The arriving contingent drew a crowd. They were a sea of brown—drab cloaks turned nearly black by the grime of a thousand miles. As they filed into the camp under the stars, the air seemed to thicken with their arrival.
The onlookers saw a few notched spears and dented shields, but the majority carried the tools of the field: heavy wood-splitting axes, curved sickles, rusty hoes, and threshing flails. Yet, despite their crude armaments, their morale was disturbingly high. Some bore the brand of a seven-pointed star seared into their foreheads—the mark of the ascetic. To the older men in camp, they looked less like refugees and more like the ghost of the Faith Militant from the stories of old.
The camp watched them with a mix of hope and trepidation. On one hand, spirit was a poor substitute for plate armor; if fervor could stop a lance, the lords of Westeros would have been toppled centuries ago. On the other hand, a sword is a sword, and eight hundred arms were better than four hundred when the Lions came knocking.
At the center of the group, surrounded by a handful of disheveled mercenary knights, walked a barefoot monk in a threadbare brown robe. Hugo stepped from his tent and spotted the man instantly. His beard was a salt-and-pepper sprawl, neatly trimmed despite his travels, and his thinning hair was pulled back into a tight, practical knot.
This was the man who gave Hugo his most persistent headaches.
The monk had long ago forsaken his name, claiming to be a humble servant of the Seven. His calloused feet had touched every corner of the realm. Hugo, for his part, maintained a respectful distance from the gods of this world. In the original history he remembered, the Faith of the Seven had never displayed the overt, terrifying power of the Red God or the Old Gods of the North.
But Hugo wasn't just a reader anymore. He was a man who had felt his heart stop and then start again.
"I have brought the brothers," the monk said, bowing low before Hugo with the reverence a Septon might show the High Septon in King's Landing. "And a brother from the order has pledged himself to the cause of the Faith, Lord Hugo."
Hugo felt a wave of skin-crawling discomfort. He hated the monk's absolute devotion—it felt unnatural, like a trap he hadn't seen yet. But he kept his face a mask of calm.
"Brothers?" Hugo asked, his mind snagging on a specific word. "Is that what you call them?"
"We call ourselves the Sparrows," the monk replied. "The sparrow is the most humble and common of birds. So too are the devout who fight for the Faith and for the God-Chosen."
Hugo froze. The word hit him like a physical blow. In his fractured memories of the future, the Sparrows didn't rise until the capital was in ruins. But more importantly, the name confirmed a long-held suspicion.
This was him. The High Sparrow. The man who would one day bring the Iron Throne to its knees.
The shock of confirming the monk's identity momentarily drowned out Hugo's irritation at being called "God-Chosen."
"Inside. Now," Hugo commanded.
He watched as the monk gave orders to a gray-clad subordinate. Under Long Snow's coordination, the newcomers began to integrate into the camp. Hugo turned and led the monk back into the gray tent. He needed to steady his breathing; the future was shifting, and the man walking behind him was the eye of the storm.
"How many?" Hugo asked once they were shielded by the heavy canvas.
"Three hundred. Steadfast souls ready to die for their faith—and for you. I have also brought wagons of grain and salt, donated by those who believe but cannot fight."
"Three hundred," Hugo calculated. It wasn't the thousand he had hoped for, but it brought his total strength to nearly eight hundred. It was enough to be a nuisance; perhaps enough to be a threat, if used correctly. "With my men and the farmers, we have nearly eight hundred. Under normal circumstances, we'd be a force to be reckoned with. But we face two thousand Lannister elites. May the Mother have mercy on us."
"Do not be disheartened, Lord God-Chosen," the monk said, his earthy eyes burning with a terrifying certainty. "Under your hand and the protection of the Seven, victory is an inevitability."
"Monk, enough with the titles," Hugo snapped, taking a sharp pull from a waterskin. "The farmers feed themselves with their own toil. King Robert didn't win his crown by praying; he won it by smashing the Dragon Prince's chest in at the Trident. In this world, the only thing you can rely on is the steel in your hand and the man standing next to you. My 'resurrection' is secondary. The Seven? They're even further down the list."
"And yet, you were raised by Their will," the monk countered softly. "I do not understand why you reject the power granted to you. The Seven Stars converged upon you. You have walked through the fire and emerged whole."
Hugo went silent. He looked down at his hand. On his palm sat a pale, jagged scar in the shape of a seven-pointed star. It had appeared the moment he "woke up" on that bloody field. Since then, it would thrum with a dull, warning ache whenever danger was near.
But he knew this world. The gods of Westeros and Essos were not benevolent. They were hungry. Magic was a transaction, and the currency was usually blood.
"Is it truly the Seven?" Hugo finally asked, his voice barely a whisper. It was the question that haunted his nights. "Or is it something else? Something darker?"
"The Seven-Pointed Star teaches us that no demon or ghost can harm the faithful," the monk said firmly. "In the East, they use blood magic to feed false gods. But I saw you rise. I saw the light. It was the Great Shepherd, the Smith, the Warrior. You have no need to fear."
Perhaps, Hugo thought. He looked at the scar. It had saved his life a dozen times and asked for nothing in return. Yet.
"Forgive me, Monk," Hugo said, reaching out to help the man up. He felt a twinge of guilt. The man had been his most loyal shadow for years. Without this monk's tireless proselytizing, Hugo would be just another dead bandit in a ditch. "I shouldn't have doubted. My mind is... taxed."
The monk's eyes softened, though the fire remained. "Your burden is heavy, Lord. It is only natural to stumble."
"The Lannisters aren't going to let us stumble; they're going to try to cut our legs off," Hugo said, transitioning back to the pragmatism that kept him alive. "Who is leading them? Do we have names?"
"A devout traveler spoke to me. The army is led by Tywin's own brothers. Tygett and Gerion Lannister."
Hugo's stomach turned. He knew the names. Tygett was a man of cold, frustrated rage, and Gerion was the "laughing lion," but both were true Lannisters. They wouldn't be leading a rabble; they would have heavy horse, crossbowmen, and disciplined men-at-arms.
"Tygett and Gerion," Hugo repeated. "Fine. Then we move. We head for the ground I've chosen. We'll meet their steel there. Many will die. We may lose everything."
"Under the will of the Seven, we shall prevail," the monk replied, unfazed.
"Go and prepare the men," Hugo said. He paused, his voice dropping an octave. "And Monk... some of the leaders are wavering. I saw it in their eyes during the meeting. I've noted the names."
Old Sparrow didn't need further explanation. The humble, barefoot monk vanished, replaced by a man with a gaze as sharp and cold as a winter morning.
"I understand," the monk said. "The weeds will be cleared before the harvest."