The Lannister brothers found Hugo to be a walking contradiction.
In their initial assumptions, they had pictured a man with a scarred, brutish face and the coarse tongue of a highwayman. During their private whispers after waking, both had braced themselves for humiliation, shackling, or the casual cruelty often visited upon captive lords. It was the way of the world—the Kingswood Brotherhood had treated their noble captives with such indignity years ago, only to be repaid a thousandfold in blood once they were caught.
Instead, they were greeted with the precise courtesies due to their rank. They were fed well, guarded with discipline, and treated as honored guests of the sword rather than cattle for the slaughter. Upon meeting Hugo, the surprise only deepened. He was clearly a man of high birth and education, a knight who managed his rabble of bandits and farmers with the clockwork efficiency of a seasoned castellan. Even his name spoke of the Vale's ancient, storied lineages.
It was profoundly unsettling.
As they observed the camp further, the anomalies multiplied. Hugo's command over his host was absolute—far surpassing the loose, chaotic confederation of the Kingswood Brotherhood that had once plagued the realm. The Brotherhood had survived on the goodwill of the smallfolk; Hugo's men seemed to offer him a total, almost religious obedience.
A man like this did not take to the woods simply to be a "King of the Mud." He had a purpose. And that realization had prompted Tygett's pointed question.
"There is no future in brigandage," Hugo said, his voice steady despite the wine he had consumed. "Even if I were to become the next Simon Toyne or the Smiling Knight, the story always ends the same: a head on a spike and a body left for the crows."
Hugo was referring to the legendary leaders of the Kingswood Brotherhood. They had relied on the peasants to hide them from the King's Justice, kidnapping lords and winning minor skirmishes, becoming folk heroes in the process.
But their end was inevitable. Once the Iron Throne offered the smallfolk better terms and harsher punishments, the veil of protection vanished. The Brotherhood withered and died, leaving nothing behind but the melancholy songs of wandering bards.
"From the beginning, my goal has been to protect the people," Hugo continued. "I fought the raiding parties of the Great Houses; I even bloodied the Ironborn who came to scavenge our ruins. They call me a bandit because I defy their 'peace,' but my objective has never wavered."
"Protecting the people is a noble sentiment," Tygett countered, his tone sharp as a razor, "but the fires are out. Robert Baratheon sits on the Iron Throne. Peace is coming. Why not disband? Why not take your pardon and vanish into the hills instead of breaking our army?"
It was a surgical question, cutting straight to the logic of Hugo's rebellion. Hugo only smiled. He had drank enough to feel the warmth in his blood and the looseness in his tongue. Why not tell them? If he could recruit them, it would be a coup; if not, at least the words would no longer weigh so heavily on his chest.
"To the Dragon and the Stag alike, my men and I are outlaws fit for a short rope. Even if I sought a pardon, I would first have to prove my value to the Throne—at least, that is what I tell the deserters and thieves who follow me."
"Oh?" Gerion interjected, swirling his wine with a mocking glint in his eyes. "So you have another plan? Or are your sights set on that uncomfortable chair in the Red Keep?" Had he been sober, Gerion might have been more tactful, but the alcohol had brought out the Lannister arrogance that rarely stayed buried for long.
"That prickly iron chair is not my goal," Hugo snapped back, refusing to let the sarcasm slide. "I am not so foolish as to chase a throne that would only make me a target. My true goal lies to the East. Across the Narrow Sea."
"Hah! Now that's a new one," Gerion laughed, draining his cup and slamming it onto the table. Tygett, however, didn't laugh. His expression grew deathly serious.
"Every winter," Hugo said, his voice dropping into a low, somber tone, "thousands in Westeros perish in the cold. Old men walk out into the snow to 'hunt,' knowing there is no game, just so their children might have one more crust of bread. Parents are forced to smother infants they cannot feed. Young men leave their homes to become blades-for-hire, just to lessen the burden on their kin. And when a Long Night or a war like this one strikes? The tragedy is beyond measure. Even the lords in their stone keeps are not always spared."
The Lannister brothers remained silent. They had both seen the charred remains of villages and the hollow-eyed stares of starving orphans during their march through the Riverlands. They knew Hugo spoke a bitter truth.
