The collapse of the Lannister line was not a slow crumble, but a sudden, violent shatter.
As Tygett Lannister fell, Karnathir—the "Black Blade"—moved with the fluid, predatory grace of a shadow. His blade flickered through the air, finding the gaps in gorgets and the joints of pauldrons with surgical precision. Beside him, his river-barge hands fought like demons, sliding through the mud to disembowel warhorses or dragging knights into the mire by their spurs.
Hugo reached Tygett first. He stood over the unconscious lord, his chest heaving, as his elite reserves formed a wall of steel around them, driving back any Lannister loyalists desperate enough to attempt a rescue.
"Shout it!" Hugo commanded, his voice raw. "Tell them the Lions are caged!"
The cry rippled across the field, growing into a roar that broke the spirit of the remaining Westermen. Seeing the empty saddles of their commanders, the Lannister host disintegrated. The lucky ones on horseback shed their heavy plate and fled like ghosts into the treeline. The less fortunate—those exhausted by the mud and the march—collapsed where they stood, throwing down their swords in hopes of a ransom their families might never afford.
"We won, Boss Hugo! We actually won!"
Long Snow stumbled toward him, his face a mask of dried gore and sweat. He was shaking, the adrenaline of survival finally giving way to the shock of victory.
"Steady, Snow," Hugo said, though his own heart was drumming against his ribs. "Keep the men focused. The battle is over, but the work is just beginning."
The High Sparrow approached, flanked by zealots carrying a dazed Gerion Lannister. Even with his golden hair matted with blood and mud, Gerion looked remarkably unbathered.
"I believe this is the younger one," the Old Sparrow said, his voice as calm as a prayer. "My brothers found him in the swamp."
"And here is the elder," Hugo replied, gesturing to Tygett. "Two Lions in one net. A powerful bargaining chip... and a dangerous one."
Hugo turned his gaze to the horizon, where his men were already swarming the Lannister baggage train. Wagons of grain, salt, preserved meats, and—most importantly—fine Westerlands steel were now his. The "Lannister Fortune" was no longer a myth; it was sitting in his camp.
The feast by the Gods Eye was a riot of firelight and shadows.
The victory had drawn the usual "sharks" of the Riverlands—merchants, camp followers, and desperate villagers who appeared from the woods as if summoned by the smell of roasting meat. Hugo allowed it. A victory without witnesses was only half a victory.
But before joining the revelry, Hugo visited the medical tents. The air there was thick with the copper tang of blood and the low moans of the dying. He stopped beside Gain, an old barge hand whose belly had been opened by a Lannister pike.
"Lord Hugo..." Gain rasped, his eyes glassy. "It's good... we won?"
"We won, Gain," Hugo whispered, kneeling in the dirt.
"The Mercy," the man begged, his hands fluttering over the bandage soaked in black blood. "Grant me the Seven's Mercy."
Hugo unsheathed his dagger. He offered the man a skin of Arbor Gold—Gerion's private stock—and let him taste the sweetness of the Reach. As the man's eyes closed in brief, wine-drunk bliss, Hugo slid the blade home with practiced, tender efficiency.
"Ascend to the heavens, Gain," Hugo muttered, wiping his blade. He looked at the night sky, wondering if the Seven were truly watching, or if he was just a man playing a part in a play with no audience.
The feast itself was a display of Lannister wealth turned inside out. Huge barrels of thick beef stew, wheels of sharp cheese, and mounds of black bread were distributed to every man. The scent of ale and Arbor wine filled the air.
Hugo sat at the head of the makeshift table, flanked by Karnathir and the two Lannister captives.
To his surprise, the brothers had accepted their fate with the pragmatism of men who knew their value. Gerion was already three cups deep into his own stolen wine, a lopsided grin on his face. Tygett sat more stiffly, his expression a mask of simmering resentment.
"Congratulations, Lord Hugo," Gerion toasted, his face flushed. "Defeating two thousand of the West's finest with a pack of... well, whatever these fellows are. Tywin is going to have a stroke when he hears of this. I almost wish I could be there to see it."
Tygett glared at his brother but said nothing, though he did raise his cup in a silent, grudging acknowledgment.
"It was the Seven's will," Hugo said, playing the humble God-Chosen.
"Is that so?" Tygett finally spoke, his voice low and cutting. He leaned forward, his eyes searching Hugo's face for the truth. "Tell me, 'Lord' Hugo. What is the future for a man like you? Do you intend to rot in these woods until a larger army comes to finish the job, or do you have a plan that doesn't involve living as a bandit for the rest of your days?"
Hugo smiled. It was the question he had been waiting for.