As a land of wealth without walls, a crossroads for every passing army, the Riverlands had long been flayed by the lash of war. The days were long, the cruelty was profound, and the end never seemed to be in sight.
Since time immemorial, petty kings had vied for the prize of its fertile soil. Iron-shod hooves had churned its earth into a slurry of mud and gore time and again, yet after countless skeletons were sown into the furrows, the land remained stubbornly fractured.
Even during the centuries when the True Dragons ruled Westeros from the Iron Throne, this region remained the anvil upon which every civil war was forged. Whenever the realm bled, the Riverlands bled first.
Now, yet another war had swept across the plains. Though it had entered its death throes—King's Landing had fallen, and the rebels (or the Allied Forces, depending on whose colors you wore) had claimed total victory—the scars remained raw.
Ravens bearing the tidings of peace had not yet scattered across the Trident. In their absence, the frantic, lawless energy of a dying era continued to spread like a fever.
Yet, among the masses struggling to breathe in this chaos, there were those with the foresight to begin planning for their own futures... and perhaps the futures of others.
On the lands belonging to House Goodbrook, bordering the vast expanse of the Gods Eye lake, a typical band of outlaws had coalesced.
House Goodbrook had paid a ruinous price for backing the losing side. With their lords decimated, their holdings had dissolved into a vacuum of authority—a paradise for the lawless.
However, this particular company had not come here merely for the easy pickings. Or at least, that was not their only purpose.
The assembly camped by the lakeshore was a jarring mosaic of the war's leftovers. Bandits squeezed into ill-fitting plate armor stood swapping stories with deserters whose surcoats were faded and frayed beyond recognition. Hard-bitten mercenaries sat with whetstones, their focus entirely on the edges of their blades, while simple crofters practiced clumsily with longspears. No matter how hard those farmers tried, they still looked as though they were merely gesturing with hayforks.
Despite the disparate nature of the men, the camp possessed a rare, palpable sense of discipline.
The encampment of over four hundred souls was remarkably orderly. There were no open trenches of filth or drunkards sprawling in the dirt, sights common in most makeshift armies. Instead, men moved with purpose, attending to their duties. If anyone dared to overstep, a sharp word or a warning look from a peer quickly brought them back in line.
The man responsible for this order was currently inside a large grey tent atop a small rise, charting a course for their survival.
Outside the tent, armored sentries stood guard. Even within the relative safety of the camp, they remained vigilant, their palms resting habitually on the pommels of their swords.
Inside, the seating was crowded with sub-leaders of varying stripes. Many wore the classic, rugged garb of brigands, while others still looked like the tillers of soil they had once been.
All eyes were fixed on the man at the head of the table as he listened to a scout's report.
"So, King's Landing really sent two thousand men. And they're Lannister's finest," Hugo Tollett muttered. He wore a thick beard, and his shoulder-length golden hair was pulled back into a practical tail. The news drew his brow into a tight furrow, his blue eyes clouding with a flicker of distress.
As the leader of this band, Hugo was younger than many expected.
He was in the prime of his youth, though his features were unremarkable. The constant exposure to the elements and the grueling life of the Riverlands had weathered his face, giving him the weary, seasoned look of a veteran in his thirties.
Hugo remained outwardly calm, but his subordinates reacted like a drop of water in a vat of boiling oil.
The shadow of such a formidable enemy shattered the confidence of several men at once. Their panicked murmurs found echoes around the table. Some chose to remain silent, their expressions unreadable, while others simply looked lost, staring at their hands in bewilderment.
The most visceral reaction came from a leader named La Na. His pessimism was so thick it was almost suffocating; he looked ready to dissolve the company and vanish into the woods on the spot.
Hugo took it all in. He didn't speak, merely scanning the faces of his captains. Under his steady gaze, the room gradually fell into an uneasy silence as they waited for their commander to move.
Hugo didn't rush to a decision. Instead, he gestured to the scout kneeling before him to finish the report.
"The day before I turned back, 'Fingerless' Donnel and his crew surrendered to the Lannisters," the scout said, his voice low. "But the Lions didn't give him what he wanted. He knelt for his life, but they didn't let him keep it. Donnel was hanged with his legs straight. By the time I was riding hard for home, his head was on a spear. I saw the Lannister host carrying those spears like they were battle standards."
Donnel. Hugo knew the name. He was an infamous bandit, but unlike Hugo, Donnel was a man of pure malice, raiding soldiers and smallfolk with equal cruelty.
When the heat had turned up recently, Donnel had sent word, proposing an alliance to resist the crown's men. Hugo hadn't expected the man to turn coat and kneel before the grass had even grown over the suggestion.
Fortunately, the Seven had eyes. The man's head had come off even faster than his fingers. The locals would likely cheer at the news. Thinking of this, Hugo felt a brief spark of grim satisfaction.
Then again, Donnel had died at the perfect time. His fate would silence the dissenters. Hugo lifted his head, gauging the reaction of his brothers.
The silence in the tent had turned heavy. No one spoke of surrender now.
The price of "mercy" had been laid bare on a Lannister spear.
Still, Hugo knew some would harbor hidden agendas. He silently noted their names in his mind.
