After leading their coalition army east from the Eyrie, Prince Oberyn Martell and the Warden of the East, Jon Arryn, did not rush forward blindly. Instead, they chose to rest briefly at Lord Harroway's Town, while casting a wide net of scouts to gather intelligence on all movements.
Soon, stragglers from the Stormlands army—defeated by Jon Connington at the Blackwater Rush and scattered in flight—began to trickle in. From their fragmented, panicked accounts, the two commanders pieced together Robert's thrilling ordeal: his defeat at Ashford and the ambush at the Blackwater.
Lord Jon Arryn listened to the reports, his aged but sharp eyes sweeping across the map. His finger landed precisely on Stoney Sept. "Robert is wounded and his army broken. The stragglers say he fled north. Given that, his most likely hiding place is Stoney Sept. Ser Wilbert is known for his loyalty; he would never sit idly by."
Before his voice faded, the "Red Viper," Prince Oberyn, stood up. A glint of excitement and decision flashed in his eyes. He gave a crisp order: "I'll take two thousand cavalry and ride ahead. We'll ride through the night straight for Stoney Sept!"
Leading two thousand light horse, the Dornish prince moved like a red desert storm, kicking up clouds of dust as they galloped toward Stoney Sept, intent on snatching their Stag King from the iron pincers of the royal army.
As the Dornish vanguard approached the outskirts of Stoney Sept, a new cloud of dust rose suddenly on the northeastern horizon.
A larger cavalry force thundered in like a torrent of steel. At the fore, two banners snapped in the wind—Euron Greyjoy's Golden Kraken and Eddard Stark's Direwolf. Their three thousand fresh troops merged rapidly with Prince Oberyn's forces, massively boosting the coalition's momentum.
The speed of these reinforcements far exceeded Jon Connington's worst estimates. He had calculated the march time from Riverrun, but he never imagined that the messenger sent by Ser Wilbert Paxton would have such extraordinary luck. Shortly after leaving Stoney Sept, the rider had run headlong into the Northern-Riverlands-Ironborn cavalry already force-marching from Riverrun toward Stoney Sept.
Euron, having deduced at Riverrun that Stoney Sept was Robert's likely route, hadn't hesitated for a second, mobilizing immediately. This decisive action meant the messenger didn't need to ride all the way to Riverrun but completed his mission mid-route, winning vital time for the coalition.
Standing on the low walls of Stoney Sept, Jon Connington watched the gathering coalition forces, clearly superior in number to his own. His face was grim enough to drip water. The cage he had carefully built had turned into a trap for himself in the blink of an eye.
As the iron hooves of the coalition cavalry neared Stoney Sept, the earth trembled as if muffled thunder rolled from the horizon.
A humble septon from the local sept, a low-ranking clergyman who spent his years tending to village rites, rushed out of his simple dwelling upon hearing the commotion. He looked up to see dust filling the sky and faintly made out the banners of the Golden Kraken, the Sun and Spear, and the Direwolf. He turned immediately, running without hesitation toward the sept's weathered bell tower.
He heaved on the heavy bell rope, slamming his whole weight into ringing the ancient bronze bell.
DONG—DONG—DONG—
The loud, urgent tolling instantly tore through the town's tranquility. Like an invisible wave, it swept rapidly through every street and house.
This was not a horn calling warriors to war, but an ancient warning signal passed down through generations.
Its meaning was unmistakably clear, ingrained in the blood of every townsman: "Deadly danger approaches. All civilians cease activity immediately. Hide in your homes, bar your doors and windows, and do not come out no matter what you hear!"
This bell served two purposes: to build an invisible barrier protecting the innocent townsfolk from the impending bloody street fighting, and to declare to the hiding Robert and his supporters: Reinforcements have arrived. The final hour is here.
As the faint shouts of the coalition breaching the defenses drifted in, the bell towers of septs all over Stoney Sept seemed pulled by the same invisible thread, ringing out their alarms in unison.
At first, one bell rang, lonely and urgent; then, as if answering the call, a second, a third... until every bell in town joined the mournful chorus.
Great bronze bells and clear-toned smaller ones wove together into a deafening torrent of sound, sweeping through every street and house like an invisible tide. This was no peaceful call to prayer, but the highest warning of danger known to generations.
The bells clashed and echoed in the air, sternly urging anyone still outdoors to take cover.
In an instant, the last few pedestrians on the street vanished like water soaking into sand. Then came the sound of doors and windows being bolted and barred, one after another. In the space of a few dozen heartbeats, the streets that still held some life emptied completely, leaving only the ringing bells filling the sky and dust swirling in the wind.
The lingering echo of the bells in the river valley was both a dirge of sanctuary and a prelude to slaughter.
Stoney Sept's low walls crumbled under the first charge of the coalition cavalry, like sandcastles washed away by the tide.
Warhorses neighed as they trampled wooden barricades, and soldiers poured into the town like a flood of steel.
However, the real purgatory was just beginning. Jon Connington had already pulled his forces back into the town, setting up defenses using every alley and stone house. For every step the coalition advanced, they paid a price in blood.
Street fighting erupted instantly and quickly turned into a stalemate.
