GOT: House Redwyne

Pain throbbed in Paxter's skull as he lay sprawled on the wet wooden deck of the Ironborn longship. The air reeked of salt, sweat, and old blood, and the rough timbers beneath him were slick with seawater. A nearby wave crashed against the hull, sending a fine mist over the deck.

He coughed, sputtering seawater from his lungs, and forced himself onto his elbows. His head spun, and his soaked clothes clung to his skin like chains.

Boots thudded heavily against the deck.

Victarion Greyjoy loomed over him, his massive frame casting a long shadow in the dim stormlight. His blackened armor dripped with seawater, his iron helm obscuring all but the glint of his storm-gray eyes. He stood like a man carved from stone, his presence filling the space around him.

"Well now, Lord Redwyne," Victarion rumbled, his voice deep as the sea itself. "Looks like you've found yourself on the wrong ship."

Paxter wiped salt from his lips and sat up, forcing himself to meet the kraken's gaze. "That depends, Lord Greyjoy. Is this a rescue or a kidnapping?"

Victarion's lips curled into a mocking grin. "That depends. Will I be paid for it?"

Laughter erupted from the surrounding Ironborn reavers, men who had spent their lives raiding and spilling blood. They stood like wolves circling prey, their salt-crusted beards and scarred faces bearing the stories of a hundred battles.

Paxter's hands curled into fists. He was unarmed, alone, and surrounded by men who viewed gold and slaughter as equal pursuits.

Martyn. Quentyn. The Redwyne fleet. Had they survived the storm?

He pushed aside the thought—he needed to focus on the present.

Paxter slowly rose to his feet, steadying himself against the swaying ship. He wouldn't give these men the satisfaction of seeing him weak.

"You wanted to sail with me to Meereen," Paxter said, his voice carefully measured. "Then here I am, standing on your deck." He met Victarion's stare without flinching. "I assume you didn't fish me out of the sea for free."

Victarion chuckled. "No, I didn't." His huge hand rested on the haft of his axe, and the motion was not lost on Paxter.

A sharp wind howled through the sails as Victarion stepped closer. "You Redwynes… you're soft. You hide behind your vines and your wine, playing at power through coin and trade. That's not real power."

Paxter exhaled through his nose. "And what is?"

Victarion grinned. "Steel and fire. Men who take what they want. That is power." He gestured to the sigil of House Greyjoy, flapping proudly from the mast. A golden kraken devouring the world.

"We do not sow," Victarion said, voice thick with Ironborn pride. "And yet, we rule the seas. While your lords plant crops and count coins, we take what is ours. And soon, we'll take even more."

Paxter folded his arms. "You speak of taking land in the Reach."

"Aye." Victarion's expression hardened. "The Shield Islands will be ours. And when we sail with the Dragon Queen, she will grant them to us."

Paxter kept his posture firm, but rage coiled in his stomach like a viper. The Shield Islands were the Arbor's first and last line of defense. If they fell to the Ironborn, House Redwyne would be choked off from the Reach, left vulnerable to raiders and starvation.

He inhaled deeply, reigning in his fury. "And if she doesn't grant them to you?"

Victarion's storm-gray eyes gleamed. "Then we take them anyway."

The words settled like a storm cloud over the deck.

Paxter knew he was on dangerous ground. He had come seeking allies, but he had walked into the lair of a kraken. The Greyjoys were not like the Martells—they were unpredictable, untamed, and above all, untrustworthy.

But he needed them.

And for now, he needed to survive.

—

As the storm began to break, the ship rocked more gently beneath them. Paxter watched the Ironborn, studying their movements, their hierarchy. Victarion was their war leader, but these men followed strength above all else.

They would turn on weakness.

Which meant he could not afford to show it.

"I am no fool, Lord Greyjoy," Paxter finally said. "The Shield Islands are my concern. And I won't let my lands be raided like some nameless Free Cities port."

Victarion arched a brow. "Then what will you do?"

Paxter took a slow step forward, his voice low but firm. "I'll do what my House has always done—play the game smarter than our enemies." He turned his gaze toward the distant ships, where Dornish sails and Redwyne banners still floated in the mist. "We are not conquerors. We are not raiders. But we are survivors."

Victarion scoffed, but Paxter didn't let him interrupt.

"I know what power is, Greyjoy," he continued. "And it is not just steel and fire. It is knowing when to wield them. If we come to Meereen as allies, then we must be united." He let his words sink in before adding, "Otherwise, Daenerys Targaryen will crush us all beneath her dragons before we even see Westeros again."

Silence settled over the deck.

Victarion studied him, his gray eyes unreadable. For a moment, Paxter thought he might swing his axe and end the conversation permanently.

Then, the kraken smiled.

"A clever tongue, Lord Redwyne," Victarion murmured. "I'll give you that."

He gestured to the crew. "Put him back on his ship. He still has a role to play in this game."

Two Ironborn stepped forward and grabbed Paxter by the arms, hauling him back toward the longboat.

As they lowered him into the sea, Victarion called after him. "A word of advice, Lord Redwyne. You might be a survivor… but in the end, the sea takes all."

Paxter ignored the taunt.

He sat rigid as the Ironborn rowed him back to his fleet, the fire of battle still burning in his veins.

His boots hit the deck of the Gilded Vine, and Ser Martyn was waiting for him, sword in hand.

"My lord!" Martyn's eyes were wide with relief and fury. "We thought—"

"I'm fine." Paxter dusted himself off, shaking off the sea spray. "What's our status?"

Martyn exhaled. "The fleet is still intact. We lost a few ships in the storm, but we're prepared to move forward." He hesitated. "Did the kraken give his word?"

Paxter glanced back at Victarion's looming warship, where the Ironborn still laughed and drank as if no storm had touched them.

"He gave something," Paxter muttered. "But we'd be fools to trust it."

Martyn's jaw tightened. "Then what do we do now?"

Paxter turned toward the east, where the first light of dawn was beginning to break over the waters.

"Now?" His fingers brushed against the Meereenese coin in his pocket. "Now we meet the Dragon Queen."

The fleet pressed onward, the sea opening before them, and for the first time in his life, Paxter sailed toward the unknown.

And at its center waited fire, blood, and destiny.