On the banks of the Blackwater River lay an encampment of singular luxury. Tents of fine silk and heavy canvas stood in orderly rows, a riot of colorful sigils competing for space in the breeze. Yet, two banners flew higher and more prominently than the rest: the Crowned Stag of House Baratheon and the Soaring Falcon of House Arryn.
The camp was a hive of martial activity. Knights in various stages of undress polished their steel, adjusted their padding, or sparred with wooden blunted swords. Squires scurried between the pavilions, tending to horses and performing the endless, grinding chores that served as the foundation of their education in chivalry.
Because the host was composed primarily of knights and their retinues, the camp possessed a rigid, professional order. Any commander in the Seven Kingdoms would have looked upon such a disciplined force with envy.
"Interesting. Truly interesting, Jon. What do you make of it?"
A man of powerful build, with clear, piercing eyes and a face recently shorn of its battlefield beard, swept aside the flap of a central pavilion. He dropped into a heavy oak chair, his attire a wealthy blend of ermine fur and velvet. With the practiced ease of a career drinker, he filled a goblet to the brim and drained it in a single long draught. Some of the dark red wine splashed onto his yellow surcoat, staining the fabric, but the man didn't seem to notice—or care.
Two knights of the Kingsguard, silent in their white scale armor and flowing cloaks, stood behind him like statues of pale stone. A nervous squire hurried forward to refill the goblet, while another stood by with a fresh surcoat, ready the moment the King signaled his annoyance.
"It is indeed interesting," replied the older man who followed him into the tent. He sat opposite the King. When a squire offered him a cup, the old man raised a hand in a gentle dismissal, offering the boy a small, reassuring smile to soothe his obvious nerves.
The old man had broad shoulders, eyes of a deep, steady blue, and a prominent hawkish nose. Upon his breast was the Falcon of the Vale, and his surcoat was cinched with a leather belt that spoke of a man who valued function over finery.
Any soul with the slightest knowledge of the realm's politics would recognize these two immediately: Robert Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men; and Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King and Lord of the Eyrie.
"Tywin's own brothers speaking up for a brigand who put them in the dirt! Hah!" Robert laughed, the sound booming in the enclosed space. "I'd give half the treasury to see my father-in-law's face when he hears of this. That old lion always holds his head so high; this'll give him a proper crick in the neck."
Robert poured another cup, drinking wine as if it were water. Jon Arryn watched his foster son, his expression unchanged. He had long since grown accustomed to Robert's appetites.
"Lord Tywin is a rational man, Robert," Jon said calmly. "Even if he is furious, he will not show it. I have dealt with him for many years; I can count on one hand the number of times I have seen his mask slip."
Unlike Robert, who viewed the situation as a grand comedy, Arryn was already dissecting the strategic implications. He was the voice of reason, constantly tempering the King's impulses.
"But Robert, I must ask again: why are you here? I told you I would handle this. You have a mountain of business in King's Landing, and you were only just married. Leaving your bride alone in the Red Keep so soon? That is not the behavior of a good husband."
Like a weary father, Jon had fallen into the habit of lecturing. Though no blood bound them, their bond was forged in the fire of rebellion. When the Mad King had demanded Robert's head, it was Jon Arryn who had raised his banners in defiance, choosing his foster son over his monarch.
"Don't start, Jon," Robert groaned, waving a dismissive hand. He looked like a restless child being told to do his lessons.
"King's Landing makes my skin crawl. The city stinks of rot and manure, and half of it is nothing but a sprawling slum. I don't know how the Targaryens stood it for three centuries. Only inside the Red Keep can you escape the smell, and even then, the place is full of 'Dragon-men.' Everywhere I go, someone tells me that a certain block of houses was built by the Conqueror's veterans, or that some guild has served the dragons for ten generations. It makes me want to burn the whole place down and start over. I'd rather be out here."
Robert's disdain for the capital was visceral. He saw the city not as a prize, but as a five-hundred-thousand-soul mass of Targaryen leftovers.
"So you left Cersei alone?" Jon sighed. Before they had reached the capital, he had expected to spend his days dragging Robert out of the brothels; he hadn't expected the King to flee his own marriage for a military camp.
"Cersei has enough Lannister guards to staff a small castle," Robert shrugged. "As for the marriage... she's beautiful, I'll grant you that. But her personality? Cold as a winter morning. I can feel her looking down her nose at me. You and Tywin forced this chair on me, and you forced her on me, too. A wife is a thing you use when the mood strikes; otherwise, I'd rather be out in the fresh air, finding a pretty farm girl who doesn't act like she's doing me a favor by breathing my air."
Jon Arryn rubbed his temples. Robert had been the same at the Eyrie—always wandering, always leaving a trail of broken hearts and bastards in his wake. One of those girls was still being raised in the Vale.
Robert was the polar opposite of Jon's other foster son, Eddard Stark. Comparing the two often left Jon wondering if his methods were flawed or if some men were simply born as storms.
"Enough about my marriage," Robert said, sensing Jon's disappointment. He grabbed a second cup and slid it across the table to his Hand. "Tell me about this Hugo Tollett, Jon. You said you knew his father?"
Jon took a small sip of the wine. "I knew him. Aolike Tollett. He was a knight of the Vale, famous for his prowess with a lance. He won his share of tourneys, but he proved his worth in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. He nearly captured the Golden Company's standard and cut down three of their captains in a single afternoon."
The War of the Ninepenny Kings had been the last great conflict before the Rebellion, a war that had brought the lords of the Seven Kingdoms together for the first time in generations, laying the foundations for the alliance of the Stag, the Wolf, the Fish, and the Falcon.
"Aolike left his son nothing but his name," Jon continued, his eyes turning distant as he recalled the past. "I saw Hugo when he was a boy. He was unremarkable then. After his father died of his wounds, I looked for the lad, but he had already taken what little coin he had, bought a suit of mail, and vanished to become a hedge knight. I heard rumors of a 'Saintly Knight' in the Riverlands, but I never connected the stories to little Hugo."
"And now this Hugo claims to be the voice of the Seven," Robert snorted. "He's leading a parade of peasants to the East to find some 'Promised Land.' I heard his name even before we killed the Dragon, but I didn't pay it any mind. People are fools."
"So, Robert," Jon asked, setting his cup down. "If I left this to you, how would you handle it?"
"A week ago? I'd have sent the horse in to trample them into the mud and then found a miller's wife to celebrate with," Robert said bluntly. "But after hearing what the Lannister boys had to say... I want to see this 'Saint' for myself. Gerion was practically singing his praises, and Tygett looked like he'd swallowed a lemon trying to be polite about it. It was the funniest thing I've seen since the coronation."
"I want to see him too," Jon agreed. "The boy I remember is gone. If this man is half as capable as his father was, and if he can truly lead this rabble away... he might be the solution to more than one of our problems."
"Hah! Then you talk to him, Jon," Robert laughed, leaning back. "I'll watch. If he's a bore, or if he gets cheeky, I'll just let the knights have their fun."
Jon Arryn nodded. He knew Robert wasn't incapable of statecraft; he was simply unwilling. And since Robert couldn't be forced, it fell to Jon to secure the peace of the realm, one "miracle" at a time.