Trials and Tribulations of the Oathkeeper

Chapter 155: It All Comes Crashing Down

—At Winterfell—

Daveth groaned as he tossed and turned in bed. His head felt heavy and slowly pressed himself up, uncertain as to the amount of time lost. For the first time in his life, the Young Stag was experiencing quite a hangover. It was difficult for him to concentrate, but when he opened his eyes, he looked around to recognize he was in a guest room. "Ugh, ooh my head... What happened last night?" Ah, how much did I drink? Normally I hate the taste of ale or any kind of wine unless it's for social occasions, but... shit. Daveth rubbed his eyes but felt his cheeks were wet and recognized the salty scent of the substance on his fingers. He shook his head with disappointment. "Damn it... Daveth Baratheon, what in Seven hells have you done? You're better than this," he cursed himself before noticing a small vial on a desk next to him.

The note read as followed:

"Daveth,

I've already had Maester Luwin concoct a special brew made for treating headaches you're bound to receive. It tastes terrible; trust me I know from experience, but the remedy works like a charm. I won't pressure you into providing details on your current state considering recent events, but drink it in one go. When you're ready, we can discuss future plans now that the Night King's army has been destroyed.

Try not to overdo it next time.

Your friend,
Robb Stark · Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North"

Daveth shook his head and sighed. "Ah, a hangover. So that's what one feels like. Well thanks for letting me aware of that, Robb— ow, my fucking head..." Taking the vial, he brought the concoction to his lips and quickly gulped it down in one go. He gagged at the disgusting taste and forced it down his throat, shuddering slightly.

Tossing the bedsheets and furs aside, Daveth stood up, albeit he stumbled slightly while he steadied himself on the counter due to being hungover and the fact that his ribs were still sore and bandaged up before eventually moving to get dressed. His new formal wear was a high-quality black-colored faux leather coat with a high neckline and extreme structure woven with polyester materials, an asymmetrical cut with gold metal buttons, and a leather belt around his waist and two silver cauldrons on his shoulders. Daveth's outfit was nearly reminiscent of Tywin Lannister's style when the Old Lion was still alive, imposing and militaristic, yet he knew he was different from either his Baratheon or Lannister relatives.

Lying in a pile in a corner across from the room was Daveth's plate armor, covered in slash and scratch marks with a few dents in it. His great antlered helm was eventually recovered from the battlefield, but one antler was broken off from where the undead Viserion clamped its jaws around; sitting up straight in its scabbard was Stormbringer. He looked them over as he started recollecting the previous night before. The aftermath of the Long Night, the funeral pyres, the celebratory feast...

Barristan... Daveth remembered. Shaking his head, the Young Stag turned to open the door leading outside in the main hallway to find two Stark guards at the edge of his room.

"Your Grace," they acknowledged. "You really shouldn't be moving around in your current state."

"I'm fine now. I'm just stepping out to get some fresh air."

"I'm sorry, Your Grace, but Lord Stark specifically ordered us to—"

Daveth was having none of it. "Now you listen here," he said with a low, deep voice, "I'm cold, I'm tired and my ribs still ache so I'm literally in no mood to all of a sudden have someone watch my every move without my express consent. Seven hells, I'm starting to feel like a prisoner than a guest here! Now unless you want to see what an angry Baratheon looks like up close, you will stand aside and let me pass. If I wanted protection, I'd have my Kingsguard stand outside my room."