The plan was set. Kevin returned to Beric Dondarrion, detailing the strategy he had hammered out with Harold and Roger.
The Lightning Lord listened, his lone eye tracing the tactical lines in the dirt. "I can spare eight heavy footmen to bolster your wall-party," Beric said, "and a handful of rope-climbers. The Brotherhood fears many things, boy, but we do not fear the grave."
With a curt nod, the Lord of Blackhaven turned to gather his volunteers. Kevin watched him go, then pulled his own brothers into a tight circle. Technically, they were part of the Brotherhood now, but respect between warriors is a crop watered with blood before it can be harvested.
"Listen to me," Kevin said, his voice low and hard. "This is our first test. My Master always said that first impressions are like the foundations of a tower—if they're crooked, the whole thing will eventually fall.
"In every fight, Aldric was the first to the wall. He never let his men down. Now, it's our turn. We are Sunwalkers. We carry the Spark he gave us. We might not have his arm, but we have his will. The Dawn is watching. Take this keep for the honor of the Word."
Nyx, a former stone-cutter turned Sunwalker, spat into the dirt. "We won't let the Lightbringer be shamed by our cowardice, Kevin. We'll take the wall or leave our bones in the yard."
Kevin spent the afternoon organizing the group. Of the eleven, only five—including himself, Ser Roger, and the veteran Harold—were seasoned men-at-arms. The rest were masons and farmers. Kevin assigned the veterans to the rear-attack squad, meant to be the arrow-head aimed at the keep's heart. The others would support the main ladders, focused on keeping the Brotherhood's footmen standing.
Before the sun dipped, they held a drill. The plan was brutal: an all-out offensive that favored trade-blows over defense, relying on the Sunwalkers' healing to bridge the gap. Kevin insisted the lead climbers wear double-layered mail and pack their helms with thick wool to soften the stones and maces they would surely face.
The Brotherhood men, veterans of R'hllor's kiss, were skeptical. They had seen Thoros work his prayers, but they didn't trust these newcomers to knit skin in the heat of a fray.
To break their doubt, Kevin led a stubborn mule into the clearing. Ignoring its indignant braying, he used a dagger to slice a deep, bloody gash into the animal's haunch. He let the blood flow, proving the wound's depth, then raised a hand. A brilliant Light-Flash erupted from his palm. The mule's flesh closed with a wet, popping sound, and the animal immediately scrambled up, hiding behind a tree.
The Brotherhood men stared, then began checking their own straps. If a boy could do that for a mule, they were willing to trust him with their lives.
Nearby, a man in a yellow cloak—Lem Lemoncloak—muttered to Harwin. "Thoros is going to be out of a job. That mule healed cleaner than the Lightning Lord."
"Lord Beric would put the mule's packs on you if he heard that," Harwin chuckled, though his eyes remained on Kevin. "The boy is barely a man grown, yet he has a commander's eye. Thoros says he's only been with the Lightbringer a year."
Moonlight bathed the world in silver as Beric woke the camp. They ate their dry rations in silence, then split into five squads.
Four groups hauled long storming-ladders toward the front palisade. Kevin and Roger led the fifth squad—the "arrow-head"—carrying hooks and wet-leather ropes toward the steep earthen mound at the rear of the keep.
On the front wall, five watch-fires blazed. Beside each stood a sentry with a longbow. Meryn, the scout, signaled from a nearby tree: there were a dozen more awake in the courtyard, huddled around a fire.
"Alert bastards," Harwin hissed.
Beric nodded to a man with a heavy crossbow. "End it, Anguy."
Anguy the Archer didn't miss. He loosed a bolt that caught the first sentry in the chest just as the man was stretching. The shadow tumbled from the wall, hitting the dirt with a sickening thud. The other archers followed suit, silhouetting the defenders against their own fires.
But one sentry, struck in the gut, managed to kick a brazier over as he fell. His cloak ignited, and his screams tore the silence of the night apart.
"Go!" Thoros roared.
The Brotherhood launched their assault. A veteran officer in scorched mail scrambled onto the wall, waving a torch. "To arms! Raiders at the gate!"
Ladders slammed against the logs. On the right, a warrior named Edwyn led the climb. Before the war, Edwyn had been a simple bee-keeper. He had returned home one evening to find his village a cinder—his wife dead, his father hanged, and his children charred in the ruins. Since that day, a cold fire had burned in his chest, one that even the Brotherhood's wine couldn't douse. He fought with a recklessness that suggested he was looking for a way out.
Edwyn leaped from the top rungs onto the battlement, his axe splitting a defender's skull. But a spear-thrust caught him in the belly as he landed. He slumped over the parapet, a bloody smile on his lips.
Suddenly, a searing warmth flooded his gut—an intense, itchy heat.
"Get up, you fool!" Peyton, the Sunwalker behind him, shouted as he scrambled over the edge. "You're mended! Keep moving!"
Edwyn touched his stomach. The pain was gone. The blood was real, but the wound was a memory. He let out a roar of confused fury, caught a defender's spear-shaft, and hurled the man off the wall.
At the rear of the keep, Kevin and Roger threw their grapples. The iron-shod hooks bit into the timber. They began the seven-meter climb.
Halfway up, Kevin heard the thwack of steel on wood. A sentry was leaning over, desperately trying to saw through the rope. But the thin wooden slats Roger had suggested wrapping around the line held; the blade couldn't find the fiber.
Then came the "night-soil." A bucket of cold, stinking filth was dumped over Kevin's head. He didn't look up, his teeth bared as he kept climbing. Stones followed, slamming into his wool-packed helm and his shoulders.
Using Light-Flash to dull the concussions and knit the bruises in real-time, Kevin vaulted over the palisade like a steel ghost. The sentry screamed "Monster!" at the sight of the filth-covered, glowing warrior and fled into the stone blockhouse.
A moment later, Roger scrambled over beside him, equally drenched in filth. They shared a single, grim look of shared disgust, then drew their swords and charged the rear doors.