Robert Baratheon drove his horse forward on pure instinct. When his blurry vision finally caught the outline of the low walls of Stoney Sept, the last thread of willpower holding him up finally snapped.
The moment his horse's hooves crossed the boundary stone at the town entrance, his tense body swayed. Days of heavy injury, blood loss, hunger, thirst, and the extreme exhaustion of running for his life, combined with the crushing grief and towering rage of watching loyal men die for him while he could do nothing... all these burdens, like countless invisible hands, finally dragged the mighty stag down.
Robert tried to grip the reins, but his fingers wouldn't obey. He tried to shout, but only a metallic sweetness rose in his throat. The world spun violently before his eyes and went dim. Walls, lights, the blurry figures running toward him with shouts of alarm—all melted into a chaotic darkness.
In the next second, his massive frame fell like a chopped flagpole, crashing heavily from his saddle onto the cold cobblestones of Stoney Sept, completely losing consciousness. The last thing lingering in his mind wasn't the agonizing pain of his body, but the resolute backs of those knights as they turned to face death at the pass.
Stoney Sept. This town, nestled in the heart of the Riverlands and surrounded by thick stone walls, slept quietly in the night. It looked north to Acorn Hall, east to Pinkmaiden, and the Gold Road wound past to its south. Nearby, the Blackwater Rush burbled from its source.
The local lord, Ser Wilbert Paxton (Note: Canonically, Stoney Sept is not ruled by a single lord in the same way, but often associated with House Whent or others nearby, but Ser Wilbert fits the narrative as a landed knight or town master), was a knight known for loyalty and pragmatism, sworn to House Tully of Riverrun.
When the gate guards found a severely wounded giant of a man lying in a pool of blood, the crowned stag sigil faintly visible on his battered armor made them pale with shock. They immediately sprinted to the lord's manor.
Ser Wilbert Paxton was woken in the dead of night. Upon hearing the news, he rushed to the scene.
Under the torchlight, he recognized the pale but majestic face and was shaken to his core. Without hesitation, he directed his trusted men to carefully carry Robert to a secure bedchamber, barking orders: "Quick! Get the maester! Use the best medicines! We must save his life!"
At the same time, he turned to his captain of the guard with another vital command: "Send our fastest rider immediately. Give him my personal seal. Ride through the night to Riverrun! Tell Lord Hoster and Lord Eddard—the Stag is in Stoney Sept, but gravely wounded. Pursuers may be close. Request immediate reinforcements!"
The rider quickly vanished into the night outside the town, while on the walls of Stoney Sept, the number of patrolling guards suddenly doubled.
Jon Connington's pursuers surged like an iron tide from the dark night, rapidly overwhelming Stoney Sept's thin defenses.
The low walls were as fragile as a child's sandcastle before the royal elite. Though the fewer than one hundred defenders resisted bravely, arrows and stones falling like rain, it was like a mantis trying to stop a chariot against the absolute advantage in power.
In less than the time it takes to drink a cup of tea, with a deafening crash, a section of the wall collapsed under concentrated attack, and the gates were smashed open.
The soldiers of King's Landing poured into the town like floodwater. The clang of clashing steel, the roars of soldiers, and the terrified screams of townsfolk mixed together, then quickly settled into the dead silence of forcible suppression.
Control of Stoney Sept changed hands in an instant.
Stepping over streets strewn with rubble and blood, Jon Connington and Prince Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard rode straight to the town center.
Before them stood Ser Wilbert Paxton's relatively sturdy holdfast, the last isolated strongpoint in this conquered territory. The two men reined in their horses, their cold gazes scrutinizing this final fortress. The murderous atmosphere seemed to freeze the surrounding air.
Stoney Sept was just a town, after all. Its limited manpower had been spent on the thin outer walls. With the walls fallen, those defenders were either dead or captured. Ser Wilbert's small holdfast was more of a fortified manor than a castle; it had almost no real defensive capability.
Hearing the earth-shaking shouts and the rumble of collapsing walls outside, Ser Wilbert Paxton's face was grim. He knew clearly: this place could not be held. Stubborn resistance would only get everyone killed for nothing. In the chaos of the royal army breaking the outer walls, he made the most decisive and correct decision.
He quickly summoned two of his most trusted and agile men, leading them to a hidden inner chamber deep in the holdfast. Robert Baratheon had just regained some consciousness under the maester's care. Though still weak, his eyes had regained a sharp glint.
"My Lord, the walls are breached. This place will fall in moments," Wilbert spoke rapidly, pointing undeniably to a concealed back door. "They will take you out. Go along the hidden path by the source of the Blackwater. Fast!"
The two men immediately stepped forward, supporting Robert on either side. There was no time for farewells or hesitation. The three of them melted into the shadows, quickly disappearing into the narrow secret passage leading to the wilderness outside the town.
Ser Wilbert straightened his armor, turned to face the main gates of the holdfast, and prepared to meet the intruding Jon Connington, buying the last precious moments for Robert's escape.
The heavy gates of the holdfast were slowly pushed open from the inside by Ser Wilbert, emitting a harsh grinding sound. Rather than letting the King's Landing army smash the door down and cause more damage, it was better to open it proactively. At least it would save a considerable repair bill later—this pragmatic knight retained his shrewdness even at the bitter end.
Jon Connington sat on his warhorse, coldly watching Wilbert standing alone in the shadow of the gateway. He offered no pleasantries, cutting straight to the core, his voice like a block of cold iron: "Where is Robert Baratheon? Hand him over, and I may spare your life."
Wilbert met the sharp gaze calmly and answered flatly, "He is already gone."
These four simple words ignited a flash of rage in Jon's eyes. He wasted no more words, waving his hand sharply: "Search! Don't miss a single cellar or secret passage!"
Soldiers swarmed through the gates like tigers and wolves. Ser Wilbert stepped aside, watching them rush past him with composure, looking more like a humble host welcoming guests than a man facing an invading army.
Seeing the soldiers begin the search, Jon Connington's gaze locked back onto Wilbert. Whether for intelligence or to vent his anger, he couldn't let this man go.
"Bind him," he ordered.
Two soldiers stepped forward, tying Wilbert's arms tightly with rough rope. The Lord of House Paxton did not resist. He submitted with his hands tied, a look of calm acceptance of his fate on his face. He had fulfilled his most important mission; his personal safety had long been cast aside.
The soldiers flooded the holdfast, turning the modest building upside down in moments. They found obvious traces in an inner room—bloodstained bandages scattered on the floor, the air thick with the smell of strong herbs and blood.
A soldier walked out quickly, presenting several pieces of gauze soaked in dark red blood to Jon Connington. Another soldier followed, kneeling on one knee to report: "My Lord, the bed is still warm. He couldn't have left more than a quarter of an hour ago."
Just then, another soldier sprinted from the rear of the castle, his voice urgent with a discovery: "Commander! We found a trail of blood at the back door, leading toward the Blackwater Rush outside the town! They definitely fled that way!"
These fragments of information quickly pieced together a clear path in Jon Connington's mind. His gaze sharpened instantly, sweeping over Ser Wilbert like a falcon, his cold killing intent almost tangible. Immediately, he spun around, pointing in the direction of the blood trail, and shouted to his elite troops:
"Pursue! They have a wounded man; they can't have gone far! Follow the blood! Drag Robert Baratheon out for me!"