The King's Road, for all its grand name, was a fickle thing. In some stretches, it was a paved marvel; in others, particularly the neglected veins of the Riverlands, it was little more than a dirt track that dissolved into a sucking quagmire at the first hint of rain.
Hugo had chosen his ground with the eye of a man who knew he couldn't win a fair fight.
The battlefield was a shallow, concave dip where the road narrowed, flanked by dense scrub and skeletal forests. After two days of feverish digging and hiding their work under layers of brush and loose dirt, the trap was set. Now, the Lions had finally arrived.
"Good. This will do," Hugo muttered, stooping to grab a handful of the gray, viscous mud. It clung to his glove like a curse.
Hugo was encased in scarred plate armor, the metal dented and dulled by years of skirmishes. He wore an open-faced kettle helm; it was a risk against archers, but he needed to see the field. Visibility was the only advantage he had over the knights who would soon be charging him through narrow visor slits.
A light drizzle had slicked the world, making the air heavy and the ground treacherous. Before him stood his "army"—a pathetic sight compared to the crimson and gold host appearing on the horizon. His men were draped in boiled leather, coarse furs, and homespun tunics. They held rusted axes and fire-hardened spears.
"Everything is in place, Boss Hugo," said Long Snow. The farmer looked strange in his new gear—a kettle helm and a suit of chainmail that rattled with every step.
"Are the men holding, Snow?" Hugo asked.
"My life is yours, sir," Snow replied simply. "Most of these lads would've starved or been hung by the Tullys if not for you. They're scared, aye, but they're grateful. That counts for something."
Hugo looked past him to where the High Sparrow stood. The monk was no longer the barefoot ascetic; he wore rusted chainmail and iron boots, with a crude seven-pointed star painted onto a surcoat. In his hand, he gripped a heavy morningstar. He was leading the farmers in prayer, their voices a low, rhythmic drone against the rain.
Hugo knew the truth. Some were here for debt, but most were here for the God-Chosen. They were gambling their lives on a miracle because the alternative was a slow death in a ditch.
"Karnathir," Hugo called out.
The silent, scarred man stepped from the shadows of the command tent. Karnathir, known as "Black Blade," managed the river bandits—the most ruthless and unruly element of Hugo's force.
"The reserves?"
"Ready to bleed them," Karnathir rasped, his hand resting on the hilt of his black-sheathed sword.
Suddenly, the horizon erupted in gold.
"What in the name of the Crone are they doing?" Tygett Lannister muttered from the rear of the Lannister column. He watched the bandit rabble milling about on the road with growing suspicion.
But Gerion Lannister was done waiting. "The leader is just barking to keep them from pissing themselves, Tygett! I'm going in. Let's show these bastards what a real army looks like!"
Gerion didn't wait for a response. He spurred his stallion, his golden armor flashing even in the dull light. Behind him, the Lannister heavy horse roared, a tide of steel and horseflesh accelerating into a thunderous gallop. They had spent days marching behind slow infantry; they were hungry for a rout.
As the cavalry closed the distance, the ground began to vibrate. Hugo felt the tremor in his boots. He saw the flicker of terror in the eyes of the farmers in the front rank.
"Hold!" Hugo roared, raising his sword high. "Hold steady! The Seven are with us!"
The Lannister knights hit the mud. Their speed jerked downward as their hooves sank into the deceptive sludge, but their momentum was still terrifying. Gerion, leading the charge, felt the ground soften, but his confidence was absolute. What can mud do against a knight? he thought.
"Now!" Hugo screamed. "Move! Move!"
The central block of Hugo's infantry suddenly broke and sprinted toward the left, revealing what they had been standing on: a series of deep, narrow trenches hidden by thin lattices of wood and a dusting of earth.
"Seven Gods—Stop!" Gerion shrieked, hauling back on his reins.
It was too late. The front rank of the Lannister charge plummeted into the earth. The screams of horses snapping their legs on sharpened wooden stakes filled the air. Nearly a dozen knights disappeared into the pits, and the following ranks, unable to stop, plowed into the backs of their brothers.
"Pikes!" Hugo commanded.
From the sides, men who had been crouching in the brush stood up, wielding four-meter long spears. They didn't charge; they simply thrust. The Lannister knights were trapped in a chaotic jumble of thrashing horses and mud. The pikes found the gaps in their armor—the armpits, the visors, the groins.
Crossbowmen emerged from the treeline, firing at point-blank range. The bolts, though fired from poor-quality bows, didn't need to travel far to find a throat.
Then came the fanatics. The High Sparrow led a group of axe-wielding zealots directly into the fray. They used long hooks to snag the high-born knights by their neck-guards, dragging them from their saddles into the filth. Once a knight was in the mud, he was no longer a lord; he was just a man in an iron can, waiting to be opened by a dagger.
The "invincible" Lannister charge had turned into a slaughterhouse.