The morning after the victory was a graveyard of ambition. The camp by the Gods Eye was littered with the remnants of the feast: overturned barrels, cold grease, and the tangled limbs of warriors sleeping off a night of Arbor wine and cheap thrills.
Hugo stepped out of his tent, the light of the rising sun stabbing at his eyes like a Lannister pike. He splashed cold lake water onto his face, the shock helping to dull the rhythmic throb in his temples. Despite the chaos of the night before, his sentries stood like iron statues at the camp's perimeter. It was a habit that had kept Hugo's head on his shoulders while other "Kings of the Woods" had ended up as crow-feed.
Near the center of the camp, the atmosphere was different. There, the air was filled not with the snores of drunks, but with the low, rhythmic chanting of the gray-robed monks. Led by the High Sparrow, they were deep in their morning prayers, their ascetic discipline untouched by the spoils of war.
"Lord Hugo," the High Sparrow said, rising from his knees as Hugo approached.
"Old Sparrow," Hugo replied, sitting on a weathered log. "The Seven favored us yesterday. But a victory is only as good as the plan that follows it."
"The victory has already borne fruit," the monk said, his eyes bright with a fervor that made Hugo's skin crawl. "The monastic orders of the Riverlands have been watching. Many stayed their hands, fearing the Iron Throne's reach. But a miracle cannot be ignored. The preachers in the villages are already spreading word of the 'God-Chosen' who broke the Lions. Soon, the desperate will come in waves."
Hugo nodded. He understood the power the Old Sparrow wielded. While the High Septon in King's Landing concerned himself with gold and politics, men like the Sparrow controlled the hearts of the smallfolk. The "grassroots" were the foundation of Hugo's power.
"We need more than just bodies," Hugo said, leaning forward. "We need a mission. Spread the word of Andalos. Tell them of a land flowing with milk and honey, the birthplace of the Seven where winter cannot reach. We aren't just bandits; we are pilgrims."
"Andalos," the Sparrow whispered, the name tasting like honey on his tongue. "The homecoming."
"Exactly. Distribute emblems—the seven-pointed star. We need a slogan that even a plowman can understand: 'Journey East, Save Souls.' We must clarify that this isn't a rebellion against King Robert. We are simply those the world has forgotten, looking for a way to survive."
Hugo had often wondered why Westeros, with its brutal winters and surplus of landless knights, had never turned its eyes back to Essos. The "conflict between people and land" was a ticking time bomb. By framing their exodus as a holy crusade to reclaim the Andal heartlands, he wasn't just solving his own problem—he was offering the Iron Throne a way to bleed off its most dangerous elements.
"The nobles will see us as a threat," the Sparrow warned. "A rebirth of the Faith Militant."
"They will," Hugo admitted. "Which is why we must become too large to crush and too useful to ignore. If I take ten thousand hungry, angry men out of the Riverlands, I am doing Lord Tully and King Robert a favor. I am removing the sparks before they catch fire."
Hugo looked up at the vast, indifferent sky. He was building a kingdom out of beggars and broken men, using a religion he didn't fully trust to sail toward a land he had only read about in books.
"The Lions will be my bridge," Hugo added, thinking of the captive brothers. "Once the momentum is grand enough, I'll release them. They will tell Tywin and Robert that I am not a threat to their throne—only a man looking for a different shore."
The High Sparrow bowed his head. "The Seven Gods truly speak through you, Lord Hugo. Such wisdom is not of this world."
Hugo forced a smile, though inside he felt the cold weight of the "God-Chosen" mask. Whatever you are, Seven, he thought, just let me get these people across the water.