GOT: House Redwyne

The waters of Slaver's Bay shimmered beneath the scorching heat of the midday sun. Unlike the cool, wine-scented breezes of the Arbor, the air here was thick with the stench of silt, sweat, and spice, laced with a faint metallic tang—the scent of a city built on blood and conquest.

The Great Pyramid of Meereen, carved from pale sandstone, dominated the skyline, its peak looming like a temple to forgotten gods. Though time and war had left their scars upon its stone, there was a defiance to its presence, much like the queen who now ruled from within.

Paxter Redwyne stood at the prow of the Gilded Vine, watching the towers, ziggurats, and domed palaces of Meereen grow larger as his ship drifted into the harbor. A city unlike any in Westeros, where the echoes of slaver kings and broken chains still lingered in the streets.

Above it all, dragons flew.

A shadow passed overhead, stretching across the sails of the Arbor fleet. The screech was deafening, a cry that sent shivers through even the most hardened sailors.

Paxter gripped the railing, gazing upward as Drogon, black as a storm-tossed sea, wingspan vast as the decks of three warships, cut across the sky. The beast's golden eyes flashed as it soared past, banking toward the upper levels of the Great Pyramid, where it perched like a monstrous sentinel.

The men whispered behind him, some murmuring prayers to the Seven, others cursing under their breath. Even the Ironborn, for all their bluster, cast uneasy glances skyward.

Paxter exhaled slowly.

The Targaryens had truly returned.

—

The docks of Meereen were unlike any in Westeros. The piers stretched into the bay, wide enough to accommodate the great slaver galleys that had once defined this city. Now, they teemed with freedmen, merchants, and soldiers from across the world.

Standing at the head of the pier was a small assembly of power, flanked by rows of Unsullied, their polished spears reflecting the sunlight.

At the center stood Tyrion Lannister, arms folded, his mismatched gaze sharp and assessing.

To his right, Varys, draped in his signature flowing robes, watched the arrivals with a knowing smile.

Beside them, Missandei stood tall, exuding quiet authority.

And ahead of them all stood Grey Worm, motionless, his hand resting on his sword hilt, watching with the patience of a man who had seen too much war.

The moment Paxter, Quentyn Martell, and Victarion Greyjoy stepped onto the docks, Tyrion clapped his hands together with a wry smirk.

"A Martell, a Greyjoy, and a Redwyne walk into Meereen," he mused, shaking his head. "Sounds like the beginning of a very bad joke."

Victarion scoffed, unimpressed. "And yet, here we stand, dwarf."

Tyrion arched an eyebrow. "Ah, the famed charm of the Ironborn." He then turned to Paxter, studying him closely. "And what of you, Lord Redwyne? A man of the Arbor traveling halfway across the world. What could possibly bring you here?"

Paxter, ever the merchant, offered a measured smile. "Wine and gifts, Lord Tyrion."

Tyrion's smirk deepened, his head tilting slightly.

"Ah, finally, a sensible man. It's rare to find a guest who arrives bearing something other than swords and demands."

Before Paxter could reply, Varys spoke for the first time, his voice smooth as silk.

"Congratulations, Lord Redwyne."

Paxter turned sharply, caught off guard.

Varys' smile was small, knowing, unsettling. "Your victory over Jaime Lannister at the Arbor. Quite the feat, considering the Golden Lion rarely flees from battle."

The words landed like a hammer.

Paxter froze for half a heartbeat, his merchant's mask slipping for the first time. 'How in the Seven Hells did Varys know?'

They had only just arrived. If news of Jaime's withdrawal had already reached Meereen, what else had Varys learned?

Even Tyrion's expression shifted slightly, his smirk faltering for the briefest moment. He looked to Varys, then back to Paxter.

"Jaime retreated?" Tyrion asked, his tone suddenly became much less amused.

Varys, ever the enigma, simply smiled.

Paxter recovered quickly, diplomatically offering, "It was a white peace. If the fight was on land, I surely would have lost."

Before the tension could linger, Tyrion gave an exaggerated sigh and waved a hand.

"Well, no matter. You'll have to forgive my curiosity, Lord Redwyne, but when a Lannister loses a battle, the world tends to take notice."

His tone was light, but his eyes were sharp, watching Paxter for any sign of weakness.

Paxter simply inclined his head, choosing his words carefully.

"I believe your brother was more concerned about losing House Tyrell's gold instead of the battle."

Tyrion gave a slight nod, acknowledging the point. "Gifts indeed…but let's not dwell on past battles—after all, it's the future that concerns us now, isn't it?"

Paxter forced a small chuckle, but the moment had already shifted.

Tyrion was watching him more closely now.

Varys had already weighed him.

And for the first time, Paxter felt as though he had walked into a game where the players already knew the rules—and he did not.

Missandei stepped forward, her voice commanding the room back to order.

"The Queen is expecting you."

Grey Worm gave a short nod, and the Unsullied parted, allowing them through.

Paxter exhaled, steadying himself.

This was it.

The doors to the Great Pyramid loomed ahead, leading to a woman who called herself the Mother of Dragons.

A Targaryen who had returned to claim her birthright.

And Paxter Redwyne was about to stand before her.