The arrival of the new contingent drew a massive crowd of onlookers. It was a sea of brown—a travel-stained column made even grimmer by days of forced marches through the night, their earth-toned rags now caked into something closer to black.
The watchers saw a few scattered spears and crude wooden shields, but the bulk of the newcomers carried axes, scythes, rusted hoes, and threshing flails. Yet, despite their meager gear, their morale was terrifyingly high. Many bore the symbol of the Seven-Pointed Star carved or painted onto their foreheads—the mark of the begging brothers, a sight that stirred memories of the legendary Warrior's Sons and the Faith Militant.
The camp watched their arrival with conflicted hearts. On one hand, this was a poorly armored rabble; if fervor alone could topple iron, the high lords would never have built such an immovable reign. On the other hand, a man is a man—two hands are better than one, whether for tilling, harvesting, or holding the line on a battlefield.
This reinforcement acted as a capstone, steadying the wavering spirits of the camp. Miraculously, several "brothers" who had vanished during the morning's panic suddenly found their way back into the fold, reappearing as if they had never left.
A few dozen grime-streaked hedge knights formed the core of this group, surrounding a man in a plain brown robe who walked barefoot through the mud. Hugo, stepping out of his tent, locked eyes with him immediately.
The man's beard was a mixture of brown and grey, neatly trimmed, and his thinning hair was pulled back into a tight knot. His robe, though clean, was a map of threadbare spots and heavy patches.
This was the man who gave Hugo a constant headache: the Septon.
Hugo did not know the man's true name. The priest had discarded it, choosing to serve the people of the Seven Kingdoms with the humility of a low-born brother, his bare soles having tread upon every corner of the realm lit by the Seven-Who-Are-One.
When it came to the gods and demons of this world, Hugo's policy was one of distant respect—even regarding the Faith of the Seven, which seemed to lack the overt displays of power seen in other religions. Because of his own experiences, he could not be certain if the gods these people worshipped held true power or were merely echoes in the dark.
"I have brought all the Sparrows, as well as brothers from several local chapters who have decided to join the cause of the Seven, Lord Hugo."
The Septon was exceedingly humble, bowing to Hugo with the profound reverence a devout pilgrim might show the High Septon in King's Landing. The brown-clad brothers followed suit. Hugo knew, however, that this devotion was directed solely at him; this priest held the fat, corrupt High Septon of the capital in utter contempt.
Hugo felt a wave of internal discomfort. He disliked this level of total, self-sacrificing adoration. It felt unnatural, yet he kept his face a mask of calm, maintaining the image he had carefully built.
Then, a word from the Septon's report caught his attention, triggering a flicker of long-buried memory.
"Sparrows? Those brothers in brown?" Hugo hesitated, the gears of his past life turning slowly until he realized the weight of the name.
"The sparrow is the humblest and most common of birds," the Septon explained gently. "Therefore, the faithful who fight for their belief and for the God-Chosen call themselves as much."
Hugo was stunned. In his hazy memory of the books, the Sparrows didn't become a political force until much later. But that wasn't the point. The point was that this confirmation, combined with years of suspicion, finally allowed him to identify the man before him.
The High Sparrow.
Hugo knew this man—the religious fanatic who would one day set King's Landing ablaze with zealotry, the leader of the most devout followers of the Seven. He had never imagined that the man who had been helping him for years was the very same person who would become the High Sparrow a decade later.
The shock of identifying the High Sparrow even eclipsed his annoyance at being called "God-Chosen."
"Let's talk inside, Septon."
Hugo watched as the High Sparrow gave instructions to a grey-robed brother. Under the coordination of "Farmer Long" Snow, the Sparrows began to pitch their camp. The Septon followed Hugo back into the command tent.
As they walked, Hugo forced himself to settle his nerves. He had to accept this man's identity; there were more pressing matters at hand. The High Sparrow noticed the subtle shift in Hugo's mood but said nothing.
"How many have you brought?" Hugo asked the moment he sat down. Reinforcements were the only currency that mattered now.
"Three hundred. All are steadfast believers, ready to die for the Faith and for the one the Seven have favored. I have also brought grain and supplies donated by the devout and local motherhouses. Though many could not join the fight, they were willing to offer their stores."
"Three hundred," Hugo calculated. It was fewer than he had hoped for, but it was a vital boost. It gave him enough bodies to actually execute a maneuver.
As for the supplies, they were worth their weight in gold—not just for the coming battle, but for what came after.
"In this camp, between my own men, our allies, and the farmers, we have nearly eight hundred men with your group included. In ordinary times, that's a host. But we are facing two thousand Lannister regulars. May the Seven truly watch over us."
The situation was grim, but Hugo hadn't given up. Though the enemy had the advantage in numbers and steel, he hoped to balance the scales using the terrain and the weather—but that required specific conditions and immense preparation.
