GOT: House Redwyne

The sea was calm, but the air was charged with anticipation. The Targaryen fleet, a vast armada of warships, longships, and galleys, sliced through the morning mist as the coast of Westeros came into view. Black sails, adorned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, billowed in the wind, flanked by the golden sun of Dorne, the kraken of the Ironborn, and the grapes of House Redwyne.

Paxter Redwyne stood at the prow of the Gilded Vine, gripping the worn wood of the railing as Dragonstone loomed ahead. Its jagged cliffs, sculpted by wind and waves over the ages, stood like a fortress of blackened stone rising from the sea. The castle itself was carved from the very rock, its towers shaped into the twisting forms of dragons—wings unfurled, tails curling along the keep's walls. It was unlike any castle in Westeros, a place built for dragons, not men.

A gust of cold wind swept over the ship, carrying the scent of salt and smoke. Overhead, the sky belonged to Daenerys Targaryen. Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion soared through the heavy clouds, their scales gleaming like polished steel, the beat of their wings sending tremors across the sea's surface. No fleet, no army, no kingdom could deny their return.

From where he stood, Paxter could see the flagship Black Wind already anchored in the bay, its sails furled as the Queen of Dragons had set foot upon Westerosi soil for the first time in her life. She had not turned back. She had not hesitated. He saw her dark figure, small against the massive stone steps of Dragonstone, walking forward with the quiet certainty of someone who had already won. Tyrion, Missandei, and Varys followed behind her, but it was Daenerys who commanded all attention, even from this distance.

It was a fortress of black stone, carved from the volcanic rock of the island itself, its towers twisting skyward like the talons of a beast long asleep. The castle loomed over the turbulent waves, a relic of Valyrian might, yet today, it would be the gateway to war.

The moment was not lost on him.

For the first time in centuries, a true Targaryen Queen was returning to the land of her ancestors.

Paxter let out a breath, steadying himself. His ship was now pulling into the harbor, the red grapes of House Redwyne's banners fluttering in the sharp winds alongside the three-headed dragon. He turned to Ser Martyn, who had been silently watching from beside him.

"We disembark now," Paxter ordered. "Then send the ships back to the Arbor. Mina must receive my letter."

Ser Martyn nodded and began barking orders. Within moments, longboats were lowered into the churning waters, ferrying Paxter and his men toward the docks.

As they stepped onto the black volcanic stone of Dragonstone, the chill of the island settled into his bones. This was no warm harbor of the Arbor, where the scent of fruit and salt filled the air—Dragonstone was something else entirely. The sea crashed violently against the cliffs, mist rising from below, while black sand crunched beneath his boots. The steps leading to the castle stretched before him, winding like the back of some ancient beast.

Paxter took a slow breath. He had sailed across the world for this moment. The politics of the Reach, the battles at sea, the betrayal of the Tarlys—all of it had led to him standing here, at the foot of the Queen's new kingdom.

Yet as he prepared to climb steps to the keep, he was approached by Prince Martell.

"Lord Redwyne, I fear this is goodbye for now. I must return to Sunspear before my usurper uncle's lover. I hope we can meet again as friends," Prince Martell smiled.

"Same. The Reach and Dorne should burry their past grievances. I hope we can remain the friends in the future," Paxter agreed.

"Well, isn't that sweet," Victarion laughed mockingly. "I'm glad this truce is ended. Pray you never meet me on the sea again. Well, I might let you live, for old time sakes, as long as you can pay a dragon's ransom," He laughed menacingly.

Paxter and Quentyn ignored Victarion and finished their goodbyes. And with that behind him, he climbed the narrow steep steps to Dragonstone.

The halls were lit with torches, the flames flickering against the obsidian-forged dragons that coiled along the columns. Massive stone-carved beasts snarled from above the archways, their wings stretching into the ceilings, their eyes hollow and dark. The cold was ever-present, the wind howling through the long corridors despite the heavy stone.

Unlike the golden halls of King's Landing or the lush courts of the Reach, Dragonstone was a place of conquest, not comfort. There were no great feasts, no warm hearths, no courtiers whispering behind silk fans. Here, the air itself seemed to hum with the weight of history—the ghosts of Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys lingering in every shadowed corner.

Paxter followed the path set before him walking past armed unsullied guards. Moving deeper into the fortress until he reached the throne room.

As Paxter stepped into the throne room of Dragonstone, a chill ran through him, though the air was thick with the warmth of burning braziers. The chamber was vast and stark, hewn from black volcanic stone, its walls etched with the twisting forms of dragons frozen mid-flight. The throne itself was jagged and uneven, carved directly from the rock as if shaped by dragonfire rather than mortal hands. It was not gilded, nor did it glimmer like the Iron Throne—it was raw, brutal, and unyielding, much like the castle itself.

"This way my lord," Vary's motioned.

Paxter looked at Vary's. He could tell the spy's gaze studying. Studying him, for what, he did not know.

Paxter followed him to a rear chamber. When he entered before him stood the Painted Table stretching the length of the hall. It was a map of Westeros unlike any other—a warlord's vision, with no borders drawn, only land to be conquered. The seas and rivers were carved into the wood, the mountains rising like ridges, the castles marked with dragon sigils.

Daenerys stood at its head.

She ran her fingers over the carved wood, her violet eyes studying the Seven Kingdoms as if she could already see her armies marching across them. Tyrion and Varys stood at her side, deep in conversation, while Missandei waited with quiet patience. Then she commanded, "Let's begin."

There was no doubt in her posture, no hesitation in her gaze. This was not a woman seeking to claim power—this was a queen reclaiming what was hers.

To her right sat Tyrion, goblet in hand, his expression shrewd.

To her left stood Varys, his hands clasped together as if in contemplation.

Paxter stood near the southern coastline of the map, his gaze falling to the Reach.

This was why he had come.

The room fell silent as Daenerys spoke.

"We are here," she said simply. "But Westeros is still ruled by Cersei Lannister. We cannot simply take the throne—we must take it piece by piece."

Her fingers traced over the map, lingering over King's Landing.

Tyrion set his goblet down, straightening. "A direct assault on King's Landing would be disastrous. The people will not rally behind a queen who lays waste to their city with dragonfire. If we storm the capital, Cersei will use the innocent as her shield, and the realm will turn against us. We must be smarter than that."

He moved his hand across the table, pointing to the Westerlands. "The Lannisters are powerful because of their gold. Without it, their power crumbles. The Unsullied will take Casterly Rock. If we seize it, we cut Cersei off from her ancestral seat and her treasury."

Grey Worm nodded, his expression unreadable. "The Unsullied will take the castle."

Daenerys, arms folded, studied the board. "And what of King's Landing? If we take the Rock, but leave the capital intact, we allow Cersei time to rally her defenses."