185 CHAPTER 185
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CHAPTER 185
293 AC
POV THIRD PERSON
Aermir's solar in Moat Cailin stands as a serene and nature-inspired chamber that resonates with his deep connection to the Old Gods and his role as a warg. Large windows grant breathtaking panoramic views, opening to the vast expanse of marshlands in the south and the lush farmlands to the North. The gentle rustling of leaves and the harmonious symphony of birdsong form a soothing backdrop that lends an aura of tranquility to the space.
The room is adorned with handcrafted wooden furniture, each piece meticulously carved with intricate symbols and patterns paying homage to the Old Gods and the natural world. These furnishings, crafted from the trees of the nearby forest, provide an earthly and organic ambiance that complements Aermir's affinity with nature.
At the heart of the solar stands the centerpiece, a magnificent statue carved as an ancient weirwood tree. This exceptional piece is a union of white marble and red quartz, positioned just behind Aermir's seat at the center table. The table itself is a masterpiece, constructed from the purest holly tree, its snowy whiteness mirroring the sacred weirwood trees. The weirwood statue, with its painstakingly detailed representation, appears so lifelike that it evokes the very essence of a real weirwood tree. The statue's white bark and crimson leaves symbolize the heart of Aermir's faith and power.
Aermir's desk, scattered with a myriad of maps, scrolls, and botanical samples, stands as a testament to his unceasing research and unwavering dedication to his craft. His pursuit of knowledge has led him to remarkable discoveries, such as his successful transformation of potatoes into a cultivatable plant. As he gazed in the direction of the marshlands beyond, a sense of purpose and opportunity filled his mind.
The marshlands, for now, lay dormant and seemingly unproductive. However, Aermir held a vision, a plant that could transform these watery expanses into thriving and profitable grounds. The plant in question was paddy, commonly referred to as rice. This plant was widely unknown to the Westerosi and Essosi. Despite his extensive efforts using his unique ability, Promoheba, which enabled him to locate plants, he had scoured every inch of the Neck and the Riverlands in vain. Not a single stalk of rice had appeared.
Left with no other recourse but to wait, Aermir took the initiative to spread the word. He informed every merchant he knew about the invaluable plant and urged them to embark on quests to find it. In the meantime, he turned his attention to other potential uses for the wetlands, determined to make the most of the untapped resources at his disposal.
...
The solar at Moat Cailin was drenched in the soft, golden glow of the setting sun, causing long shadows to stretch across the room. Gathered around the substantial holly tree table were the eminent figures entrusted with shaping the destiny of this ancient fortress: Lord Aermir, the steadfast steward Artos Snow, Maester Torren Reed, and the trusted advisor Eddard Snow.
Maps and intricate sketches sprawled across the table, a tangible representation of the vast, untamed wetlands that held untapped potential. Aermir, leaning forward with unwavering determination, kept his gaze firmly fixed upon these representations as he addressed the assembly.
"These wetlands," he declared with conviction, "are a priceless resource, still eluding our understanding. The time has come for us to metamorphose these seemingly barren expanses into bastions of prosperity. While our search for rice continues, we should channel our efforts into aquaculture and the cultivation of wetland plants. We cannot afford to let this resource go to waste."
Aermir's advisors, their brows furrowed with thoughtful consideration, exchanged glances that reflected the novelty of this endeavor. Maester Torren, clad in his meticulously arranged robes, gave a solemn nod.
"Indeed, my lord," he affirmed. "The wetlands hold the potential to provide sustenance with its wildlife, but are there really edible plants in there? If it is true, it can not only sustain us but also enrich us if we approach them with a well-conceived strategy."
Aermir's gaze returned to the maps before him, his mind ablaze with innovative concepts for Westeros, but on Earth, those were all common knowledge among farming communities.
"Our success hinges upon an intimate comprehension of the wetlands' unique ecosystem," he explained. "Our efforts should harmonize with the natural rhythm of life here, rather than disrupting it."
Aermir had educated them on the significance of an ecosystem, a delicate balance that, when preserved, could yield substantial and sustainable benefits.
"Aquaculture may very well be the key," he continued, his eyes alight with purpose. "We could establish a network of ponds across these lands, nurturing them into thriving fisheries for fish, shrimp, and mollusks."
Artos Snow leaned back in his chair, his bearded chin resting in contemplation.
"My lord," he said, "developing such fisheries would indeed require meticulous planning. We must seek out individuals with expertise in this field and implement rigorous feed management; we know nothing about how to do those things. But the prospect of securing a sustainable food source through these means is undeniably appealing."
Aermir pressed on.
"As for wetland crops," he continued, his voice a beacon of determination, "we can make use of the cattails. While not as prolific as grains and rice, their pollen can be ground into flour. It takes a lot of work, and the amount is limited, but every bit counts in the North. Their shoots and roots are also edible."
The room became a crucible of ideas and initiatives, a space where strategies took shape under the influence of the setting sun. Lord Aermir stood at the forefront, a beacon of leadership, guiding his council toward a future where the wetlands would no longer languish as desolate wastelands only used for hunting but flourish as a source of sustenance and prosperity.
...
In the heart of the North, the subtle game of intrigue and manipulation continued to unfold, as Roose Bolton, renowned for his cunning mind, aimed to weave his intricate web of influence around the enigmatic Druid Emrys. He initiated diplomacy through a cadre of carefully chosen emissaries, artfully expressing his admiration for the Druid's power while offering House Bolton's support in exchange for mutual benefits.
