GOT: House Redwyne

The next morning dawned with a sky streaked in hues of pink and orange, the calm before the storm. The air was thick with the promise of rain, and the sea, usually a comforting constant in Lord Paxter Redwyne's life, seemed to churn with an uneasy energy. He stood on the deck of The Pride of Arbor, watching as the crew went about their duties with the efficient, if somewhat subdued, demeanor of men who knew they were in the eye of something far greater than themselves.

The discovery of the dragonglass and the mysterious scrolls had kept Paxter awake through the night, his mind racing with the implications. He had dispatched a raven to the Arbor with a full report, detailing the intercepted cargo and his growing suspicion that Stannis Baratheon's influence might be reaching into the very heart of King's Landing. He knew that his wife, Lady Mina, would ensure the message reached the highest authorities, but whether they would take it seriously was another matter entirely.

As he pondered his next steps, Maester Ferris appeared beside him, a leather-bound book in hand and a look of grim determination on his face.

"My lord," Ferris began, his voice low, "I've spent the night studying the scrolls we recovered. The script is an ancient form of Valyrian, one rarely seen outside of the Citadel's deepest archives. It took some time, but I managed to decipher parts of it."

"And?" Paxter asked, his heart quickening. "What do they say?"

Ferris opened the book, revealing several pages filled with hastily scribbled translations. "The scrolls detail a ritual—a form of blood magic, my lord. It seems Stannis's followers, particularly the Red Priestess Melisandre, believe that by sacrificing those of 'royal blood,' they can harness the power of the old gods—or something worse—to defeat their enemies. The dragonglass is mentioned as part of a greater plan, perhaps as a weapon or a tool in these rituals."

Paxter felt a cold dread settle in his chest. Blood magic was a dark and dangerous path, one that led only to ruin, no matter the intent. If Stannis and his followers were truly dabbling in such forbidden arts, then they were not just a threat to their enemies—they were a threat to all of Westeros.

"And the seals," Paxter said, his voice barely above a whisper, "do they give any indication of who these scrolls were intended for?"

Ferris shook his head. "No names, but there is mention of a 'Shadowbinder' who is to be summoned to Dragonstone. Whoever this person is, they are believed to have the knowledge to unlock the full potential of the dragonglass, to turn it into something far more powerful."

Paxter's mind raced. A Shadowbinder—an individual from the distant and mysterious lands of Asshai, where the darkest of magics were said to flourish. This was far worse than he had imagined. Stannis was not just raising an army; he was preparing to unleash forces that had not walked the world since the days of the Long Night.

"We cannot allow this to happen," Paxter said, his voice firm. "Dragonstone must be taken, and the Red Priestess must be stopped."

Ferris nodded in agreement, but there was a hesitation in his eyes. "My lord, if what the scrolls say is true, then Stannis and his followers are more dangerous than we thought. Blood magic, shadows, and the powers they seek to harness are not something any ordinary force can contend with. We must tread carefully."

Paxter knew Ferris was right. Charging into Dragonstone without a solid plan would be suicide, especially if the defenders had such dark powers at their disposal. But he also knew that doing nothing was not an option. The blockade had weakened the garrison, but they were far from broken. The time had come to take a risk.

"Send word to the fleet captains," Paxter ordered. "I want them to prepare for an assault on Dragonstone. We'll launch a coordinated strike, with the fleet bombarding the castle's defenses while a ground force lands under cover of darkness. Our target is the castle itself—specifically, the chambers where this Red Priestess is likely to be found. We need to capture her alive if possible, but if not… we end her threat once and for all."

Ferris looked concerned but did not argue. "I'll see to it immediately, my lord."

As the maester departed, Paxter turned his gaze back to Dragonstone, now looming ominously in the distance. He could almost feel the darkness emanating from its ancient walls, a malevolent force that seemed to defy the natural order of things. He knew that his men were nervous—many of them had heard the tales of Melisandre's powers, of the shadows that could kill without warning, and of the flames that whispered secrets no mortal should hear.

But he also knew that fear could be a weapon, one that could be turned against those who wielded it. Stannis and his Red Priestess believed they had the upper hand, that their magic made them invincible. Paxter would prove them wrong.

The day passed slowly, each hour dragging as preparations were made for the assault. The fleet was positioned to encircle Dragonstone, ready to unleash a barrage of fire and steel at a moment's notice. The ground force—made up of the hardiest and most experienced men in the Redwyne fleet—was assembled, armed to the teeth and prepared to face whatever horrors might await them within the castle's walls.

As night fell, the tension on the deck of The Pride of Arbor was palpable. The moon hung low in the sky, its pale light casting eerie shadows across the water. Paxter stood at the helm, his eyes fixed on Dragonstone as he waited for the signal.

It came as a single flash of light from the lead ship, followed by the deep, resonant boom of the first cannon. The assault had begun.

The fleet's cannons roared to life, their blasts echoing across the sea as they unleashed a relentless barrage on Dragonstone's defenses. Paxter watched as the fortress's outer walls shook under the impact, sections of stone crumbling into the sea below. The sound of the bombardment was deafening, a thunderous symphony of war that drowned out even the howling wind.

"Launch the boats!" Paxter commanded, his voice cutting through the din.

The longboats were lowered into the water, and the ground force quickly boarded, their faces set with grim determination. Paxter joined them, taking his place at the front of the lead boat. As they rowed toward the shore, the cannon fire above them continued unabated, providing cover as they made their approach.

The beach was dark and silent, the only light coming from the distant flashes of the cannons. The Redwyne men disembarked quickly, their boots sinking into the black sand as they moved in formation toward the castle. Paxter led the way, his heart pounding in his chest as they approached the walls of Dragonstone.

