The King's Road, a Great Vein intended to bind the realm together, was a fickle thing. In some stretches, it was a marvel of engineering; in others, the rot of neglect had reclaimed it, dissolving the path into a treacherous slurry of grey silt and sucking clay.
This particular stretch of mud was exactly where Hugo had chosen to make his stand.
Having used the Old Sparrow's fervor to weed the cowards and the dissenters from his ranks, Hugo moved his host to the pre-selected killing ground. The earth here dipped into a shallow, concave bowl, bisected by the road and flanked by the stubborn, tangled thickets typical of the Riverlands.
They did not hide. They encamped directly upon the King's Road, laboring for two days to reshape the earth. When the banners of the Lion finally crested the horizon, the trap was set.
"Good. Very good," Hugo murmured.
He reached down, scooping a handful of the heavy muck. It clung to his fingers, thick and cold. He let it slide through his grip with a dark satisfaction.
Hugo stood clad in a suit of plate armor that had seen better days. The steel was a map of his history, crisscrossed with jagged scars and shallow dents that spoke of blades held at bay.
He wore an open-faced helm. It was a gamble—a stray bolt to the face would end him instantly—but the need to see the shifting tides of the field outweighed the safety of a visor.
A squire led a warhorse toward him, but Hugo dismissed the animal with a sharp wave of his hand. He preferred the feel of the earth beneath his boots. He waded through the soft mire, stepping to the vanguard where his men waited.
A light drizzle had recently tapered off, leaving the air heavy and damp. Each breath felt thick with the scent of wet pine and turned earth, a crispness that cut through the fog of his pre-battle nerves and sharpened his focus.
The contrast between the two forces was jarring. Across the field, the Lannisters caught the light in polished steel and crimson silk. Hugo's men were a wretched sight by comparison—shivering figures wrapped in boiled leather and rough furs, clutching rusted axes, farm sickles, and boar spears. His few armored veterans were spread thin, serving as anchors for the mass of peasants.
"Everything is in its place, Boss Hugo," a deep voice rumbled.
It was Long Snow. The farmer looked unnatural in his war-gear—a kettle helm perched atop his head and a hauberk of oiled chainmail protecting his barrel chest. He flexed his hands, the metal links of his gloves rasping.
"You've done well, Snow," Hugo said, turning to his confidant. He watched the man's eyes, looking for the flicker of a break. "The dance is about to start. Tell me truly—how is the spirit of the men? Are they shaking?"
Snow didn't blink. "What is there to fear? My life was forfeit the day Count Gubberk fell. If you hadn't pulled us out, the Tully men would have burned our granaries and left us for the crows. There isn't a man here who doesn't owe you a winter's life. They'll bleed for you."
"Save the platitudes for the priests, Snow," Hugo grunted. "You know I have no stomach for flattery."
Behind them, the Old Sparrow was weaving through the ranks. He clutched a copy of the Seven-Pointed Star, his voice rising in a rhythmic chant. Hugo watched the farmers drop to their knees in the mud, their lips moving in silent, desperate prayer as they sought the Father's strength or the Warrior's courage.
Hugo knew the truth of it. Some, like Snow, were bound by a debt of blood. But the rest? They followed the 'God-Chosen.' That whispered title offered them something more intoxicating than loyalty: the hope of survival, the dream of a looted gold dragon, and the chance to be more than a footstool for lords.
The War of the Usurper had frozen the world. Even with the snows melting and the dragons dead, the Riverlands remained a graveyard for the living. To these men, a gamble on the King's Road was better than a slow death in a hollowed-out village.
But Hugo wasn't a fool. Faith and desperation could start a fight, but they rarely finished one. If the line broke, these men would run until their lungs burst. His plan was the only thing holding the blades in their hands.
"I know what you're thinking," Snow said, his voice softening. "But look at what we've built here. The men see it. They believe."
"Then go to them," Hugo commanded. "Let them see your face. If they see you standing firm, they won't look for a way to run."
Snow nodded and marched back to his villagers, his voice booming with forced cheer as he slapped shoulders and checked spear-tips. Watching him, Hugo felt a knot of tension in his chest loosen. A good lieutenant was worth a hundred swords.
"Karnathir," Hugo called out, not turning around. "The reserves?"
A shadow seemed to detach itself from the nearby treeline. Karnathir stepped forward, silent as a grave. A jagged scar tore across his face, rendering his expression a permanent, terrifying mask.
He was a lean man, built like a whip, with a black-sheathed longsword—the 'Black Blade'—resting at his hip. No one asked where he came from; in the Riverlands, a man's past was usually something he wanted to stay buried.
He commanded the bargemen—river bandits in all but name. They were a feral lot, used to slitting throats in the dark of the Trident's tributaries. It took a man like Karnathir to keep their leashes tight.
"Ready to strike, Lord Hugo," Karnathir said. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion. He said no more, fading back into the periphery.
The Old Sparrow approached next, his sermon finished. His eyes, the color of stagnant river water, glowed with a disturbing fervor.
"The flock is ready, Lord Hugo. They are whetted stones, ready to strike for the Seven. Under the light of the Heavens, the day is ours."
The monk had traded his rags for a suit of rusted mail and iron boots. A surcoat emblazoned with the Seven-Pointed Star hung over his chest, and he gripped a heavy morningstar that looked well-used.
