Trials and Tribulations of the Oathkeeper

Chapter 163: Battle of King's Landing (Part 5)

Time had momentarily stopped. In the heat of the moment, before the blade came down, Daveth felt his strength leaving his body due to blood loss. Quiet exhales and struggling to breathe, the Young Stag's vision blurs. Yara remained straddling atop Daveth's torso as he bled out from the stab wound on his left side inflicted upon him by Euron Greyjoy moments earlier.

Sansa...

Yes; what phases through his mind were imagery silhouettes of his own wife: Sansa Stark and their children running around in circles happily. Her thick, mid-back length auburn hair, her vivid blue eyes... her high cheekbones, and her smile full of warmth and affection. Daveth missed her terribly. She was the first thing he saw in the morning, the last he saw at night. He missed her scent, smelling sweet of lemons... and he missed her touch; the way Sansa looks at him, how soft her skin was against his fingertips and her kisses.

"Good morning, my love. How fares your Small Council meeting? Our children have missed you terribly."

"Hi, papa!"

Oh, Sansa... she's so beautiful. Just the thought of me not being able to protect her or our family, after all they've done for me, makes me cringe.

Waves of flashbacks flooded through Daveth's mind; he and Robb as 7-year-old children playing in the snow at Winterfell moments after meeting for the first time, his childhood friends in the Westerlands, everything...

"Come now, Your Highness! You can throw snow a lot harder than that!"

"For the last time, Robb, it's 'Daveth'! 'DAVETH'!"

"Still doesn't change that you're still waist deep in snow! Yah! Take that!"

"Ompf! Ooh, you're going to pay for that, Stark!"

All of my family and friends, those who've been at my side through the worst of times... Ah, Lord Arryn. Ser Barristan. I think I understand what it was you were trying to tell me all these years. Yes, I've changed in the past seven years – much to my surprise. I've come to accept my failings – that there are things I simply cannot predict nor control, I've found a sense of closure with my father... These people, they saved me from a cold, dark and lonely place after Lannisport. I can't stomach the thought of not being able to protect them from Euron Greyjoy, Daenerys Targaryen or anyone who means them harm...

"End of the line for you, Oathkeeper..." Yara panted wearily.

In the name of the Warrior, if you can hear me... please, give me the strength I need to end this madness before it spreads across this land like a plague!

When she raised her arm and moved to bring down the dagger still locked in the palm of her hand, Daveth groaned and strained. Achingly shifting his body onto his side, the Young Stag could see the discarded Stormbringer mere inches away. All he needed was to get away from the Greyjoys, but could only free one arm and gripped Yara's wrist—the tip of the dagger inches away from his face.

"Ngh!" he strained in pain.

"What the...? WHY WON'T YOU JUST DIE ALREADY?!" Yara was somewhat surprised; the Young Stag was still putting up a fight, even in his weakened state. Her outrage scream was enough to cause Euron to lift his head up to see that there is still some fight left in Daveth, dropping his head in a sigh. "DIEE!"

Daveth's left arm was shaking as he struggled against Yara pressing her weight down on her arm in the hopes of finishing off the battle. But because her focus was primarily on Daveth, Yara had failed to recognize the fast-approaching sound of footsteps on wet shores and wet stones; only until a foot was forcibly shoved into her face did it break her concentration.