The Fingers are a stretch of rocky headlands pointing from the Vale of Arryn into the Narrow Sea.
It is a bleak, windswept place. The gales are so frequent and fierce that almost no vegetation grows on the tips of the Fingers.
With scarce arable land, the common folk here have few means of livelihood other than herding sheep.
Pebble lies at the westernmost tip of the Fingers, detached from the mainland. It consists of three larger, narrow islands and a vast expanse of reefs. The islands are covered mostly in sheep dung and rocks.
House Pryor has ruled these barren islands for generations from their ancestral seat, Blackmoon Keep.
"First time I saw the Pryor banner, I thought it was a golden ship turned on its side," the smuggler first mate of the Storm had muttered in Zaren's ear on the way here.
"I wondered why anyone would depict a ship like that—even the finest vessel sinks if you stand it on end. Then some smugglers from the Fingers told me it represents a partial eclipse of the sun."
Now, inside the great hall of Blackmoon Keep, the banners bearing the partial eclipse of House Pryor had been taken down from the gates and ramparts the moment the castle fell, replaced by the grey-green spider crab banner of House Borrell.
Zaren Borrell sat in the high seat of the former lord, looking around. The hall of Blackmoon Keep was incredibly crude. The wooden tables were old and battered, the iron sconces on the walls rusted, the candles long since burnt out.
After searching the entire castle, they couldn't find any replacement candles. The ones burning now were brought from his own ship.
The air in the hall reeked of sheep dung. Zaren, who had been on the island for over a month, thought he had gotten used to the smell. It wasn't until he stormed Blackmoon Keep that he realized how wrong he was.
Before they landed, Viscount Pryor had driven all the island's sheep and people into the castle. But how could this small castle hold so many people and livestock? The smell was unimaginable.
After ordering servants to bring some incense from the ship, Zaren sat on the dais eating his dinner.
The food was mostly sheep-related: haggis soup and roasted leg of lamb with onions were the specialties of the Blackmoon Keep cook. Of course, black bread and ale were staples.
Wylla, who had lived on the Fingers, advised him not to eat anything prepared by the castle's servants, fearing they might poison him in revenge.
She said the Fingers were full of sheep dung and rocks, and the people were the same—stinking and hard.
Zaren agreed with the first part, but felt the second was an exaggeration.
Sheep dung and rocks don't fear pirate heads and sharp blades.
Although the initial siege didn't go smoothly—the fighting spirit of the Fingers folk caused him considerable trouble—once they saw the dense array of pirate heads mounted on spears outside the castle, this reasonably sturdy little fortress seemed to turn into a shack that collapsed with a single kick.
Zaren took a sip of ale, shaking his head at the sour taste.
Even if they wanted to poison him, they'd need poison first.
In a castle without even a Maester, where would they find poison other than sheep dung? And if they put sheep dung in the food, he had a nose.
Still, out of caution, Zaren heeded Wylla's advice and let the cook take the first bite of everything, just in case the Blackmoon cook "accidentally" left something extra in the dish.
Zaren sniffed the food. Finding nothing wrong, he broke the black bread, dipped it in the haggis soup, and ate, washing down the roast lamb with ale.
Creeeak—
Just as Zaren was enjoying his dinner, the hall door was pushed open with a harsh sound.
"Zaren, I've brought the people you wanted." Old Ser Lyles walked in, followed by guards escorting several people.
"These are the members of House Pryor with the strongest claims to succession outside the main line."
Ever since Zaren took Blackmoon Keep using a ship full of pirate heads, Old Ser Lyles' attitude toward him had changed completely. He acted incredibly close and obedient, at least on the surface.
The old knight even offered his two sons as squires.
Facing the old knight's eagerness, Zaren had replied, "I am not a knight. I worship the Lady of the Waves and the Lord of the Skies, not the Seven. I cannot knight your sons."
But the old knight stubbornly insisted on his youngest son and his bastard serving him. "Fosterlings, cupbearers, even servants will do. I don't expect them to become knights, but I hope they can learn a thing or two from you."
Snapping back to reality, Zaren saw Old Ser Lyles already seating himself at a side table, loudly ordering servants to bring him dinner.
"My Lord... mer... cy." Before Zaren could speak, a woman among the escorted Pryors fell to her knees in fear, weeping and begging for mercy.
"Mercy, my Lord." The other two hurriedly knelt as well, pleading incessantly. Clearly, they had seen the pirate heads on spears outside and the headless corpse of Viscount Pryor in the crow cage at the gate.
"Get up. I have no intention of killing you." Zaren waved his hand, signaling the servants to pour them some wine to calm their nerves.
"Viscount Pryor consorted with pirates and even trafficked in slaves, bringing shame upon the entire Vale. I am here on the orders of Lord Godric Borrell, Earl of Sweetsister and Guardian of the Bite, to execute him in accordance with the laws of the realm. This has nothing to do with you."
Hearing this, the Pryor relatives dared to stand. After downing the strong wine, one trembled and asked, "Th... thank you, my Lord. Then why did you capture... summon us?"
"Viscount Pryor is dead, and I found no wife or children of his in the castle. The ancestral seat of House Pryor, Blackmoon Keep, and its lands need an heir." Zaren scanned them.
"I wish to choose one among you to inherit Blackmoon Keep and its title."
The people who had been trembling with heads bowed suddenly looked up, eyes red, glancing at each other warily.
That was their ancestral castle and lands, passed down for generations.
Their reactions were swift. Some stated the legitimacy of their claim; some began pledging loyalty; others revealed secrets to attack their rivals.
Zaren just watched them quietly without saying a word.
It wasn't until they started fighting that he had the guards separate them.
Zaren rubbed his forehead and sighed. A castle, a title, lands—even if it was a small island full of rocks and sheep dung—were indeed hard to refuse.
"If you wish to inherit the title and lands, bring your heirs and accompany me to Sweetsister," Zaren announced, feeling their burning gazes.
"Swear eternal loyalty to the Guardian of the Bite, Earl Godric Borrell of Sweetsister."
"After that, we will keep your heirs to ensure your loyalty, then send you back to build a harbor, a mill, or complete some other task on Pebble."
"Whoever performs best will be the next Viscount of Pebble."