GOT: House Redwyne

The morning sun had barely risen above the horizon when Lord Paxter Redwyne found himself standing at the prow of *The Pride of Arbor*, his flagship. The sea, usually calm and serene around the Arbor, was restless today, its surface marred by choppy waves and a wind that bit more sharply than usual. It was as though the Narrow Sea itself knew what was coming and had chosen to reflect the unease that gnawed at Paxter's heart.

The Redwyne fleet sailed in a tight formation, every sail taut and every oar working in unison, pushing the ships ever closer to Dragonstone. They had been blockading the island for months, preventing any supplies or reinforcements from reaching the garrison loyal to Stannis Baratheon. Paxter had seen his share of sieges, but this one had a peculiar heaviness to it, an oppressive atmosphere that seemed to hang over the fleet like a storm cloud, ready to burst.

As they approached the island, the jagged silhouette of Dragonstone loomed larger against the sky, its ancient fortress built of volcanic stone a stark contrast to the smooth, white limestone of the Arbor's vineyards. Paxter's eyes narrowed as he noticed something unusual—a thin plume of smoke rising from the island's shores.

"Smoke on the beach!" the lookout shouted, confirming Paxter's suspicions.

Paxter's heart quickened. There was no reason for a fire on Dragonstone, not unless… Had Stannis finally ordered his men to torch their own defenses, preferring to burn their supplies rather than let them fall into enemy hands? Or was there some other cause, something darker at work?

"Signal the fleet to close in," Paxter ordered. "I want us in position before nightfall."

His first mate, Morros, a seasoned sailor with a face like weathered oak, nodded curtly and passed the command. The Redwyne fleet adjusted its course, picking up speed as they cut through the waves, the masts creaking under the strain of the wind.

Paxter turned his gaze back to the island, his mind racing with possibilities. This blockade had dragged on for far too long, and each day the tension grew thicker. His men were growing restless, eager for action, but Dragonstone was a fortress designed to withstand even the most determined assault. The narrow, rocky approach made any landing dangerous, and the garrison was still strong enough to repel any direct attack.

They would need to be cautious. A single misstep could turn the blockade into a disaster.

As they neared the coast, Paxter could make out the remains of a small dock, now ablaze, with soldiers frantically working to extinguish the flames. Several wooden crates lay shattered on the beach, their contents spilling out into the sand, the fire licking at them hungrily.

Paxter signaled for the longboats to be lowered. The crew moved swiftly, and within minutes he was descending into one of the boats, his heart heavy with the weight of responsibility. As the oars dipped into the water, propelling them toward the shore, Paxter felt the familiar pang of worry for his family. Mina and Desmera were in King's Landing, preparing for the royal wedding, while Horro and Hobber remained on the Arbor, safe but far from his reach.

As the boat touched the shore, Paxter stepped out onto the black sand. The sharp scent of smoke and charred wood filled his nostrils as he approached the nearest group of soldiers. Their faces were smeared with soot, their expressions grim.

"Who's in command here?" Paxter demanded, his voice carrying the authority that came naturally to a man of his station.

A knight stepped forward, his armor dented and stained from recent battle. "Ser Rolland Storm, at your service, my lord," he said, bowing slightly.

"What happened here?" Paxter asked, his gaze sweeping over the wreckage.

"A fire, my lord," Ser Rolland replied. "We were unloading a shipment of firewood when it caught alight. We managed to contain it, but the dock and supplies were lost."

Paxter frowned, his eyes narrowing as he studied the man. "And how did this fire start?"

Ser Rolland hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty passing across his face. "A spark from a lantern, we think. It spread too quickly to control."

The explanation was plausible enough, but something about it didn't sit right with Paxter. He could feel the unease creeping into his bones, the nagging sense that there was more to this than a simple accident.

"Very well," Paxter said slowly. "But I expect a full report by nightfall. We cannot afford any more losses."

Ser Rolland nodded, though Paxter could see the tension in the man's posture, the way his hands clenched and unclenched as though holding back something unsaid.

Paxter turned away, his thoughts racing. As he surveyed the ruined dock and the smoldering remains of the supplies, a plan began to form in his mind. The blockade was a slow war of attrition, but it could be turned to their advantage if they played their cards right. A feint here, a fire there, and they might be able to draw out the defenders, force them into making a mistake. A siege was not won by brute force alone; it was won by patience, cunning, and seizing opportunities as they presented themselves.

He looked back at the ships anchored off the coast, their hulls bobbing gently in the surf, and then at the men around him, busy extinguishing the last of the flames. The blockade had worn on everyone's nerves, and Paxter could feel the strain in the air. His men were restless, eager to bring the siege to a conclusion, and the longer they waited, the more likely it was that something would go wrong.

