The camp by the Blackwater was a tapestry of gilded power. Unlike the muddy, chaotic sprawl of Hugo's pilgrims, this was an assembly of the realm's finest. Every man had a tent of fine silk or heavy wool, and a forest of banners—the galloping Stag of Baratheon and the soaring Falcon of Arryn—flapped proudly in the river breeze.
This was a camp of knights. The air was filled with the rhythmic scrape of whetstones on steel and the thud of blunted practice swords. Squires scurried like mice, polishing breastplates and tending to destriers. It was a place of iron discipline and high-born pageantry, the kind of army that could erase a peasant rebellion in a single charge.
"Interesting. Truly interesting, Jon. What do you make of it?"
Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms, swept into the command tent. He was a mountain of a man, clean-shaven for the moment, with eyes that sparkled with a restless, predatory charm. He threw himself into a chair of carved oak and sable furs, snatching up a wine cup and draining it in a single, violent gulp. Red wine splashed across his velvet surcoat, staining the golden stag on his chest, but the King paid it no mind.
Behind him stood two silent sentinels in white scale-mail and snowy cloaks—the Kingsguard. A squire rushed forward to refill the royal cup, his hands trembling under the King's gaze.
"It is a curiosity, Robert," Jon Arryn replied, stepping in behind his foster son. He moved with a grace that belied his age, his broad shoulders and aquiline nose giving him the appearance of an eagle surveying its domain. He declined the wine offered by a squire with a gentle, reassuring smile.
"Tywin's own brothers are singing the praises of the man who put them in chains," Robert laughed, the sound booming against the canvas walls. "Ha! My father-in-law, who walks with a stick up his backside, is going to turn purple when he hears his kin are acting as heralds for a bandit."
"Lord Tywin is a man of cold reason, Robert," Jon said, his voice a calm anchor to Robert's storm. "Do not expect a tantrum. He is more likely to be calculating the cost of the ransom and the stain on his pride."
Jon sighed, looking at the King. "But I must ask, why are you here? I told you I would settle this matter. You have a kingdom to stitch together in the capital, and a new wife waiting in the Red Keep. A husband should not flee his marriage bed so soon."
"Stop nagging, Jon," Robert grumbled, adopting the posture of a petulant child. "King's Landing stinks. The streets are open sewers and the people smell of dragons. Everywhere I turn, some guild-master or gang-lord tells me how their great-grandfather served Aegon the Conqueror. The city is a Targaryen tomb. I'd rather sleep in the mud than spend another night in that cesspit."
Robert leaned back, his eyes darkening. "And Cersei... she's a beauty, I'll give her that. But her heart is made of Lannister gold—hard and cold. She looks at me like I'm a prize she didn't want to win. I'd rather have a camp fire and a tavern girl than her 'satisfaction'."
Jon Arryn rubbed his forehead. He had spent years raising Robert in the Eyrie, and he knew the man's heart was a wild thing that couldn't be caged by crowns or vows. He thought of his other foster son, Eddard Stark, who was as dutiful as Robert was reckless, and wondered where he had gone wrong.
"Let's talk of this Hugo Tollett, Jon," Robert said, changing the subject with a grin. "Tell me of the boy."
"I knew his father, Aolike," Jon said, his eyes glazing with the dust of memory. "A fine knight of the Vale. He won his share of tourneys, but he proved his worth in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. He nearly took the Golden Company's banner single-handedly. But he died with more honor than gold."
Jon took a small sip of wine. "I looked for the boy after Aolike passed, but Hugo had already sold the family steel and vanished to become a sellsword. I never imagined that boy would become this 'God-Chosen' miracle-worker."
"A spokesperson for the Seven," Robert scoffed. "Leading a bunch of farmers to the 'Promised Land.' The smallfolk are easily fooled by a silver tongue and a bit of luck. If we don't settle this, he'll have half the Riverlands following his tail."
"And what would you do, Robert?" Jon asked.
"Before? I'd have led the horse and trampled them into the dirt," Robert said, his hand idly drifting to the hilt of his sword. "But after hearing that Lannister boy talk... Gerion, was it? He sounded like he'd follow Hugo into the pits of the Seven Hells. I want to see this man for myself. I want to see what kind of man makes a Lion turn his coat."
"Then we talk," Jon said, a plan forming behind his blue eyes. "If all goes well, this young man might just solve more problems than he creates."
"Talk all you want, Jon," Robert said, standing up and grabbing another skin of wine. "But if it fails, I'm ending it with a hammer."