As these overtures gradually took shape, rumors meandered through the North like shadowy wraiths, carried by the whispering wind. These hushed murmurs hinted at the Druid's favorable disposition toward House Bolton, igniting envy, curiosity, and suspicion among the other Northern lords. The underlying message was clear, though barely spoken: House Bolton was positioning itself to become a significant player in the emergent sphere of the Druid's influence.
Behind the closed doors and within dimly lit chambers of Northern keeps, discussions began to take form. The lords, guided by their ambitions, caution, and skepticism, contemplated the potential rewards of aligning with the Druid against the lurking risks of entrusting their future to a figure cloaked in enigma.
Within the walls of his keep, the Greatjon Umber, renowned for his fiery temper and unwavering loyalty to House Stark, voiced his concerns to his advisors. His thunderous voice resonated through the room, his massive frame casting an imposing presence that filled the chamber.
"This Druid Emrys," he rumbled, his brow furrowing with deep thought, "wields powers that exceed our ken. Shall we merely kneel to his every whim? I once thought him a man of honor, but now he forges alliances with the likes of Boltons... Hmph!"
With a forceful gesture, the Greatjon slammed his goblet onto the table, causing a resounding clang. His advisor, a grizzled veteran of many battles, nodded in agreement.
"Aye, my lord," the advisor spoke, his voice steady and weathered. "There's indeed great power in the Old Gods, but there's peril in bending too readily to any force beyond the banner of the Starks."
...
In a different corner of the North, Jorah Mormont, the youthful yet resolute ruler of Bear Island, gathered with his council. Seated alongside him was his newly wedded Hightower wife, the two presenting a united front as they discussed matters of utmost importance.
As the topic of House Bolton's connection to the Druid unfurled, Jorah couldn't help but voice his reservations.
"The rumors surrounding Bolton's affiliation with the Druid... they cast a veil of uncertainty," he mused, his brow furrowing with deep thought. "Could this alliance be Boltons' true testament of devotion to the Old Gods, or might there be a more sinister motive lurking beneath the surface?"
It was then that his aunt Maege Mormont, a seasoned advisor with her own insight, offered her perspective.
"House Bolton," she declared with a knowing look, "has forever harbored ambitions of ascending the ladder of power. Their loyalty to House Stark has long appeared fragile, swaying in the winds of their own ambition. This newfound alliance could be the result of their desire to alter their allegiances."
Jorah fell into a contemplative silence, pondering the situation. He had enough on his plate, especially considering Bear Island's challenging financial state. The news of the Bolton-Druid alliance only added more weight to his responsibilities.
"Aunt," he finally said, "is it possible to seek insight from Dacey? She has joined the Druid as a priestess in training. The revelation of having a skinchanger among us still astounds me."
A proud smirk crossed Maege's face as she nodded.
"I shall dispatch a raven to her immediately."
...
Within the walls of Winterfell, the familial bonds of House Stark were strained as Lady Catelyn voiced her concerns to her husband, Lord Eddard Stark.
"Ned," she said with a hint of frustration, "I've heard these unsettling rumors about Bolton's dealings with the Druid Emrys. I've always had my doubts about this mystic. I knew he couldn't be trusted, up to no good, I tell you."
Ned Stark, his demeanor unyielding, calmly replied, "Catelyn, these are nothing more than rumors. House Bolton has pledged loyalty to us, and their commitment has remained unwavering."
Catelyn's gaze bore into her husband's, her worry unabated. "Loyalty can be as fickle as the winds of winter, Ned. Betrayals are woven into the history of Westeros, and we can't afford to dismiss these whispers. The stability of the North hangs in the balance."
Ned's eyes met hers, resolute in his conviction. "I've known Roose Bolton for years, Cat. He has stood firm in his duties to our House. Our focus should be on uniting the North, rather than entertaining groundless suspicions."
Catelyn's frustration mounted, her words taking on a sharper edge. "Unity? Is that what you call it, Ned? The whispers grow louder, and the northern lords are not blind. Bolton's ambitions are not to be taken lightly, and I fear the ambitions of this Druid even more!"
Ned's patience remained steadfast, his response measured. "Catelyn, we cannot act based on hearsay. Our alliance with House Bolton is indispensable for the strength of the North. I have full faith that the Druid's actions are always in the best interest of our land. We must tread carefully."
...
Catelyn's agitation simmered at the surface, her voice edged with exasperation.
"Tread carefully? That's always your response, Ned. Sometimes we must act decisively to safeguard our family and our people. Just because he acts in the North's interest doesn't guarantee he'll act in the interest of my children and our family!"
A flicker of frustration passed through Ned's eyes, his features tense.
"Our family, our people—those are precisely why we must proceed with caution."
Catelyn's voice remained sharp, her determination unwavering.
"I won't idly stand by while our family's safety is put at risk due to blind trust, Ned. I've witnessed too much to overlook the signs of potential danger."
Ned's gaze solidified, his reply stern.
"I will not allow fear and paranoia to dictate our decisions. As far as we know, House Bolton remains loyal, and the Druid has done nothing but aid the North in growing stronger. My decision is final. I will hear no more of it!"
In this deadlock, the Stark couple found themselves in opposition, their contrasting viewpoints a harbinger of the choices looming on the horizon. The whispers of alliances and machinations continued to entwine themselves into a complex web, and the fate of House Stark and the North teetered on a precipice.