"If the winters here are a death sentence, why not seek life elsewhere?" Hugo asked. "The Andals did not come to Westeros for glory alone; they came to escape the slaughter and enslavement of the Valyrian dragon-lords. They abandoned the hills of their birth and the valleys where they once rode to cross the sea and take the lands of the First Men. My ancestor was a warrior who bled in the Battle of the Seven Stars to secure that future."
Hugo leaned in, his eyes burning. "Valyria has been a ruin for four hundred years. Her 'Daughters,' the Free Cities, are locked in endless petty squabbles. Is this not the perfect moment to cross the Narrow Sea and return to the cradle of the Seven? To take back what was once ours?"
The silence that followed was absolute. The Lannisters had considered many possibilities for Hugo—titles, gold, even a mad grab for power—but the conquest of the ancient Andal homelands was beyond their wildest imaginings.
"Lord Hugo, your ambition is staggering," Tygett said finally, the wine-flush on his face deepening as he spoke with blunt honesty. "But it is also absurd. I see that you have the priests and the 'miracles' to raise an army of desperate peasants. But how do you cross? You cannot lead an exodus to the coast without every lord in the Seven Kingdoms descending upon you to protect their 'property.' And even if you reach the sea, where are the ships? The Free Cities would sink you before you saw their shores."
Tygett hadn't been idle during his hours of captivity. He had walked the camp, talked to the guards, and analyzed everything he had seen on the battlefield. He knew Hugo could raise a host—the war-torn Reach and the Stormlands were full of broken men who would follow any star that promised food. But the logistics of a sea crossing were a fantasy.
"That is the labor ahead of me," Hugo replied, standing up and taking his cup. "It is the Long March I must endure. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a habit of speaking with my men after a victory."
Hugo signaled his guards and walked toward the lower tables, where he was greeted by a roar of approval from the rank-and-file.
Tygett watched him go, then drained his cup in one go. Gerion sat staring into the fire, his eyes darting back and forth as if calculating a hidden sum.
"You think his 'Great Pie in the Sky' sounds tasty?" Tygett muttered, noticing his brother's distraction. "Forget it, little brother. It's madness. Drink less."
"I don't think it is," Gerion said. He picked up his cup but didn't drink. He watched the wine swirl, the ripples fading into the dark liquid. "I think it's an opportunity, Tygett. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life as 'Tywin's brother'? Like Kevan, standing forever in a shadow so tall you never see the sun?"
"Careful," Tygett hissed, his face twitching with repressed rage. The comparison hit a nerve that had been raw for decades.
There were four Lannister brothers: Tywin, Kevan, Tygett, and Gerion. Tywin was the sun that blinded them all. Kevan had accepted his role as the moon, reflecting Tywin's light. Tygett and Gerion were the ones who chafed, their spirits slowly being eaten away by a combination of resentment and lack of purpose.
"I don't care what you think," Gerion said, his voice suddenly airy and light. "I'm joining him. I'd rather die on a fool's errand in the East than wither away in the Rock, pretending I don't need Tywin's permission to breathe. I was already planning to sail to the ruins of Valyria to find our family's lost sword, Brightroar. Why not take the scenic route?"
"Valyria? You're insane!" Tygett nearly jumped out of his seat, his anger replaced by genuine shock. He knew Gerion was impulsive, but he hadn't realized he was suicidal.
"Exactly," Gerion grinned, looking entirely pleased with himself. "Which is why this Eastern Expedition sounds like a summer stroll by comparison. It's safer than the Smoking Sea, isn't it?"
Tygett slumped back into his chair, looking suddenly very tired. "I can't stop you, can I? Fine. What's your plan? You'll just join him and wait for the Iron Throne to hang us both?"
"I don't think the Throne will hang us," Gerion said thoughtfully. "Hugo's plan is exactly what King Robert and Lord Arryn need right now. The realm is a bleeding sore. It's full of starving mouths and angry veterans. If Hugo can lead those 'troublemakers' away to die in a foreign land, the Iron Throne will be delighted. He's doing their dirty work for them."
Gerion leaned back, a genuine smile playing on his lips. "And that Hugo... I have a feeling about him. He might actually do it. And if he doesn't? Well, I was headed for the ruins anyway."
Tygett said nothing. He simply poured another cup of wine and began to drink in sullen silence. He knew Gerion wouldn't be swayed. He would have to deal with his drunken brother's delusions in the morning. Seven Hells, he thought, losing the battle was bad enough. Now I have to lose my brother to a peasant king.