In the narrow streets, soldiers from both sides were packed together. The snap of breaking spears, the dull thud of blades hacking into flesh and bone, and the wails of the dying were endless. Blood soon formed rivulets, spreading over the uneven cobblestones.
The battle rapidly expanded into three dimensions. Archers and light infantry climbed onto the connected rooftops, leaping and fighting on the sloping tiles. From time to time, figures screamed as they fell from high above, smashing into the melee below.
The entirety of Stoney Sept ceased to exist as a town; it transformed into a massive, noisy slaughterhouse. Every alley was an independent battlefield, every house a small fortress requiring a bloody fight to take. Although the coalition held the overall advantage, in specific local skirmishes, Jon Connington's army used experience and desperation to put up the most stubborn resistance.
When the bells tolled long and the shouts of killing neared The Peach, Robert Baratheon pushed open the attic window. Though he held not his terrifying warhammer but a longsword found in the inn, his eyes burned with a fire long absent—perhaps even brighter than before.
During that brief but profound respite at The Peach, Alyce's care and tenderness had acted like a miracle cure. It not only healed the terrible wound on his shoulder and neck but also smoothed the frustration accumulated from days of defeat. Now, he was filled with surging power, a ferocity that needed release.
With a low growl like a lion, Robert leaped from the window, charging straight into the fray at the street corner. The longsword in his hand lacked the brute force of his hammer but carried a fierce agility. His footwork was steady, his sword strokes broad and powerful. Every swing carried pent-up rage and newborn strength.
Blood soon stained his tunic red. Six royal soldiers had already fallen to his blade. Most notably, he faced the famous knight Ser Myles Mooton. Once a squire to Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, Mooton was highly skilled and renowned. The two met in a narrow alley, blades clashing, sparks flying. After a few rounds of fierce exchange, Robert used a brilliant feint followed by a lightning-fast thrust to pierce Mooton's defenses, cutting him down.
This sight massively boosted coalition morale and announced to all: The unstoppable Stag has returned.
While Robert fought fiercely in the streets, on the other side of the battlefield, Prince Oberyn Martell's hawk-like gaze cut through the chaos, locking onto a figure in snow-white armor—his uncle, the Kingsguard Ser Lewyn Martell.
Oberyn cut into the melee like a red lightning bolt. With a horizontal sweep of his specially made spear, he blocked Lewyn's path precisely.
"Uncle!" Oberyn shouted, his voice clear over the clash of steel. "Whether it's the Mad King on the Iron Throne or that self-righteous Rhaegar, when have they ever truly respected Dorne? They are not worth our loyalty!"
Ser Lewyn's white cloak was stained with dust and blood, but his eyes remained as firm as rock. He responded calmly, every word heavy as iron. "Oberyn, the day I donned this white cloak, I swore an oath. From then on, I belong to no house. I am loyal only to the Crown. This will does not waver, until my life ends."
A trace of sorrow flashed in Oberyn's eyes. He knew words could not turn him. "Then," he slowly lowered his spear into an attack stance, "we can only speak with the spear and sword in our hands."
Uncle and nephew said no more, instantly engaging in battle.
Spear like a viper's tongue, sword light like a ribbon across the sky. Their martial arts stemmed from the same source, and for a time, they were evenly matched. However, just as they were fully focused on their duel, a ghostly figure leaped silently from a roof to the side!
Euron Greyjoy. Like a kraken from the shadows, he seized the opening exposed after Ser Lewyn parried, striking the back of Lewyn's neck hard—not with the edge, but with the spine of his curved blade. Lewyn grunted and collapsed, unconscious.
Oberyn's spear stopped abruptly. He looked at Euron with shock and anger. Euron flicked the spine of his blade, wearing his signature inscrutable smile.
"Don't blame me for meddling, Prince. But I think tying this noble uncle up and taking him back to Sunspear is better than letting him die here. The battlefield," he kicked the dust at his feet, "is no place to discuss family matters."
Before his voice faded, two sharp whistles cut the air! As if he had eyes in the back of his head, Euron spun his twin blades like a whirlwind, precisely deflecting two cold arrows shot from the shadows. Sparks flew as edges met arrowheads.
He let out a wild laugh, pushing off the ground with sudden force. His figure flashed like a ghost as he counter-charged into the group of royal soldiers where the arrows had come from. His dual blades turned into two lethal silver arcs. Where he passed, flesh and blood flew, instantly clearing a small vacuum.
At the peak of this chaos, Jon Connington stood on a set of raised stone steps, calmly surveying the entire battlefield. He saw Robert reborn as a god of war, saw Prince Oberyn subduing Ser Lewyn, saw Euron reaping lives at will, and saw his own lines collapsing entirely. This commander, known for his rationality, instantly made the coldest and most correct judgment: Defeat was inevitable; preserving his forces was the best course.
He hesitated no longer, issuing concise and clear orders to the messenger beside him: "Sound the retreat. Units cover each other. Break out to the southeast!"
The retreat horn sounded mournfully. The remnants of the royal army began to disengage in an orderly fashion under their officers' command, withdrawing from the town like a receding tide. A bloody street battle had finally reached its conclusion.