"The Lannister host," Hugo cut in, ignoring the religious posturing. "Any movement from the local lords? Has anyone slunk off to join the Lion?"
"No, my Lord. The Riverlands lords sit in their keeps and watch the wind blow."
The news brought a finality to Hugo's heart. He turned his gaze back to the crimson tide across the field. The Lannisters were a wall of sun-bright steel, making his own men look like a gathering of beggars.
Hugo took a long, slow breath, tasting the rain.
"Listen to me!" Hugo's roar echoed across the hollow. "When the bells of battle ring, you move as one! Any man who breaks rank dies by my hand before the enemy can reach him! Follow the plan, stay behind the works, and the Gods will see us through!"
The response was a ragged, guttural cheer. Some men reached out to touch his armor as he passed; others knelt, seeking a blessing from the 'God-Chosen.' Hugo played the part, placing hands on filthy helms, knowing every gesture bought another minute of their courage.
"What in the name of the Hells are they doing?"
Tyggett Lannister squinted through the visor of his helm. He watched the chaotic commotion of the bandit host on the road ahead, his brow furrowed in suspicion.
Beside him, the Lannister infantry were heaving, their faces flushed and slick with sweat. Gillian had pushed the pace, forcing the armored footmen into a punishing jog to keep up with the prideful cavalry. Their stamina was flagging before the first blow had even been struck.
The lack of discipline rankled Tyggett. But more than that, the bandits looked settled. They weren't a panicked mob; they were a waiting one.
"The rat-king is just squeaking to his brood, Tyggett," Gillian sneered.
The knight's armor was a masterpiece of crimson and gold filigree. He shifted in his saddle, his horse dancing with nervous energy.
"I'm going in. I've had enough of the whispers that the Lannisters only show up to clean the bones after the meat is gone. Today, we give them a rout they'll sing about in Lannisport!"
Without waiting for a response, Gillian spurred his charger. He raised his lance, a signal that sent the heavy Lannister horse into a thundering gallop.
The knights followed suit, their collective ego as polished as their breastplates. To them, the infantry were merely spectators. This was a gentleman's war, and the "vermin" on the road were nothing more than practice for their lances.
Tyggett watched the wall of steel accelerate, the rhythmic pounding of hooves shaking the very air. He sighed, a heavy, omen-filled sound, and signaled his exhausted infantry to follow.
"Keep the pace," Tyggett muttered. "Gods be good, let me be wrong."
On the other side of the field, Hugo watched the crimson wave crest. The ground began to vibrate, a low-frequency hum that traveled up through his boots. He felt the ripple of terror move through his front line; he saw men tightening their grip on hafts until their knuckles turned white.
"Steady," Hugo said, his voice a calm anchor in the rising storm. He raised his hand high. "Steady. The Gods are watching."
The Lannister cavalry hit the first patch of imperceptible mire. The horses' rhythm faltered, their hooves sinking into the hidden clay. Their speed dipped, the fluid charge turning into a labored, heavy-footed slog.
Gillian, at the head of the formation, felt the drag. A prickle of unease touched the back of his neck. Why haven't they loosed the arrows? He looked at the mud. It wasn't deep enough to swallow a horse, surely? He was a man of keen instincts, but those instincts were currently being drowned out by the roar of the wind and the certainty of his own bloodline.
What could a rabble of farmers do to a knight of the West?
As the gap closed to a mere stone's throw, Hugo's hand snapped down.
"ACTION!"
The bandit line didn't push forward. They turned as one, sprinting toward the left side of the King's Road.
As the front rank cleared, the true face of the road was revealed to Gillian. A jagged line of trenches, masked by thin mats and loose dirt, opened up like a hungry maw. At the bottom, a forest of fire-hardened wooden stakes pointed toward the sky.
"Seven Hells—STAY BACK!" Gillian screamed, hauling on his reins.
But the momentum of a heavy horse is a physical law that ignores the whims of men. The front rank vanished.
The screams of horses were louder than the men's. The chargers tumbled into the pits, their massive weights driving them onto the stakes. The following ranks slammed into the backs of the fallen, a pile-up of screaming animals and twisting metal.
The Lions had stopped.
"Now!" Hugo barked.
From behind the earthworks, the farmers rose. They didn't carry swords; they carried four-meter pikes and sharpened timber poles. They thrust downward into the tangle of the trench, the long reaches allowing them to stab at the knights who were struggling to find their footing.
The cavalry were trapped in a killing jar. The horses in the rear were pushing forward, while the front was a charnel house.
Lannister knights, the pride of the West, found themselves being beaten like stubborn mules. Three or four peasants would swarm a single rider, using the length of their poles to knock them from their saddles. Once on the ground, the weight of their own expensive armor became a coffin.
Crossbow bolts began to hiss through the air at point-blank range. They were crude, heavy-pulleed things, but at ten paces, they punched through plate as if it were parchment.
Then came the fanatics.
The Old Sparrow's men charged into the gaps, wielding heavy-headed axes and iron hooks. They didn't seek a fair fight. They used the hooks to snag the gaps in a knight's gorget or the edge of a pauldron, dragging them down into the blood-slicked mud.
Once down, the axes fell. In the chaotic, cramped horror of the King's Road, the tall warhorses were no longer symbols of status—they were targets that brought their masters crashing down to earth.