GOT: House Redwyne

The Great Pyramid of Meereen was alive with movement as preparations began in earnest. Orders were shouted across the golden halls, Unsullied marched in disciplined columns, and the scent of burning oils from the torches filled the air. Daenerys Targaryen had spoken. The Targaryen fleet would soon set sail for Westeros, and with it, the tides of war would shift.

Paxter Redwyne stood upon the balcony overlooking the city below, his hands resting on the cool marble railing. Meereen was unlike any place in Westeros. The streets pulsed with life—a city of freed slaves, merchants from all corners of the world, and warriors preparing for the greatest war in living memory. Smoke curled from the chimneys of the forges where weapons were being crafted, and beyond the city walls, the harbors were filled with ships, banners of House Targaryen, House Martell, and the Ironborn fluttering in the warm breeze.

The sound of approaching footsteps drew Paxter's attention. Tyrion Lannister stepped beside him, goblet in hand, watching the view with an amused smirk.

"A fine sight, isn't it?" Tyrion mused, swirling the wine in his cup. "The calm before the storm."

Paxter exhaled, turned his gaze to the ships below. "But soon, the real battle begins."

Tyrion chuckled dryly. "Aye. And you, my dear Lord Redwyne, have just placed yourself in the center of it." He took a sip of wine, his sharp eyes never leaving Paxter's face. "Tell me, does it weigh on you yet? The choice to bend the knee?"

Paxter met Tyrion's gaze. "Does a trapped man truly have a choice? The Lannisters and their puppets left me no path but to seek a stronger ally. Daenerys is not only powerful—she is resolute. I see in her the will to reshape Westeros."

Tyrion tilted his head. "Spoken like a man who knows which way the wind is blowing." He raised his goblet in mock toast. "Well then, to the new Warden of the South. May your vineyards prosper under dragonfire."

Paxter let out a small chuckle. "As long as they are not burned by it first."

They stood in companionable silence for a moment, watching as more ships were loaded with supplies, preparing for departure. The Ironborn, eager and restless, drank and sharpened their axes on the docks. The Dornish, ever calculated, moved with efficiency, ensuring their warriors were equipped. The Unsullied, disciplined and precise, patrolled the city in perfect unison.

Westeros was not ready for what was coming.

Behind them, the doors to the chamber opened, and Varys entered, his robes whispering against the stone floor. His expression, as always, was unreadable.

"The final preparations are complete," Varys said smoothly. "The Queen will inspect the fleet before we sail at first light."

Tyrion smirked. "And how many spies are already waiting in Westeros to whisper of our departure?"

Varys offered a small smile. "Many. But some whispers, my dear Tyrion, are placed there intentionally." He glanced toward Paxter. "Lord Redwyne, I trust your men are ready?"

Paxter nodded. "The Arbor fleet will sail with the Targaryen banners before the sun rises."

Varys studied him for a moment. "Good. You've already proven yourself valuable. The Queen will not forget that."

Paxter wasn't sure if that was a comfort or a warning. He simply gave a small nod.

As the last light of day painted the sky in hues of orange and crimson, the fleet stood ready for war. The Targaryen flagship, painted in black and red, bore the sigil of the three-headed dragon, its sails large enough to shadow the docks beneath it. The Dornish warships, swift and elegant, were lined beside the brutal longships of the Ironborn, a stark contrast of fire and steel.

Paxter walked along the docks, inspecting his own fleet. The Arbor galleys were fast, designed for trade, but their hulls had been reinforced, their decks fitted with scorpions and barrels of wildfire—precautions against what lay ahead.

Victarion Greyjoy stood near one of his ships, watching as his men loaded weapons aboard.

"Your ships are too pretty," Victarion rumbled as Paxter approached. "Not built for real war."

Paxter smiled. "And yet, they outmaneuvered your kind at the Arbor."

"Your stunt this morning was impressive, Warden of the South. But your ambition was too great. In the end you'll fail, and you'll fail to hold the Shield Islands."

Paxter's lips curled into a smirk. "I did what needed to be done, and I'll do so again. As for the Shield Islands—better men than you have tried to take them from me. They failed. So shall you."

Victarion's eyes narrowed, but before he could respond, Prince Quentyn Martell approached. Unlike the brute force of the Ironborn, the Dornishman carried himself with quiet confidence, dressed in fine silks, his belt lined with daggers.

"We sail soon," Quentyn said with a hint of melancholy, Paxter could see the slight despair in his eyes.

Victarion scowled. "It looks like the Dragon Queen turned down your request too." Laughing, he added, "Me to my niece and you to your uncle's lover. What do you say we work together…solve our collective problem?"

Quentyn's smile was thin. "The Dornish do not crawl to Ironborn for aid. We do not raid, reave, or beg. Do no mistake patience for failure. Whatever comes next, I will face it on my own terms."

"Well, that was amusing," Tyrion said approaching with Missandei and a troop of unsullied. "A precarious truce indeed."

When he finished Missandei stepped forward, "I am here to inform you my queen wishes you sail beside her. Lord Greyjoy, Prince Martell, my queen sends her thanks for your contributions. She wants to inform you when we arrive at Dragonstone, she'll commend you for your aid."

Victarion grunted but said nothing more.

The sun rose blood-red over Meereen as the Targaryen fleet set sail. The great black sails of House Targaryen unfurled, dragons painted across them, while the golden spears of Dorne, the krakens of the Ironborn, and the grapes of House Redwyne all flew beside them.

The war for Westeros had begun.

Later that night, Paxter sat in his cabin aboard the Gilded Vine, the map of Reach spread before him. As Queen Deanery's Warden of the South, he now had the political backing to rival the Tarly's. Now, was the time to build allies in the Reach, crush his enemies, and cement his reign.

A soft knock at his door made him look up. Ser Martyn. He motioned for him to enter.

"You should rest," he said quietly.

Paxter gave a small, tired smile. "I doubt I'll find sleep easy tonight."

He stepped closer, placing a hand on the map. "I'm sure Lady Mina has restored the Arbor."

Paxter met his gaze. "I've written her a letter, see that she gets it." He looked back down at the map, his fingers tracing over Highgarden. "If I am to hold Highgarden, I must free Horro and Desmond from Kings Landing."