"Lord God-Chosen, you must not be discouraged," the High Sparrow said, his deep-set, mud-colored eyes burning with conviction. "Under your guidance and the protection of the Seven, victory is inevitable."
"Old Septon, please," Hugo sighed, taking a drink of water. "Stop calling me God-Chosen. To my eyes, the farmer feeds himself with his own hands and defends himself with his own tools. Even the high lords must bleed for what they want. Take King Robert—if he hadn't led from the front and crushed the Dragon Prince's chest at the Trident with his own hammer, would the Lions have ever joined his side? Would he be sitting on the Iron Throne today?"
Hugo leaned forward, staring at the priest. "The people in this camp have survived by their own wits and strength. If they hadn't, they'd be crow-food or dead of hunger by now. If they lose their will, what use is a savior? They saved themselves. My role is secondary, and the protection of the Seven is further back than that. In this gods-forsaken world, the only thing you can rely on is yourself."
"But you were brought back by the will of the Seven," the Septon insisted. "I do not understand why you resist your own power. The Gods have placed the mark of the seven stars upon you. They have carried you through one slaughter after another."
Hugo didn't answer immediately. He knew the Septon spoke the truth—at least, the truth as the world saw it. He had a scar shaped like a seven-pointed star on his palm, a mark that had appeared the moment he "woke up."
Since then, whenever danger was close, the scar would throb with a sharp, warning pain. But in this world, anything involving the gods filled him with dread. He was, in truth, repulsed by it.
The gods in A Song of Ice and Fire were not kind. They were often malicious, or at best, indifferent. Those who played with supernatural forces usually ended up consumed by them.
Power from a god was always a transaction. And transactions required payment. If the Seven had given him this "gift," what would they eventually demand in return?
Hugo had lived with this fear for years. Though the scar had only helped him so far, and he had even built his grand strategy around the legend it created, he couldn't shake the unease. He used the "miracle" because he had to survive, but the mystery of it gnawed at him.
He looked at the High Sparrow, needing an answer to the question that haunted his sleep:
"Is it truly the Seven who are helping me?"
He had suppressed this question for so long, fearing to speak it aloud. But under the weight of a Lannister invasion, he needed a release valve for the pressure.
"The Seven-Pointed Star teaches us," the Septon began, his voice steady and hypnotic, "that no demon, wraith, or ghost can harm one who is truly devout. Faith is a coat of mail that allows a man to walk the world unscathed. I understand your fear. In the East, sorcerers use Blood Magic to feed their false idols. But I saw your resurrection with my own eyes. I know it was the grace of the Seven-Who-Are-One. You need not doubt."
Resurrection. Hugo hadn't seen it; he only remembered opening his eyes to find the Septon kneeling in the mud and his men trembling in terror.
"Perhaps," Hugo murmured, looking at the star-shaped scar on his palm. It had never steered him wrong.
He let out a breath, the tension in his chest easing slightly. If the power wasn't trying to eat him yet, he would use it. He didn't have the luxury of choice.
"Forgive me, Septon. I shouldn't have doubted."
Hugo reached out and helped the High Sparrow to his feet. Seeing the flicker of sadness in the priest's eyes at his earlier skepticism, Hugo felt a twinge of genuine guilt. He shouldn't have been so cold to a man who had been so loyal.
Since coming to this world, the High Sparrow had been his most vital asset. Despite Hugo's initial wariness of the priest's origins, the man's tireless, selfless service had won him over. The High Sparrow was the heart of the organization—working for Hugo's cause as if it were the will of heaven itself.
Without the Septon's work, Hugo would have no legend, no fame, and no army to stand against the Lions.
"Lord God-Chosen," the High Sparrow said, his voice returning to business now that the emotional air was cleared. "A faithful informant has given me the names of the two Lannister commanders leading the host against us."
"Who are they?"
"They are the brothers of Lord Tywin: Gerion and Tygett Lannister."
Gerion and Tygett. Hugo searched his memory. He knew Tywin—the Great Lion of the Rock—but his brothers were less prominent in the main story. Still, they were Lannisters of the blood. They would be leading the core of the Westerlands' strength.
Hugo's heart sank, but he quickly wiped the expression from his face. He had expected the worst; there was no use crying over it now.
"High Sparrow—I think I'll just call you that from now on," Hugo said. "Let's get the men moving. We're heading to the ground I've chosen. There, we'll meet the Lions' hooves. Many will die. Our cause might even fail."
In front of this man, Hugo could be honest. The Septon had proven his loyalty was absolute.
"Under the will of the Seven, victory is ours," the Septon declared. "Do not doubt the dawn."
Hugo sighed, though his spirit felt lighter than it had in days. "Then go. Prepare them. And keep an eye on the waverers tonight. I have a list of names..."