Jon Connington crouched by the damp soil of the Blackwater Rush, running a gloved finger gently over the ground. Apart from the marks of the flowing water and the tracks of small animals, there were indeed no fresh human footprints or hoofprints on the riverbank.
He stood up, his cold gaze sweeping over Stoney Sept, which was now surrounded by his army like an iron bucket. In the darkness, the outline of the town looked exceptionally fragile under the torchlight.
"They did leave through the castle's back gate," Jon's voice was calm but carried unquestionable authority, as if stating a fact he had already seen through. "The blood trail leads here, but the footprints vanish."
Jon Connington turned to Lewyn Martell and several officers beside him, his eyes burning like torches. "What does this tell us? It tells us they never reached the river. My army completed the encirclement of the town immediately after breaching the outer wall. Robert escaped the castle, but it is absolutely impossible for him to have fled Stoney Sept under our noses."
Jon's tone grew more certain, every word hammering into the silent night sky. "He must still be hiding in some corner of the town. A wounded stag can't run far, and he can't hide for long. Pass the order: search every house, every cellar, every ditch thoroughly. Turn Stoney Sept upside down if you have to, but dig him out for me!"
With Jon Connington's command, torchlight flooded the streets and alleys of Stoney Sept like bloodthirsty fireflies.
A meticulous and brutal manhunt began.
Royal soldiers advanced in combat formation, sweeping house by house. Knights under his command smashed open wooden doors violently. Soldiers turned over every corner that could hide a man—crowded granaries, dark cellars, and they didn't even spare the filthy sewers, sending men down to investigate carefully.
But Robert Baratheon seemed to have evaporated without a trace.
Jon Connington soon realized he was facing far more than a single wounded fugitive. The news that House Tully had openly defied the Iron Throne and raised the banner of rebellion had long since spread throughout the Riverlands.
Every townsman here knew Robert was the leader of the rebellion, their hope. Thus, a silent understanding spread among the people.
They wove a protective net with silence and seemingly obedient lies. Just as royal troops finished searching a house on the east side, Robert might be quickly moved to a cellar on the west; when soldiers rushed a tavern, he might be hidden in a secret compartment in a private home.
Using their familiarity with every inch of the town, the townsfolk cleverly played the foreign royal army, leading them around in circles.
The entire Stoney Sept was no longer just a dot on the map; it had become the sturdiest den of House Tully. Every stone, every resident, was guarding the wounded stag.
The dungeon reeked of thick blood and rot. The two Stormlands soldiers who had escorted Robert were chained tightly to the rack. Their faces were flayed open, but their eyes remained stubborn.
Jon Connington stood in the shadows, expressionlessly watching the torturer work with practiced skill. Cold iron pincers clamped onto the first soldier's left pinky finger. With a tooth-aching crack and a suppressed scream, a segment of the finger fell to the floor.
"Speak. Where is Robert Baratheon hiding?" Jon's voice was as calm as if asking about the weather.
The only answer he received was heavy panting and curses. So the second finger, then the third, were severed in succession. When the instruments turned to the other soldier, the first man finally passed out.
Yet, even enduring heart-rending pain, the answer both men gave was surprisingly consistent: they had escorted the Lord to a hiding place in the town center as planned, then were quickly led away by local contacts.
As for whether Robert was alive or dead now, or where he had been moved, they genuinely knew nothing.
Jon Connington's fingertip tapped lightly on the pommel of his sword. He could tell these two hard men weren't lying—Robert was like a drop of water, completely dissolved into the sea of people protecting him. This realization made the Hand of the King's face even darker. He turned and left the dungeon, leaving behind a cold order: "Dispose of them."
Footsteps faded away, leaving only the echo of dripping blood in the dungeon.
The search had hit a dead end, and the wounded stag remained hidden in some corner of this silent town.
While Jon Connington burned with rage over the fruitless search, Robert Baratheon's situation was far more composed than he imagined.
The wounded lord wasn't curled up in some dark, damp cellar or sewer. Instead, he was hiding in the most mixed, yet most easily overlooked place in Stoney Sept—The Peach.
This inn, which doubled as a brothel, sat on the east side of the market square. Its exterior was quite dilapidated.
The whitewashed walls peeled in many places, revealing the mud bricks beneath. Several windows had their cracks stuffed with rags. Half the roof had once suffered a fire, and though patched with timber and thatch, it still looked tattered. A weathered wooden sign hung above the door, painting a peach with a large bite taken out of it, creaking in the breeze.
Beneath this decrepit appearance lay an unexpected sanctuary.
The madam and the girls of the inn, marginalized people usually despised by noble lords, had now become the most reliable guardians. Robert was settled in a relatively clean room in the attic, accessible only through a hidden door. His wounds were re-dressed and bandaged, and there was even a cup of rough ale at his hand.
From outside the window came the occasional shouts and footsteps of searching soldiers, but behind this broken door, there was an absurd yet real peace.
Robert leaned against the wall, listening to the feigned coquettish laughter drifting up from downstairs—the best cover to confuse pursuers. He sipped the ale, the corner of his mouth even pulling into a bitter but defiant grin. The wretchedness of a defeated general was replaced in this moment by a reckless tenacity.
Behind the patched wooden door of The Peach was a madam with hair red as flame and a voluptuous figure—Tansy. She moved between drunken sailors and pleasure-seeking guests, her laughter loose but her eyes keeping a startling clarity at all times.
Few knew that this splash of red hair was a carefully placed piece in Euron Greyjoy's massive game. She was a link in Euron's spy network, planted here in Stoney Sept, a key junction of the Riverlands.
The mixed environment of The Peach provided her with perfect camouflage and sources of intelligence.
Usually, she not only ran this inn and brothel but also used the gossip of passing merchants and soldiers to pass collected information to Lysa through secret channels. Now, when the wounded stag Robert Baratheon stumbled into her territory, she activated this chain of protection almost without hesitation.
On the surface, she was just an innkeeper taking money to provide a hiding spot; but in secret, every seemingly casual decision she made served the Ironborn captain far away precisely.
Inside The Peach, the air was murky.
Tansy's girls—Cass, Lanna, Jeyne, Alyce, and Helly—dealt with all sorts of customers as usual. When King's Landing soldiers barged in under the pretext of searching, they became the most effective "defense line."
Several soldiers clearly had other things on their minds besides searching. The inspection quickly turned into harassment and groping.
One soldier, under the guise of searching, forced the rather pretty Cass into a room upstairs, impatient to have his way with her. Cass was experienced; she knew resisting would only invite greater suspicion. So she half-refused, half-complied, using coyness and submission to entangle the soldier in bed.
The room where they were tumbling in the sheets was directly adjacent to a secret chamber hidden by a wardrobe.
Robert Baratheon was hiding right there. Through the thin wooden wall, the lewd banter and the creaking of the bed frame were clearly audible next door. Leaning against the cold wall, he could feel the slight vibration of the wood and even smell the mix of cheap perfume and sweat drifting through the cracks.
The Lord of the Stormlands clenched his fists, his wounds throbbing with tension. Humiliation and anger churned in his chest, but he had to remain as silent as a stone. With her body, the prostitute Cass had built the final, and most unexpected, barrier for him.