Hugo's army was a tapestry of desperation and grit—a motley collection of long-term deserters, career bandits, and honest farmers drawn by the gravity of his reputation.
To assemble eight hundred men in a land stripped bare by war required every ounce of influence Hugo had cultivated. But such a force was a double-edged sword; the threat of it shattering under the first charge of a knight's lance hung over Hugo's head like a suspended blade.
The motivations of his men were as varied as their gear. The farmers were there to repay a debt; Hugo had protected their villages and filled their bellies when the lords had taken everything. To them, he was the God-Chosen, a beacon of hope in a world of shadow. Then there were the "good fellows"—the career outlaws who saw Hugo as a means to an end. Men like Donnel "Fingers" were the rule, not the exception; they were jackals who would happily trade Hugo's head for a royal pardon and a pouch of gold. Finally, there were the skeptics—those who followed the winner. The moment the tides turned, they would vanish like mist over the Trident.
The "good fellows" were Hugo's primary concern. Unruly and dangerous, they were the kings of their own small hills, and only the end of the war had forced them to seek shelter under his banner.
But with the arrival of the High Sparrow and his fanatics, the balance of power shifted. The reliable now outnumbered the wavering. It was time for the reckoning.
Night fell over the camp, thick and bloody. Hugo didn't believe in half-measures. Armed with a list of those who had whispered of betrayal, the Sparrow brothers descended on the tents of the restless.
"Hugo! You bastard! I knew that 'saintly' act was a lie!"
La Na roared as he was forced into the mud. He was a man who had built an empire on the dead—trading in looted steel, stolen grain, and human lives. He was the strongest of the bandit leaders, commanding nearly a hundred men, and he had been the loudest voice for surrender.
"La Na, we've both crawled out of the same pits of gore," Hugo said, standing over him. His voice was devoid of heat. "You know how this works. You gambled on my weakness, and you lost. That's the end of the story."
Hugo gave a sharp nod. The gray-clad executioners stepped forward. Under the cold gaze of the High Sparrow, the blades fell. La Na and his inner circle were silenced forever.
Hugo turned his back on the spray of blood, facing the remaining outlaws who had lost their captains. Their eyes were wide, flickering with confusion but not yet hatred.
"La Na planned to sell us out," Hugo declared, his voice carrying through the camp. "He intended to deliver our heads to the Iron Throne in exchange for a bounty. Does any man here stand with a traitor?"
To seal the lie, Hugo produced a letter bearing a noble crest—a leaping trout. It wasn't the royal sigil, but to these men, any noble seal was a mark of doom. Hugo was actually surprised to find that La Na had been in contact with "Old Fish"—the Blackfish, Brynden Tully. It seemed the merchant had been looking for a way to buy his way into the Tullys' good graces.
Evidence was piled on the table: gold coins, letters, and maps. No one spoke. La Na's men knew their leader; they knew he was exactly the kind of man to sell them for a copper. Besides, Hugo was famously fair to those who stayed loyal. To die for La Na was a waste; to live for Hugo was a chance.
"Long live Hugo!" a voice cried out from the darkness. Soon, the camp echoed with the shout. The purge was complete. The rot was cut out.
Along the shimmering banks of the Gods Eye, a far more organized beast was on the move.
The Lannister host marched with the arrogance of gold. Fully armored heavy horse led the column, their polished breastplates catching the light like mirrors. Behind them came the disciplined ranks of the infantry, their crimson cloaks a vibrant stain against the dusty Kingsroad. At the very front, skirmishers carried spears topped with the rotting heads of bandits—a grisly warning that the Lions had arrived to restore "order."
"Gerion, stay in the ranks," Tygett Lannister barked, his voice tight with the irritation that seemed to define his life. He wore heavy, functional plate, a golden-thread cloak fluttering behind him. "The Riverlands are still a hornets' nest. If Tywin hears you're riding off alone, he'll have your head."
Gerion Lannister, the youngest of the brothers, looked more like a wandering troubadour than a commander. He wore light leathers and a carefree grin that stood in stark contrast to Tygett's dour professionalism.
"They're just bandits, Tygett," Gerion said, picking at his ear. "Don't use Tywin to frighten me; I'm not a squire anymore. Besides, after seeing what we did to that 'Fingers' fellow, any brigand with a lick of sense is already halfway to the Vale."
"That 'fingerless idiot' didn't have a thousand men," Tygett countered. "This Hugo does. He's gathering the smallfolk, Gerion. He's got the 'God-Chosen' nonsense spreading like a plague. Even the Kingswood Brotherhood didn't have this kind of momentum."
"Numbers aren't soldiers," Gerion laughed, waving for a retainer to bring him his wine skin. "One charge of our heavy horse and they'll scatter like crows. They're scum, brother. Scum in homespun."
Tygett scowled. He wanted to disagree, but history was on Gerion's side. Peasant revolts usually ended under the hooves of knights.
"We must be cautious," Tygett insisted. "Hugo isn't just another thug."
"He's a bandit with a silver tongue," Gerion conceded languidly. "But silver tongues don't stop lances. If you're so worried, let me take the horse and end this now. By the time you and the foot-sloggers arrive, I'll have his head ready for a pike."
"No," Tygett said firmly. "We move as one. Cautious and crushing. That is how Father taught us."
"Father taught us for about five minutes before Tywin took over," Gerion joked, leaning back in his saddle. "But fine. We'll do it your way. Slow and boring."
Tygett ignored him, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the Gods Eye met the sky. Somewhere out there, the "God-Chosen" was waiting.