The royal army led by Jon Connington moved like a stream of iron, advancing rapidly to the strategic stronghold of Tumbleton.
Jon did not rush in recklessly. Instead, showing the caution befitting a commander, he ordered the entire army to encamp here temporarily, turning the small town into an impromptu military fortress.
The arrival of the army shattered the town's tranquility. The clamor of soldiers and the clatter of hooves replaced the usual peace. The town squares and streets were partitioned in an orderly fashion; infantry began constructing simple fortifications, while cavalry took charge of perimeter patrols.
Jon Connington himself took up residence in the town's sturdiest stone tower, which immediately became his command center.
Standing at the tower window, he gazed at the rolling hills and crisscrossing roads to the north. Robert's defeated army was like a wounded but still dangerous beast, hidden somewhere in this vast land.
Blind pursuit would only waste energy. He needed sharp eyes.
"Send out all the fast riders and scouts," he turned and gave clear orders to Ser Lewyn Martell and the messengers standing by. "I want to know Robert Baratheon's exact location, marching route, and the real-time condition of his army. Report any news immediately!"
With the order given, several squads of light cavalry shot out of Tumbleton like arrows from a bowstring, disappearing into the wilderness in different directions. An intelligence war, a matter of life and death, quietly began.
Robert Baratheon's defeated army, like an exhausted python, finally wound its way to Bitterbridge. This sturdy stone bridge spanning the upper Mander became a rare breathing space for them.
Once the troops settled, the air filled with the mixed smells of blood, sweat, and herbs.
Robert slumped in the main seat of a commandeered hall, his face pale from blood loss. The wound on his shoulder and neck throbbed dully under the white bandages with every beat of his heart. The army maester was carefully cleaning the wound and changing the salve-soaked dressings.
"Faster!" Robert growled impatiently, though his voice lacked its usual thunder. The physical trauma was secondary; what made him more anxious was the state of his army. Fighting back the pain, he scanned the soldiers setting up camp outside the window. Their faces were written with the panic and confusion of defeat.
He knew that the urgent task was not just healing his own sword wound, but pulling this demoralized force back together. He needed to reorganize the scattered troops, restore morale, and make the Stag banner of the Stormlands hold its head high again.
As the Lord of the Stormlands gathered his strength for the final leg of the journey north, he was completely unaware that a price had been put on his head. Far away in Tumbleton, Jon Connington's cold eyes, aided by fast scouts, had already locked onto Bitterbridge.
An invisible shadow of death was quietly approaching under the cover of twilight.
When it came to marching and fighting, Robert Baratheon was by no means a man of all brawn and no brains. After leading his battered army across the Mander, he didn't take the Rose Road, which was flat and easy but also easy to track. He knew King's Landing wouldn't let him march north unchecked. A huge sense of crisis made him as alert as a wounded beast.
Robert led his main force to turn east, moving parallel to the main road, diving headfirst into the vast fields and rolling hills. Under the cover of forests, they struggled along country paths, trying to use the complex terrain to hide their tracks and shake off possible pursuers.
Every step was taken with caution. Scouts were sent far out, alert for any sign of trouble.
But Jon Connington was also an experienced hunter and had anticipated his prey's thoughts. He didn't wait around in the expected direction directly north. Instead, he force-marched his army, crossing the river ahead of time and setting an ambush at a pass near the Blackwater Rush.
This was a potential route from the eastern hills into the northern heartland, and the night became his best cover.
As Robert's army dragged their tired feet into this death trap, the silent night sky was torn apart by sudden horns!
Jon Connington's cavalry roared out of the darkness on both sides like ghosts from hell, their sharp spear tips glittering with deadly cold light under the moon.
This sudden strike was the final straw for the Stormlands army, whose morale was already low.
The defeated army instantly panicked like frightened birds. The formation disintegrated in moments, and soldiers scattered, trying to find a slim chance of survival in the darkness and chaos.
In the chaos, Robert Baratheon, protected desperately by dozens of loyal Stormlands knights, cut a bloody path and galloped north.
The iron hooves of warhorses shattered the mud, every breath carrying the urgency of death. Behind them, Jon Connington's pursuers followed like shadows, the light of their torches biting tight in the darkness like bloodthirsty eyes.
The chase continued until they rushed into a narrow pass with steep slopes on both sides, barely wide enough for a few riders abreast.
The hoofbeats and shouts of the pursuers were close at hand, like the Reaper breathing down their necks.
The leading knight suddenly reigned in his horse, turned around, and instantly formed a wall of flesh and blood with his companions, firmly blocking the narrow passage. He turned to Robert. On a face covered in blood and grime, only his eyes shone with unquestionable resolve.
"My Lord, this is it!" His voice was hoarse but incredibly firm. "We hold them here! You must go, go now! Don't look back, ride straight for Riverrun!"
Before his voice faded, he and the remaining knights drew their swords. Under their mask-like helms was the calm of men ready to die. They would use their lives to buy the last chance of survival for the Lord of the Stag.
Robert yanked the reins hard, his warhorse rearing up with a mournful whinny.
He looked back. Those few dozen Stormlands knights had resolutely turned their horses to build a final wall of flesh and blood at that narrow pass. Their backs in the dim moonlight looked like reefs about to be swallowed by the tide.
A searing heartache and towering self-blame instantly choked him, almost suffocating him. These good men were in this desperate situation because of his failure, and now they were giving their lives for him. Robert wished he could turn his horse around and die with them, washing away this shame with blood.
But Robert knew even better that once a knight's honor was ignited, it could not be stopped, nor blasphemed. Their sacrifice was to give him a greater mission—to survive and win this war.
Any hesitation or looking back would be the deepest betrayal of these loyal souls.
Robert gritted his teeth so hard he almost drew blood. Finally, he jerked his horse around and kicked hard with his spurs. The horse, stung by pain, shot off along the path like an arrow, leaving the imminent death match and the backs of his loyal vassals behind in the darkness.
The wind howled in his ears, but it couldn't drown out the vow erupting like a volcano in his heart.
Every word was branded onto his soul, mixed with the taste of blood and rust: "I swear by the name of Baratheon and the honor of a warrior, this debt will be paid! Jon Connington, King's Landing... you just wait!"
Whipping his horse, Robert's lonely figure plunged resolutely deeper into the night, heading toward the town of Stoney Sept.