The stone blockhouse was the marrow of the manor's defense—the ancestral seat of House Fisher. Usually, if an enemy breached the outer palisade, the defenders would retreat behind its heavy oak doors to wait for relief. But today, the plan of the "Lions" had rotted from within before the first ladder was even thrown.
Kevin Turner and Roger Hughes, slick with filth but burning with intent, led the charge from the rear ramparts. They battered down the postern door before the panicked sentries could bar it.
With the main force of the bandits committed to the front wall, the blockhouse was a hollow shell. Kevin and Roger moved through the corridors like iron-clad reapers, cutting down anyone who didn't drop their steel. When Roger kicked open the master's bedchamber, he froze.
Kevin, coming up behind him, frowned. "Why are we stopping? Is there a—" He peered inside and his jaw tightened.
Half a dozen girls, none older than thirteen or fourteen, cowered in the corners. Their clothes were rags, and their eyes held the hollow, glassy stare of the long-broken.
Kevin, raised far from the cynical realities of Westerosi camp-followers, looked confused. "Why are there so many girls?"
Roger, who had seen enough of the world as a hedge knight to know its vilest corners, shook his head slowly. "They are just children, Kevin. Poor, lost children." He turned to the girls, his voice softening. "We are men of the Lightning Lord. The monsters are gone. You're safe."
He assigned a Sunwalker to guard the door, then pulled Kevin away to finish the sweep. They cleared the hall, the kitchens, and the solar, dragging hidden bandits into the light. Those who resisted were hamstrung; those who begged were bound. By the time they struck the rear of the wall-guard, the bandits were trapped between Kevin's steel and Beric's fire.
The fight died in a chorus of clattering swords and pleas for mercy.
Beric Dondarrion sheathed his flaming blade, the fire dying into an ember-glow. He ordered the survivors bound and the gates cleared. As the Brotherhood's pack animals were led into the yard, Kevin and Roger headed straight for the well, hauling up buckets of cold water to scrub the "night-soil" from their armor.
Lem Lemoncloak found Beric near the stables. "My Lord, the blockhouse is ours. We found six girls taken from the nearby thorps. The bastards killed the manor's original servants moons ago." He paused, his face darkening. "And we found the Lady Fisher. She's in the dungeons. She's... she isn't right, Beric. Her son is with her. Dead. The body has started to turn."
Beric's lone eye closed for a moment. He walked to the well where Kevin was wringing out his tunic. "Kevin. Lem found the Lady of the keep. Her mind is shattered. Can your Light mend a broken spirit?"
Kevin wiped the water from his eyes, his expression grim. "The Master never taught me the art of mending the mind, my Lord. But I will try."
The dungeons were a damp, lightless pit beneath the Great Hall. Even with Beric's torch, the shadows seemed to cling to the walls like moss. The air was thick with the sweet, heavy rot of a small corpse.
In the corner of a cramped cell sat a woman—gaunt, skeletal, and shivering. She cradled a small, still bundle in her arms, rocking back and forth as she hummed a soft, haunting tune.
"The Maiden smiles on babies fair,
With silver ribbons in their hair.
Close your eyes, the Crone is near,
To whisper away every fear.
The Mother's arms are soft and wide,
Where little ones can safely hide..."
The tune was familiar to Kevin, a common lullaby from the Five Fingers, but the words were twisted by grief. He knelt beside her, the stench of decay stinging his nose. "My Lady? Can you hear me?"
She didn't look up. She only adjusted the blanket around the boy's grey, mottled face.
Kevin pressed his palms together, whispering a prayer to Anshe. A soft, warm Solar Radiance filled the cell, washing over the woman. The bruises on her wrists faded, and the fever-flush on her skin vanished. She looked at Kevin for a fleeting second, her eyes clearing—and then she looked at the dead child in her arms. A fresh wave of madness crashed over her, and she returned to her humming, louder now, as if to drown out the world.
Kevin stood, his head hanging. "My Lord... I can mend the meat, but I cannot reach the soul. Only the Master could walk those paths."
Beric sighed. "You did what you could." He turned to his men. "Get her out of this hole. Wash her. Feed her. We will find a place for her at the monastery."
The trial began at noon in the courtyard. Seventeen bandits remained. Thoros of Myr stood before a man in bloodied mail who looked to be their leader—a sergeant with two missing teeth and eyes full of fear.
"Who do you serve?" Thoros barked.
"Ser Amory Lorch," the man stammered. "We were foragers. We were collecting the tithe for the Rock!"
"Harrenhal is held by the North," Beric interjected. "Why are you here?"
"We couldn't get back!" the man cried. "The Bloody Mummers turned cloak! We heard Lorch was dead. We just wanted a place to sit out the winter. We didn't do nothing wrong!"
"You didn't do nothing?" A girl from the blockhouse screamed, pointing a shaking finger. "You watched while they took Jeyne! You laughed when the boy starved!"
The sergeant's face went pale. "I... I told them to be gentle! I'm a soldier, not a monster! I'm not like Lorch!"
Beric looked at the bound men. "The Seven judge the heart, but the King's Peace judges the deed. Thoros?"
"The Lord of Light demands justice," Thoros said.
The executions were efficient. One by one, the "foragers" were hauled to the great oak outside the gates. One man, a Dornishman by his accent, begged to join the Brotherhood, claiming he was a master of the rack. Another offered to show them where the gold was hidden. Beric ignored them all.
Tom Sevenstrings played a low, mournful air on his wood-harp as the ropes tightened. Thoros prayed for the Lord of Light to consume their souls, while Kevin and the Sunwalkers watched in silence.
"You look troubled, Kevin," Beric noted after the last man had stopped kicking. "Do you find us too cruel? I heard Aldric releases his captives."
"The Master releases the smallfolk who were forced to carry a spear," Kevin explained. "For men like these... he wouldn't have bothered with a trial. He would have ended them in the fray." He looked at the swaying bodies. "I'm not troubled by their deaths, my Lord. I'm troubled by the flies. Dead meat breeds flux and rot. In my Master's homeland, they handle the dead with more care."
Beric looked at the corpses, then back at the boy. "And how does the Lightbringer handle the dead?"
Kevin's eyes brightened. "The Master says they should be burned or buried deep. But for monsters, he spoke of a 'Mound of Judgment.' You take the heads and stack them in a great cone of earth, layer by layer, faces turned outward so the world can see the price of their sins. It warns the next pack of wolves better than a hanging."
Thoros wiped his brow. "Your Master comes from a... colorful land, boy."
"He does," Kevin sighed. "But we don't have enough heads here to make a proper mound. A pity."
Despite his curiosity, Kevin chose to respect the Brotherhood's customs. He knew Aldric wanted him to be a bridge, not a wedge.
The capture of Fisher's Keep was a total victory. For the first time, Beric had taken a fortified position without losing a single man. He realized that the Sunwalkers were the most valuable coin he had ever spent.
"Kevin," Beric said as the sun began to set. "I have six or seven bands scattered from here to the Red Fork. They are being hunted. They need your brothers. Can you spare them?"
"We are yours to command, Lord Beric," Kevin replied.
"Good. I will send them out at dawn. But tell me..." Beric looked up at the blockhouse. "What do we do with this place? We cannot hold it, and we cannot leave it for the next pack of wolves."