The Lannister brothers looked at Hugo with a new, unsettling clarity.
In their imaginings, the "God-Chosen" bandit should have been a brute—a jagged man with a scarred face and the vocabulary of a stable boy. They had prepared themselves for the standard humiliations: the cage, the spit, the mockery of high-born blood. They had seen the Kingswood Brotherhood do as much a decade ago, and they knew how that story ended—in fire and executions.
But Hugo was different. He was poised, educated, and held his ragtag army with a discipline that rivaled the City Watch. He bore a name from the Vale, an ancient lineage that carried the weight of history. He wasn't just a leader of men; he was a commander of souls.
"There is no future in being a mountain king," Hugo said, swirling his wine. "Even the greatest heroes of the woods—Simon Toyne or the Smiling Knight—ended as heads on spikes. The common people are a shield, yes, but when the Iron Throne offers them bread and peace, that shield turns into a wall."
"Then why do it?" Tygett asked, his voice rasping. "The war is over. Robert Baratheon sits the throne. Peace is coming. Why not melt back into the shadows and live out your days in some quiet village?"
Hugo smiled. The wine was warm in his veins, and for the first time, he felt the urge to share the weight of his horizon.
"Because the peace won't last for the smallfolk," Hugo said. "Every winter, the old men walk into the snow to die so their children can eat. Every war, the fields are burned, and the infants are smothered because there is no milk. The Andals didn't come to Westeros because they loved the sea; they came to escape the Dragonlords of Valyria. They fought the First Men for every inch of soil because they had no choice."
"Valyria is a tomb now," Hugo continued, his eyes bright. "Its 'daughters,' the Free Cities, spend their days in petty squabbles. The birthplace of the Seven, the hills where the first knights were anointed, sits waiting. Why struggle for scraps in the Riverlands when a continent lies across the water?"
The silence that followed was heavy. The Lannisters had expected Hugo to ask for a lordship, or perhaps a bag of gold and a ship to the Free Cities. They had not expected a crusade.
"It's absurd," Tygett finally snapped, though his face was flushed with more than just wine. "You want to raise an army of peasants and march them to the coast? How will you cross the sea? The fleets of Braavos and Pentos will sink you before you see the shore. You'll be besieged by every lord from here to Gulltown."
"That is the Long March," Hugo conceded. "A problem for tomorrow. But for today... I have the Lions."
Hugo stood up, raising his cup to his men. He moved into the crowd, toasted his veterans, and left the brothers to their thoughts.
"Do you see it, Tygett?" Gerion whispered, his eyes darting after Hugo. "The look in his eyes?"
"I see a man who is going to get us all killed," Tygett spat. "Don't tell me you're listening to this madness. We are Lannisters of Casterly Rock. We don't join bandit crusades."
"Are we?" Gerion asked, a bitter edge to his voice. "Or are we just Tywin's shadows? Look at Kevan. He's spent his whole life standing exactly where Tywin tells him to stand. I was going to sail for Valyria, Tygett. I was going to find Brightroar just so I could have something that was mine, and not my brother's."
"Valyria is certain death, Gerion!"
"And this Eastern Expedition? It's a chance," Gerion said, his hand tightening around his glass. "If Hugo can convince the Iron Throne that he's taking the 'problem' people away—the deserters, the hungry, the rebels—Robert might just let him go. It solves the King's problems and gives us... a kingdom."
Tygett groaned, rubbing his temples. "You're drunk. We're both drunk. We'll speak of this when the sun is up and the 'God-Chosen' is back to being a highwayman."
"I'm sober enough to know a door when I see one," Gerion said, watching the ripples in his wine. "And I think I'm going to walk through this one."