Hugo did not march his army away from the scene of the slaughter. Instead, he shifted the camp to the edge of the Gods Eye, where the vast, silver waters could sustain the growing multitude. His prestige was such that none dared question the decision to stay within reach of the King's Justice.
Then, the Sparrows vanished into the wind.
Under the direction of the High Sparrow, they fanned out across the Riverlands, carrying Hugo's vision to every thatch-roofed village and secluded septry. In Westeros, the quickest way to move a secret was a raven, but the quickest way to move a soul was the interconnected web of the Faith. Every itinerant septon and cloistered monk became a herald for the "God-Chosen."
The news of the Lannister defeat hit the Riverlands like a hammer on an anvil. As the story traveled, it mutated. Hugo was no longer just a knight; he was a giant who had crushed ten thousand lions, a sorcerer who could summon bread from stones, the Father-Incarnate who could raise the dead at a whim.
"Am I a man or a mummer's trick?" Hugo asked, his face pale with exhaustion as he watched another group of pilgrims arrive. "The rumors claim I can revive the fallen indefinitely. It's preposterous."
"People need the ridiculous to survive the mundane, Lord Hugo," the High Sparrow replied with a serene smile. "If they believe you are the Seven-Who-Are-One, it only makes them walk faster toward the sea."
Hugo watched the camp. In two weeks, his force had bloated from eight hundred disciplined fighters to a sprawling mass of five thousand souls. Only half were men fit for a pike; the rest were women, children, and the elderly, all clutching their meager belongings and looking to Hugo as their last hope before the next winter. The strict rows of tents were gone, replaced by a labyrinth of shacks and cooking fires.
The camp was held together by faith and the tireless work of the clergy. The various monastic orders—some wealthy, some ascetic, all prone to bickering over scripture—were kept in line by the High Sparrow's fearsome debating skills.
Hugo spent his days as a reluctant saint. He walked the muddy paths, waving to the cheering crowds, and even stopping to touch the sick who claimed his hands could heal them. Whether it was the "miracle" of his scar or the sheer power of their desperation, many left his presence claiming they were cured.
But the real threat was approaching on the King's Road.
When news of the brothers' capture reached the capital, Tywin Lannister's fury had been legendary. The Lord of Casterly Rock had prepared to mobilize his full strength to hang Hugo from the walls of King's Landing. But a different force had intervened.
King Robert Baratheon and the Hand, Lord Jon Arryn, were coming in person. With them were two thousand heavy cavalry from the Vale and the Stormlands—a force that could turn Hugo's camp into a mass grave in a single afternoon.
"Take these to the King," Hugo said, standing before Tygett and Gerion Lannister at the temporary stables.
He handed them a sealed letter. It was a masterpiece of "beggar's diplomacy," emphasizing his loyalty to the crown and his desire to take the "problem" of the hungry smallfolk across the Narrow Sea. He was offering Robert a peaceful solution to a demographic nightmare.
"I will see it delivered," Tygett said, his face grim but respectful. He had come to value Hugo's word.
"And I'll make sure he's in a good mood when he reads it," Gerion added, checking his saddle cinch with a wink. "I might even suggest he joins us. He always did prefer a good hunt to a boring throne."
Hugo watched them gallop away, the gold of their hair catching the morning sun. He had gambled everything on the temperament of the new King and the wisdom of Jon Arryn. If they chose to talk, Hugo might just get his ships. If they chose to charge, his second life would end here, by the waters of the Gods Eye.
As the Lannisters vanished over the ridge, Tygett looked at his brother. "You're truly going back, aren't you? You're going to ask Robert to let you join this crusade."
"I am," Gerion said, his eyes fixed on the horizon. "I've spent my life looking for something that wasn't Tywin's gold or Tywin's pride. I think I found it in that camp, Tygett. I'm going to Andalos."
"Seven help us," Tygett muttered, though he didn't pull his reins away.