Trials and Tribulations of the Oathkeeper

Chapter 142: Bidding Farewells, Growing Bonds

—At King's Landing—

Red Keep — War room...

It was time. From on high viewpoint of the Red Keep, the gathered armies of the Seven Kingdoms—soldier and militiamen—were marching past Cobbler's Square to the kingsroad from the Gate of the Gods; half of the royal forces were marching north through that route whilst the other half proceeded through the Old Gate and Dragon Gate. A combined force of over 600,000 men and women from every corner across the nation, it was perhaps by far the largest army in Westerosi history. They would all begin the long trek north to Winterfell to face the Night King's Army of the Dead.

"But brother, this is what you trained me for! I'm fit and ready. Let me go with you," Tommen insisted. He is confused, his face pleading with not just the King but his eldest brother.

Daveth was being fitted into his Baratheon plate armor with Stormbringer being strapped to his waist while his helm was being prepped. He, however, would not permit his brother's request. "My answer is still no, Tommen. You will remain here in King's Landing to keep the peace with Myrcella, Sansa and the rest of the Small Council. Commander Duran and the City Watch along with a token force will be defending the capital should the worst come to pass."

"But I—"

"My decision is final. You are clearly not ready for such a task. Besides, you can do better here than out there. Myrcella is due to give birth soon, and I'll need you to ensure no harm comes to her, Trystane or their child. Same goes for mine while I'm gone."

Tommen appeared disappointed but nodded nonetheless.

"There is one thing you could do for me," Daveth said shifting his head left towards his desk. "On the counter there is a message sealed in wax. Take it to uncle Tyrion. Not his steward, not his captain of the guard... and not his mistress; only our uncle."

"Yes, brother," he sighed; the Young Cub reluctantly picked up the scroll and walked out—leaving Daveth alone with Sansa as the other smiths were finished putting his armor on.

Sansa was as calm as she can be. No longer was she the little girl she was when she first arrived in King's Landing six years ago; no longer was able to be completely dependent on someone to protect her from harm; her maturity, cunning and knowledge of the game of thrones political intrigue allowed her to stay on her toes for a long time now. Nevertheless, that didn't stop her for fearing for her husband's life as she helped adjust the straps of Daveth's armor. The Queen saw with her own eyes a dead man literally just lunged at them and knew the real threat coming their way. "This is it – isn't it? Once you and Robb make your stand at Winterfell, I suppose we must... wait. Be safe, my love... for our sake," she says, resting her forehead against Daveth's forearm, twiddling her fingers around the final leather strap to properly fasten it.

With a sigh, Daveth pulled Sansa into a hug and buried his face into the crook of her neck. He placed chaste kisses down her exposed neck and shoulders before resting his forehead against her own and taking her face in his hands. "I'll be thinking of you every step of the way, Sansa," he said sympathetically, rubbing his thumb across his wife's cheekbone. Surprisingly, he still held onto Sansa's handmade blue scarf around his neck before riding off in the Second Greyjoy Rebellion—even if the scarf itself was rather old, worn and torn in some places.

"Flatterer, but please keep your thoughts focused on the tasks at hand. There is so much at stake if Winterfell, my home... if the North falls," she said solemnly, pulling slightly on the metal that was protecting his shoulders, making sure it wouldn't fall off. There are no tears from her eyes, nor trembling in her voice. "Gods preserve me; this does not seem to make things any easier. I wish you didn't have to go, but I need you to promise me one thing."