He needed to act decisively.

"Ser Rolland," Paxter called, turning back to the knight. "Once the fire is fully out, I want you to gather your men and prepare to embark. We'll be reinforcing the blockade with additional patrols along the shoreline. I suspect the garrison might try to use this fire as a diversion for a supply run or even an escape. We'll be ready for them."

"As you command, my lord," Ser Rolland replied, bowing again before barking orders to his men.

Paxter watched as the soldiers began to move with renewed purpose. This was a time for vigilance, not complacency. He could not afford to let his guard down, not when they were so close to either victory or disaster.

As the day wore on, the Redwyne fleet tightened its grip on Dragonstone. Patrols were set up along the coastline, and *The Pride of Arbor* took a central position, ready to move at a moment's notice. The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the rocky island, but Paxter remained at the prow of his ship, his eyes never leaving the dark silhouette of Dragonstone.

The fire had been contained, but the scent of smoke still lingered in the air, a constant reminder of the precariousness of their situation. Paxter's thoughts drifted to his wife, Mina, and their daughter, Desmera. How he wished he could be with them in King's Landing, where the greatest concern was the excesses of courtly life rather than the specter of war. But his duty was here, with his fleet, ensuring the safety and future of House Redwyne.

The night was falling fast when a shout came from the lookout. "My lord! A ship approaching from the east!"

Paxter snapped his head around, his gaze searching the darkening horizon. Sure enough, a solitary ship was making its way toward Dragonstone, its sails barely visible in the dim light.

"Ready the men," Paxter commanded, his voice cold and sharp. "Signal the fleet to intercept."

The Redwyne fleet sprang into action, ships unfurling their sails and moving into position like a pack of wolves circling their prey. The lone ship continued its course, seemingly unaware of the trap it was sailing into.

As *The Pride of Arbor* closed in, Paxter could see the ship more clearly—a small, weathered vessel, likely a smuggler's craft, attempting to slip past the blockade under the cover of night. But tonight, it would not be so lucky.

"Bring us alongside," Paxter ordered. "And prepare to board."

The ships drew closer, and soon the Redwyne sailors were throwing grappling hooks onto the smuggler's vessel, pulling it in tight. Paxter, along with a dozen of his men, swung across the gap, landing on the deck of the enemy ship with a thud.

The smuggler crew scrambled to defend themselves, but they were outmatched and outnumbered. Paxter's men made quick work of them, disarming the sailors and forcing them to their knees.

"Search the ship," Paxter commanded, his voice icy. "I want to know what they were carrying."

His men moved swiftly, prying open crates and barrels, examining the ship's hold. It wasn't long before one of them called out. "Lord Paxter! Over here!"

Paxter strode over, his heart pounding in his chest. The sailor was standing over an open crate, and as Paxter looked inside, his blood ran cold. The crate was filled with dragonglass—obsidian, the ancient weapon said to be deadly to White Walkers, and a material not commonly found on trading vessels.

But that wasn't all. Beneath the dragonglass were sealed scrolls, their wax seals stamped with a sigil Paxter recognized all too well: the flaming heart of the Lord of Light, the symbol of Stannis Baratheon's newfound faith.

"What is this?" Paxter murmured to himself, his mind racing. Was this some kind of plot? A secret weapon, or perhaps a message meant for someone within the castle? And why would they risk sending such precious cargo by sea, knowing the blockade was in place?

His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden clang of metal on metal. One of the smugglers had broken free, lunging at Paxter with a knife. The attack was desperate and poorly aimed, but Paxter was unarmed and caught off guard. He stumbled backward, but before the blade could reach him, one of his men stepped in, striking the smuggler down with a quick, brutal slash.

Paxter caught his breath, nodding his thanks to the sailor who had saved him. "Take the prisoners below deck," he ordered. "I want them alive for questioning."

As the men were dragged away, Paxter turned back to the crate of dragonglass and scrolls. This was no ordinary smuggling run. This cargo was meant for something far more dangerous, something that could change the course of the war.

And now it was in his hands.

Paxter knew that he needed to act quickly. He would send word to Highgarden and King's Landing, informing them of what he had found. But he would also need to interrogate the prisoners himself, to uncover the full extent of Stannis's plans.

As the night deepened and the stars appeared in the sky, Paxter stood on the deck of *The Pride of Arbor*, his mind whirling with possibilities and dangers. The game had changed, and the stakes were higher than ever. But one thing was certain: whatever Stannis Baratheon was planning, Paxter Redwyne would be ready.

For the Arbor, for his family, and for the future of Westeros, he would ensure that House Redwyne remained strong, no matter what storm came their way.