Shortly after Tygett fell, Karnathir moved like a dark gale toward the fallen Lannister. The "Black Blade" danced through the fray, his ebony steel flickering in patterns that left the elite Lannister outriders tumbling from their saddles.
These were the finest guards the West could buy, yet they seemed clumsy and slow against Karnathir. Behind him, the Bargemen fought with a feral, shipboard brutality. They "slid" through the mud, diving beneath the bellies of the destriers to disembowel the horses or dragging knights down by their stirrups.
Karnathir's experience was evident in every stroke. He struck with surgical precision, his blade finding the gaps in gorgets and armpits as if the heavy plate armor were made of parchment.
Hugo lunged to the spot where Tygett lay unconscious. His armored veterans swarmed in behind him, forming a wall of steel that drove back the desperate Lannister scouts attempting to recover their commander.
As he looked down at the captive Lion, the knot of tension that had gripped Hugo's chest for days finally loosened. With both Lannister commanders in his hands, the day was won.
"Shout it out!" Hugo commanded. "Tell them the Lions are taken!"
The cry went up, rippling across the muddy field. In the chaos of a medieval battle, truth is verified by sight. When the Westerlands' soldiers looked to where their golden banners should be and saw only the swirling grey of Hugo's men, the last of their discipline evaporated.
The cavalry still in the saddle wheeled their horses and fled, many shedding pieces of their heavy armor to lighten the load for their exhausted mounts. Their retreat was a pathetic sight, far removed from the gallant songs of the singers.
Knights and men-at-arms fled under the jeers of peasants. Many didn't even try to run; they simply sat in the mud and offered their swords, trusting in their family names to buy their way home. Those who did try to run in full plate were quickly overtaken by nimble farmers who clubbed them into submission.
"We did it! Boss Hugo! We won!"
"Farmer Long" Snow stumbled toward Hugo, his voice shaking with a mixture of exhaustion and disbelief. He was drenched in blood—most of it not his own.
"Steady, Snow," Hugo said, maintaining a mask of calm leadership despite the adrenaline surging through his veins. "Keep your head."
"My congratulations, Lord Hugo," the High Sparrow said, approaching through the cheering crowd. Behind him, two devotees dragged a knight in ornate, blood-spattered plate. They had removed his helmet, revealing the handsome, mud-streaked face and signature golden hair of a Lannister.
"I believe this is Gerion Lannister," the High Sparrow noted. "My informants say he led the horse." Hugo gave the prisoner a brief nod before ordering him taken to a secure tent. Such a captive was more valuable than a mountain of silver.
"And that one must be Tygett Lannister," Hugo added, glancing at where Karnathir was binding his prize. "Two Lions in one cage. A powerful set of chess pieces."
Hugo knew the danger this brought. Capturing members of the Great House Lannister would surely draw the full, icy wrath of Tywin. But for now, he watched his men swarm the Lannister baggage train. The Westerlands traveled in luxury; the grain, salted meats, and refined supplies found there would sustain his "Grey Company" for months.
As night fell over the Gods Eye, the camp was transformed by the glow of massive bonfires.
The victors were joined by people who seemed to materialize from the shadows of the war: young men and women from nearby hamlets, wandering peddlers, and camp followers. They were like sharks sensing blood in the water, appearing the moment the killing stopped to see who held the coin.
Hugo allowed it. A victory feast was a vital necessity.
Before joining the revelry, however, Hugo visited the medical tents. He had a duty to perform.
He knelt beside a dying man—a bargeman from the Trident who had followed Hugo since his boat was burned at the start of the war. A spear had opened his belly, and though his comrades had tried to tuck his intestines back in and bind the wound, they all knew he was waiting for the Stranger.
"Lord Hugo... you came," the man wheezed. The bandages were already black with gore. "We won, didn't we? I'm glad... I'm glad I saw you once more before the Seven judge me. I was nothing until I followed you."
"I know, Gaen," Hugo said softly, calling the man by name.
"One thing," Gaen whispered. "Give me mercy. The Seven's mercy."
"Drink first." Hugo uncorked a skin and held it to the man's parched lips. "Arbor gold. Taste it."
The dying man's eyes widened as the sweet, expensive wine hit his tongue. For a fleeting second, the pleasure eclipsed the agony. In that precise moment of bliss, Hugo drove his dagger into the man's heart. He did it with a practiced, gentle hand.
Hugo sat in silence for a moment, looking at the dead man. He had granted "the gift" many times before. He sighed, looked up at the stars, and wondered if the Seven were truly watching this mud-caked tragedy.
The main feast was held under a sprawling Lannister pavilion. Great iron pots simmered with a thick stew of beef, carrots, and potatoes—luxuries liberated from the Lions. Massive wheels of cheese were sliced, and endless loaves of black bread were passed around. Barrels of ale, found in abundance in the baggage train, were tapped and drained.
The Lannister wealth had truly made the "beggars" rich for a night.
Hugo sat at the high table with his inner circle. He ate the same stew as his men, though he allowed himself a cup of the fine Arbor wine Gerion had brought from the West.
The High Sparrow ate a handful of grain and left early to oversee the burials. Snow ate quickly and vanished into the darkness with a camp follower to work off the lingering tension of the fight. Karnathir remained, eating in a silence that suggested a refined upbringing.
Beside Hugo sat his guests: Gerion and Tygett Lannister.
They had accepted their fate with surprising speed. Gerion, upon waking, had immediately demanded the courtesies due a noble prisoner. Tygett had remained silent longer but eventually followed suit. Hugo treated them well; he knew that in Westeros, the ransom of a lord was a business transaction, and he had no personal grudge against them.
Gerion was currently drinking heavily, his face flushed. He seemed remarkably unbothered that his own wine was being served to him by his captor. Tygett, however, looked as though he were chewing on broken glass.
"My congratulations, Lord Hugo," Gerion toasted, his voice slurring slightly. He looked at Hugo with genuine curiosity. "You took a pile of trash and used it to beat two thousand regulars. I'd give a year's income to see the look on Tywin's face when he hears."
Tygett shot his brother a venomous glare but then turned his intense gaze on Hugo.
"It was the grace of the Seven," Hugo said modestly.
"And a very clever trench," Gerion added with a wry grin.
"Tell me, Lord Hugo," Tygett interrupted, his voice cold and sober. "What is your end? Do you truly intend to be a king of the mud for the rest of your life? A brigand with a fancy title?"
Hugo looked at the Lannister and smiled. The question was exactly the one he had been waiting for.