other hand crackled, but then the lightning disappeared.
"On the other hand, I have an even better use for you. I want you to know that there is a fate more terrible than death. Let me tell you, even your gods can't help you."
He tossed him to his men like a sack of potatoes.
"Take him away."