In the wake of his victory, Hugo did not lead his army away. Instead, he shifted the camp to the very edge of the Gods Eye, securing a steady supply of fresh water. Though some of his captains voiced concerns about staying stationary, Hugo's prestige was at its zenith; his word was law, and the grumbles were quickly drowned out by the fervor of the men.
The High Sparrow and his brothers vanished from the camp shortly thereafter. They fanned out across the Riverlands, carrying the news of the victory and Hugo's grand design through the Faith's ancient, invisible channels.
Hugo knew that in Westeros, there were only three ways to move a mountain: the wings of a raven, the songs of a bard, or the sprawling network of the Faith of the Seven. For thousands of years, the Motherhouses and wandering septons had formed a web that reached into every corner of the realm—a terrifyingly efficient machine for spreading a message.
The result was a landslide. The news that a common knight had broken the Lions of the Rock hit the Riverlands like a falling star.
With the local orders and wandering preachers throwing their weight behind him, Hugo's image underwent a radical transformation. He was no longer just a hedge knight who protected the weak; he was the standard-bearer for the faithful, the man who would lead the followers of the Seven-Who-Are-One back to the holy ground of their origin. In the mouths of the people, he was becoming the Avatar of the Seven's Will.
Hugo had intended to use the Faith to gather a workforce, but he hadn't anticipated how quickly the rumors would spiral out of control.
"Apparently, I am now a titan who slew a hundred thousand Lannisters single-handedly," Hugo muttered to the High Sparrow during a rare quiet moment, his face a mask of weary disbelief. "I've heard I can raise the dead at will and conjure infinite grain from thin air. It's getting ridiculous."
He shuddered, remembering an old farmer who had nearly bruised his forehead on the ground while begging for a miracle, and the awkwardness of having to explain that he was, in fact, just a man.
The High Sparrow offered a polite, knowing smile. "The common folk always drape the God-Chosen in the colors of their own desperation, Lord Hugo. You need only speak clearly to them."
"I'm afraid they just think I'm being humble," Hugo sighed. "Well, if it keeps their eyes on the East, I suppose I'll have to endure it."
He didn't have much time to complain. For the next several hours, he was besieged by a parade of village elders and peasant leaders seeking his blessing. When the last of them finally departed, Hugo stood up and looked out over his camp.
The discipline of the original company had been swallowed by a sea of chaos.
Vast swathes of makeshift hovels and lean-tos stretched along the lakeshore. Smoke from a thousand small fires hung in the air, and the sound of children playing competed with the low lowing of stolen cattle. Hugo didn't have an exact count, but he estimated his numbers had ballooned to five thousand souls in less than a fortnight.
However, only half of those were "fighting men" in even the loosest sense. Of those, barely a hundred were actual sellswords or hedge knights with real steel and experience. Most were simply hungry people who saw Hugo as their last hope before the next lean winter.
Managing this throng was an impossible task. If not for the influx of dozens of lower-ranking priests and monks who had joined the cause, Hugo wouldn't have even been able to organize a march to the next river crossing. He was now ruling through the Faith, a realization that left him deeply unsettled.
"Come," Hugo said to his retinue. "Let's go see our Lannisters one last time."
He walked through the camp followed by a group of grey and brown-robed men—leaders of various religious orders who had flocked to his banner. They were a prickly lot, constantly debating theology or bickering over past property disputes. Only the High Sparrow's formidable presence kept them from each other's throats.
As Hugo trod upon the wooden planks laid over the mud, women paused their cooking to bow, and children stopped their games to stare in awe. Some people knelt as he passed. Hugo accepted it with a stoic nod and a wave, knowing that his "Saint" persona was currently his most powerful weapon.
A group of the sick and infirm crowded forward, hoping for a "Healing Touch." Rumors had spread that Hugo's hands could banish fevers—a claim Hugo suspected was more about the placebo effect of hope than any divine spark, but he touched them nonetheless.
He eventually reached a temporary stable where the Lannisters and a dozen of their knights were preparing to depart. Hugo had released the common soldiers days ago, but he had kept the high-born captives until the diplomatic moment was right.
That moment was now.
"Rest assured, Lord Hugo," Tygett Lannister said, his voice solemn. "I shall deliver your words to the King and the Hand personally." During their weeks together, Hugo had come to respect Tygett's grim sense of duty. He was a man who kept his word.
"And don't you worry, Hugo," Gerion Lannister chimed in, flashing a reckless grin. "I'll make sure to put in a good word for you. I've always liked a man who can throw a sword."
The other knights remained cold, eager to leave the "King of the Beggars" behind, but they offered no insults. Hugo had treated them with a dignity they hadn't expected.
"Safe travels," Hugo said. "May the Seven watch over your path."
He watched the gold-and-crimson riders gallop away into the distance. He needed them to reach the capital. He needed them to speak before the hammers fell.
The Iron Throne was already in motion. When news of the Lannister defeat and the capture of the King's kin reached the Red Keep, the fury had been absolute. Tywin Lannister had initially demanded to lead a genocidal purge of the Riverlands, a prospect that had kept Hugo awake for several nights.
But then, the wind changed. Tywin remained at the Rock, and a far more formidable force began to march.
Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn were coming. The King and his Hand, leading two thousand heavy horse from the Vale and the Stormlands. If they caught Hugo's "Beggar Army" in the open, it would be a massacre.
Yet, Hugo felt a strange sense of relief. Robert was a man of passion, easily swayed by a grand story and a good drink. Jon Arryn was a man of honor who had known Hugo's father. There was room to talk.
He had spent the last two weeks framing his movement not as a rebellion, but as a "Self-Exile." He was the "Beggar King" who only wanted to lead his people away from Westeros to die in a holy war in the East. He was a solution to Robert's problem of hungry mouths and restless veterans.
Unbeknownst to Hugo, the argument had already started among the departing Lannisters.
"Are you truly drunk again, Gerion?" Tygett snapped as they rode. "I thought your talk of joining him was the wine speaking. But now? You're actually serious?"
"I've never been more sober, Tygett," Gerion replied, his eyes fixed on the horizon. "What I saw in that camp... it's the first time I've felt something other than boredom in a decade. If you want to spend your life as a footstool for Tywin and Kevan, be my guest. I'm done with it."
Tygett looked at his brother with a mixture of pity and frustration. "You're throwing away your life for a dream of mud and salt."
"Better that than a dream of gold and shadows," Gerion laughed. "Hugo has the people. He just needs the King's seal. I'm going to help him get it."
Tygett sighed, the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders. "Seven Hells, Gerion. Why do you always have to be the difficult one?"