Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 272 Interception – Robert Baratheon

Jon Clinton's royal army advanced swiftly to the strategic town of Tengstone, like an iron torrent.

Instead of rushing into action, Jon Snow displayed the caution expected of a commander, ordering the entire army to temporarily encamp there, turning the town into a temporary military fortress.

The arrival of the army shattered the town's tranquility; the clamor of soldiers and the clatter of horses' hooves replaced the former peace. The town's square and streets were divided into orderly sections, infantry began constructing simple fortifications, while cavalry were responsible for perimeter patrols.

Jon Clinton himself moved into the town’s most fortified 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, like a wounded but still dangerous beast, lay hidden across this vast land.

Blindly pursuing him would only waste his energy; he needed a sharp eye.

"Send out all the scouts on horseback," he turned and gave clear instructions to Ser Levin Martell and the messenger standing beside him, "I need to know Robert Baratheon's exact location, marching route, and the real-time status of his army."

Report back immediately if you have any news!

Upon receiving the order, several squads of light cavalry sped out of Tengshi Town like arrows released from a bow, disappearing into the wilderness in different directions.

A life-or-death intelligence war has quietly begun.

Robert Baratheon's defeated army, like a weary serpent, finally snaked its way to the Bridge of Bitterness. This sturdy stone bridge spanning the upper reaches of the Mandeb River became their rare respite.

After the troops settled in, the air was immediately filled with the mixed smells of blood, sweat, and herbs.

Robert himself slumped in the main seat of a requisitioned hall, his face pale from blood loss, the wound on his shoulder and neck throbbing faintly beneath the white cloth, each heartbeat bringing a dull pain. The maester accompanying the army was carefully cleaning his wound and changing the bandages soaked in ointment.

"Hurry up!" Robert growled impatiently, but his voice lacked its usual thunderous force. His physical injuries were secondary; what troubled him more was the state of the army. He forced back the pain, his gaze sweeping across the soldiers setting up camp outside the window, their faces etched with the panic and bewilderment of defeat.

He knew that the most urgent task was not only to heal his personal sword wound, but also to reunite this shattered army. He needed to reorganize the scattered troops, boost morale, and make the stag banner of Stormlands rise high once more.

As the Duke of Stormlands gathered his strength for the final leg of his journey north, he remained completely unaware that a price had been placed on his head. Far away in Tengstone, Jon Clinton's cold eyes, guided by his swift scouts, had already firmly locked onto the location of Bitterbridge.

An invisible shadow of death is creeping closer as dusk falls.

In matters of military strategy, Robert Baratheon was far from reckless. After leading his wounded army across the Mandeb River, he did not tread the easy, but also easily tracked, Rose Road. He knew that King's Landing would not allow him to advance north, and a profound sense of crisis made him as alert as a wounded beast.

Robert led his army eastward, parallel to the main road, plunging into the vast fields and rolling hills. Using the cover of the woods, they made their way along country lanes, trying to use the complex terrain to conceal themselves and shake off any potential pursuers.

Every step was taken with extreme caution, and scouts were sent out far away to keep watch for any disturbance.

But Jon Clinton was also a seasoned hunter, and he had already anticipated his prey's intentions. Instead of waiting in the expected direction to the north, he led his army on a swift march, crossed the river ahead of them, and set up an ambush at a pass near the Blackwater River.

This is a potential passage from the eastern hills into the northern hinterland, and the night provides him with the best cover.

As Robert's army dragged its weary steps into this land of death, the silent night was ripped apart by the sudden sound of horns!

Jon Clinton's cavalry roared out of the darkness on both sides like ghosts emerging from hell, their sharp spear tips gleaming deadly in the moonlight.

This sudden blow was the final straw that broke the camel's back for the already demoralized Stormfield army.

The defeated army was instantly thrown into a state of extreme panic, like frightened birds. Their formation collapsed in an instant, and the soldiers scattered and fled, trying to find a glimmer of hope in the darkness and chaos.

Amidst the chaos of battle, Robert Baratheon, protected by dozens of loyal Stormwind Knights, fought his way through the enemy lines and sped northward.

The iron hooves of warhorses pounded the mud, each breath carrying the imminent threat of death. Behind them, Jon Clinton's pursuers were like shadows, their torchlight like bloodthirsty eyes, relentlessly piercing the darkness.

The chase continued until they burst into a narrow, treacherous pass with steep slopes on both sides, barely wide enough for a few riders to pass side by side.

The sound of pursuing horses' hooves and shouts were almost upon us, like the breath of death on the back of our necks.

The lead knight jerked the reins, turned his horse around, and instantly formed a human wall with his companions, blocking the narrow passage. He turned to Robert, his face stained with blood and soot, but his eyes shone with unwavering resolve: "My lord, this is it!" His voice was hoarse but incredibly firm. "We'll hold them off here! You must go, now! Don't look back, go straight to Riverrun!"

Before he finished speaking, he and the knights who remained had already drawn their swords, their helmets like masks concealing a calm acceptance of death. They would give their lives to secure a final chance for the Lord of the Buck.

Robert yanked the reins hard, and the warhorse reared up with a mournful neigh.

He looked back and saw that the dozens of Stormrider Knights had resolutely turned their horses around, forming a resolute wall of flesh and blood at the narrow crossroads. Their silhouettes, in the dim moonlight, resembled reefs about to be swallowed by the tide.

A searing pain in his heart and an overwhelming sense of self-reproach instantly gripped his throat, almost suffocating him. These brave men, who had fallen into such a desperate situation because of his failure, were now about to give their lives for him. Robert wished he could turn his horse around and fight alongside them to the death, washing away this shame with his own blood.

But Robert knew even more that once the honor of chivalry was ignited, it was unstoppable and inviolable. Their sacrifice was to give themselves a greater mission—to survive and win the war.

Any hesitation or turning back would be the deepest betrayal of these loyal souls.

Robert gritted his teeth so hard they almost bled, then abruptly turned his horse around and kicked it hard with his spurs. The horse, in pain, bolted like an arrow along the path, leaving behind the impending battle and the silhouettes of his loyal followers in the darkness.

The wind howled in his ears, but it couldn't drown out the vow that erupted in his heart like a volcano.

Every word, tinged with the stench of blood and rust, was etched deeply into his soul: "I swear by the Baratheon name and the honor of warriors, this vengeance shall be exacted! Jon Clinton, King's Landing—you shall wait!"

With his horse galloping at full speed, Robert's solitary figure resolutely disappeared into the deeper night towards Stone Hall Town.