The Riverlands had always been a scar on the map of Westeros—a rich, fertile belly with no mountain or sea to shield it. For centuries, it had known only the rhythmic cruelty of war. Kings from every corner of the continent had driven their iron-shod hooves into its soil, churning the black earth into a red mire of blood and bone. Even when the Targaryen Dragon-Kings sat the Iron Throne, this land remained the primary stage for every dance of dragons and civil strife.
Now, a new war had scorched the earth. Though the capital had fallen and the rebel coalition—or the "Allied Forces," depending on whose banner one followed—claimed total victory, the peace had not yet arrived. The white ravens of the Citadel had yet to take flight over the Three Rivers. Instead, the vacuum of power left only a lingering, chaotic rot.
But amidst the decay, those with eyes for the horizon were already carving out a future.
On the lands of House Goodbrook, near the shimmering expanse of the Gods Eye, a band of outlaws had nested. The Goodbrooks had chosen the losing side of the rebellion and paid for it in blood; their master was gone, and their fields had become a sanctuary for the lawless.
Yet this was no mere den of thieves.
The camp by the lakeshore was a jarring mosaic. Bandits in mismatched plate mail sat beside deserters whose tunics were bleached pale by years of mud and sun. A grim-faced sellsword ran a whetstone along his blade with rhythmic precision, while nearby, a man named Long Snow—a simple farmer by trade—clumsily practiced with a spear. No matter how many times he thrust, the weapon still looked like a pitchfork in his calloused hands.
Despite the motley composition, a strange, iron-clad discipline held the four hundred men together. There were no piles of refuse, no men passed out in their own vomit, and no brawls breaking out over scraps. Every man moved with a sense of purpose, and those who dared to step out of line were met with swift, sharp corrections.
The heart of this order beat within a large, gray tent perched atop a low hill. Outside, armored sentries stood with their hands resting on their pommels, eyes scanning the camp even in the supposed safety of their own lines.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of unwashed wool and anxiety. Men in leather jerkins and those in homespun tunics crowded around a central table, their eyes fixed on the man at the head of the room as he listened to a scout's report.
"So," the leader spoke, his voice steady. "King's Landing has truly dispatched two thousand men. And these two thousand are the Lannister elite."
Hugo Tollett ran a hand through his golden-blonde hair, which was tied back in a practical knot. His beard was thick, and while he was in the prime of his life, the constant toll of the Riverlands had carved deep lines into his face. He looked like a veteran who had seen thirty winters, rather than a man of fewer years. His blue eyes betrayed a flicker of concern, but his posture remained as rigid as a castle wall.
The news hit the room like a spark in a grain silo. The confidence of several lieutenants shattered instantly. Voices rose in a panicked cacophony; some fell into a terrified silence, while a man named La Na looked ready to bolt from the tent and never look back.
Hugo said nothing. He simply watched. Under his cool, level gaze, the shouting died down into an uneasy quiet. When the room was finally still, he gestured for the scout to continue.
"The day before I turned back, 'Fingers' Donnel and his lot surrendered to the Westermen," the scout said, his voice trembling. "But the Lions didn't give him the mercy he begged for. They didn't let him kneel. They hanged him by his ankles and bled him out. By the time I cleared the area, his head was on a spear. The Lannister vanguard is carrying them like banners."
Hugo knew Donnel. The man had been a parasite, a bandit who preyed on smallfolk and soldiers alike with no distinction. Not long ago, Donnel had sent word to Hugo, suggesting they join forces against the approaching lords. Now, the man was a macabre decoration for a Lannister column.
A grim satisfaction flickered in Hugo's chest. The Seven had eyes after all. The villagers would likely sleep better knowing the "Fingers" was finally silent. More importantly, Donnel had died at the perfect psychological moment.
Hugo looked around. The room was deathly quiet now. The desire to surrender had vanished, replaced by the cold realization of what "Lannister mercy" actually meant.
"I trust there is no further debate," Hugo said, his voice cutting through the gloom. "If we wish to negotiate, we must first prove we are worth more than a length of rope. If we kneel now, our heads will join Donnel's on those spears before the sun sets."
"You're right, Boss Hugo!" Long Snow shouted, standing up. The farmer's voice was firm, his trust in the man at the head of the table absolute. "Let's show those Lions we aren't just meat for their lances!"
"To hell with the lords!" another man cheered. "We've killed knights before, we can kill Lannisters!"
The sentiment rippled through the tent, especially among the farmers and peasants who viewed Hugo as more than just a captain. He watched them, knowing that while they shouted now, many would still be shaking in their boots once they were alone. Without the reputation he had cultivated—without the "miracle"—this group would have dissolved long ago.
"Then it is settled," Hugo declared. "Return to your duties."
As the men filed out, Hugo finally let his shoulders drop. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to massage away the exhaustion. He had bought them another day, but the road ahead was a narrow ledge over an abyss. If he failed to overcome this Lannister threat, his second life would be a very short one.
In his previous life, Hugo Tollett had been a wandering knight of the Vale—a man of House Tollett, a lineage as old as the Andal Invasion but lacking in gold or glory. His father, Aolike, had left him nothing but a sword and a crippling sense of chivalry.
Hugo had started his outlaw career with a simple goal: protect the people. He hunted looters, raided the granaries of callous lords to feed the starving, and guided refugees to safety. But in Westeros, nobility could fail a thousand times; an outlaw could only fail once. During a skirmish with a lord's hunting party, a spear had pierced Hugo's chest.
He should have died. By all laws of medicine and gods, he had died.
But then, the gears of fate had stalled. An outsider's soul had awakened in the cooling corpse. The "resurrection" had been witnessed by dozens, including a septon who had immediately proclaimed it a miracle of the Seven.
The new Hugo had quickly realized where he was: the world of A Song of Ice and Fire. Knowing the horrors to come—the War of the Five Kings, the long winter, the White Walkers—he realized he had no choice but to keep playing the role of the outlaw leader. He was a wanted man; there was no retiring to a quiet life.
For years, he had survived by his wits and his knowledge of the world's future. He had cultivated the legend of the "Knight Favored by the Seven." It was a useful tool; it brought him soldiers who believed they were fighting for something holy, rather than just surviving in the mud. Much of this reputation was thanks to that same monk who had seen him wake up on the battlefield.
A voice from outside the tent broke his reverie.
"Boss Hugo, the Septon has arrived. He's brought another few hundred people with him."
Hugo sighed, a headache blooming behind his eyes. Speak of the Stranger, and he shall appear.
"I'm coming," Hugo called out, bracing himself for the man who believed in his divinity more than Hugo did himself.