"I don't think my decision will be questioned now," Hugo stated firmly. "Gentlemen, if we are to negotiate, we do it only after we've beaten the Lannister army in front of us. We have to show them we aren't easy prey. If we surrender now, our heads will end up exactly like poor Donnel's."
"You're right, Boss Hugo! We'll give those Lannisters a fight first! Let those Lions see what you're made of!"
"Farmer Long" Snow stood up as he spoke. He was a man of simple, rustic appearance, usually quiet, but his voice was now iron-clad with resolve. His trust in Hugo was absolute.
"Aye! That's the way of it! Let the high lords know we aren't just sheep for the slaughter!"
"Boss Hugo, we've lopped off plenty of noble heads already. A few more Lions won't make a difference!"
The sentiment caught fire. The former farmers were particularly vocal; their faith in Hugo was a physical thing. Within moments, the room was filled with a fierce, desperate will to fight.
Hugo watched them. He knew that beneath the bravado, most were terrified. They simply didn't want to show it in front of their peers. He also knew that some, once they returned to their own tents, would begin packing to desert.
He understood that if it weren't for his hard-won prestige—and the rumors of a miracle—he never could have held this lot together.
"Since we are in agreement, there is no need for further debate. To your duties."
Hugo's words dismissed the council. The men filtered out in small groups. La Na leaned in close to a few other minor heads as they walked away together.
When the last man had exited, Hugo finally let out a long, shuddering breath. He rubbed his eyes, trying to massage away the exhaustion. He had managed to herd their thoughts for now, but the path ahead remained treacherous. If he failed this coming test, it was the end of everything.
When the War of the Usurper first ignited, Hugo Tollett had been a hedge knight from the Vale. After witnessing a succession of tragedies, the young man—his head filled with notions of chivalry and honor—had stepped forward to protect the weak. He fought raiders and looters from both sides, indifferent to their politics.
His family, House Tollett, was an ancient lineage in Westeros, dating back to the coming of the Andals. However, in a world where thousand-year-old dynasties were common, it wasn't a particularly grand pedigree.
Hugo's father, Aolike, had been a knight of some renown in the Vale, but he had left his son nothing but a headful of knightly ideals.
And so, Hugo had been forced to wander.
His career as an outlaw had started well enough. His band grew from a single man to dozens, then hundreds. They hunted the marauders who burned villages, cleared out common brigands, and stole grain from lordly caravans to feed the starving. They helped the smallfolk flee before the great hosts arrived.
But courage could not bridge the chasm of power. The nobility could lose a hundred times and survive; Hugo could only lose once. During a battle against a local suppression force, Hugo had been run through the chest with a spear.
Then, perhaps because the gears of fate refused to grind to a halt—or perhaps by some cosmic accident—the man believed dead opened his eyes. But the soul that woke up was a startled outsider. That was the current Hugo.
His "resurrection" had been witnessed by many, nearly causing a riot. Fortunately, a septon on the scene had proclaimed it a miracle in the name of the Seven, sparing Hugo from being burned as a warlock.
The new Hugo had quickly realized he was in the world of A Song of Ice and Fire. Having read the books in his previous life, he assessed the board with a cold, rational eye. He realized with a heavy heart that, besides continuing his life as a rebel, he had no way out.
The Riverlands were a meat grinder where the interests of every Great House overlapped. Every day, blood turned the rivers red before flowing into the Blackwater and out to sea. In the eyes of the law, Hugo was a high-value target—a brigand whose head belonged on a spike. He had no choice but to double down on his predecessor's crusade.
The following years had been agonizingly difficult. Several times, he had been on the verge of total annihilation. However, because of the scorched-earth tactics of the nobles, he never lacked for recruits. There was always a fresh supply of desperate, hateful smallfolk ready to take up arms. Because of them, Hugo was always able to rebuild, leading his men against any army that crossed their path.
He had considered declaring for one of the warring factions, but the right moment never came. Turning himself in was too great a gamble. He knew the history of failed surrenders all too well.
He had a vision for the future. He knew that even if he survived this war, the War of the Five Kings and the Long Night were coming. He had a plan. If things went well, he might even climb higher...
In the years that followed, Hugo traveled the length and breadth of the Riverlands, even venturing into the Crownlands and the Reach. Wherever he went, he stood with the people, fighting off foraging parties and lawless deserters. His name began to echo through the Seven Kingdoms, and his "Grey Company" grew larger.
He also leaned into the "miracle." Since everyone saw me die and rise, I might as well use it, he reasoned. The faith of the Seven was a powerful tool. Hugo draped himself in the aura of a divinely favored knight. A brave warrior, blessed by the Gods to protect the common man—it was a narrative that the desperate smallfolk found irresistible.
It was this reputation that allowed him to command four hundred men now.
However, much of that legend was due to the efforts of the septon who had first vouched for him.
The man was convinced Hugo was a living sign from the Gods. He held significant sway among the "grassroots" of the Faith, mobilizing wandering brothers and village priests to spread the word. This was the key: for villagers in isolated hamlets, the only outsiders they trusted were these barefoot priests who walked the same muddy roads.
But every time Hugo thought of that septon, his head began to throb. The man had helped him immensely, but he was...
"Boss Hugo, the Septon has arrived," a voice called from outside the tent. "He's brought several hundred more people with him."
Hugo blinked. Speak of the Stranger, and he appears.
"I'm coming out," Hugo replied.