The entrance they sought was a hidden postern gate, rarely used and often overlooked. It had been shown to them by a deserter from Stannis's forces, a man who had claimed to have seen the Red Priestess perform her dark rituals and wanted no part of it. Whether his information would prove true or a trap, Paxter had no choice but to trust it.

As they reached the gate, Paxter signaled for silence. The men paused, their breath visible in the cold night air. He nodded to the lead man, who produced a small set of tools and began working on the lock. The minutes stretched on as the sounds of battle raged behind them, but finally, with a soft click, the gate swung open.

They slipped inside, moving quickly and quietly through the dark corridors of the castle. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and something else, something acrid and unnatural. Paxter's heart pounded as they navigated the labyrinthine passages, every step bringing them closer to the heart of the darkness.

Finally, they reached the chamber described by the deserter—a large, circular room deep within the castle, its walls lined with strange symbols and flickering candles. In the center of the room stood an altar, and beside it, the Red Priestess herself, Melisandre, her red robes glowing like embers in the dim light.

She turned as they entered, her eyes burning with a cold fire. "You are too late," she said, her voice echoing strangely in the chamber. "The shadows have already been summoned."

Paxter felt a chill run down his spine as he saw movement in the shadows behind her—dark, formless figures that seemed to flicker and dance with the candlelight. He had heard the stories, but seeing them with his own eyes was something else entirely.

"Seize her!" Paxter commanded, his voice breaking the spell.

The Redwyne men surged forward, but before they could reach her, Melisandre raised her hands, and the room was suddenly filled with an intense, blinding light. Paxter shielded his eyes, his heart racing as the temperature in the room seemed to drop, the very air turning cold as death.

When he looked again, the shadows were gone, and Melisandre stood at the altar, a small, sinister smile on her lips. "You do not understand the forces at work here, Lord Redwyne," she said, her voice soft and mocking. "But you will."

Paxter knew he had no choice. "Kill her," he ordered, the words bitter in his mouth.

But as his men moved to strike, Melisandre's form seemed to shimmer and dissolve into the air, leaving

nothing but a faint trace of smoke where she had stood. The Redwyne soldiers froze, their swords slashing through empty air, confusion and fear flickering across their faces. Paxter's heart pounded in his chest as the reality of what they were facing became all too clear.

"She's gone," one of the men muttered, his voice trembling.

"No," Paxter replied, his voice firm despite the icy fear gripping him. "She's still here. Somewhere." He scanned the room, his eyes narrowing as he searched for any sign of movement, any indication of where the Red Priestess might have fled.

The chamber was deathly silent, the only sound the faint crackling of the candles. Paxter felt the oppressive weight of the ancient walls closing in around him, the shadows seeming to press closer, as if alive with malevolent intent. He forced himself to focus, to push aside the fear and think rationally.

"She used some kind of illusion," Maester Ferris said quietly, stepping up beside Paxter. "A trick of the light, perhaps. But it does not matter—her magic is powerful, yes, but she is still flesh and blood."

Paxter nodded, though the tension in the air told him that flesh and blood were not the only things at play here. "Search the room," he ordered, his voice low. "There must be another way out—a hidden passage, a door. She cannot have simply disappeared."

The men spread out, carefully examining every inch of the chamber. Paxter himself approached the altar, where a faint heat still radiated from the stone. The symbols etched into its surface were unfamiliar to him—twisted, ancient runes that seemed to pulse with an energy of their own. He had no doubt that this was the source of Melisandre's power, the focus of the dark rituals she had performed.

As he reached out to touch the altar, a sudden rush of cold air swept through the chamber, extinguishing the candles in an instant. The room was plunged into darkness, and Paxter felt a jolt of panic as the shadows seemed to come alive, swirling around him like a living thing.

"Stay together!" he called out, drawing his sword as he turned to face the darkness.

But the shadows were no ordinary darkness. They moved with purpose, twisting and writhing as they closed in on the Redwyne men. Paxter heard the sharp intake of breath, the gasps of fear as the soldiers tried to fend off the encroaching blackness, their swords slashing through the air in a desperate attempt to hold back whatever malevolent force was pressing in on them.

Then came the whispers—soft, insidious voices that seemed to echo from every corner of the chamber. Paxter couldn't make out the words, but the tone was unmistakable: a taunting, mocking chorus that set his teeth on edge and sent a chill racing down his spine.

"Lord Paxter…" the voice of Melisandre whispered, though it was impossible to tell from where. "You cannot stop what is coming. The night is dark and full of terrors, and you have walked into its heart."

Paxter felt a surge of anger and fear—a dangerous combination. He forced himself to remain calm, to focus on the task at hand. "Light the torches!" he ordered. "We need light!"

But even as his men fumbled to obey, the shadows moved faster. One of the soldiers let out a strangled cry as a dark form seemed to materialize from the blackness, wrapping around him like a living shadow. The man struggled, his sword dropping from his hands as the shadow tightened its grip, and with a final, desperate gasp, he fell to the ground, motionless.

"Hold your ground!" Paxter shouted, but the fear was palpable now, spreading through the men like wildfire.

The torches were finally lit, their flames flickering weakly against the oppressive darkness, but the shadows only seemed to grow stronger, feeding on the fear in the room. Another soldier fell, and then another, their lifeless bodies claimed by the dark as if they had simply been snuffed out like candles.

Paxter felt a cold sweat break out on his brow. This was no ordinary battle, and he was beginning to understand just how outmatched they were. Melisandre's power was far beyond anything he had anticipated, and the forces she commanded were not of this world.

"Fall back!" he ordered, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Back to the ship!"

The men hesitated, torn between their fear of the shadows and their duty to their lord. But as another soldier was dragged into the darkness with a final, agonized scream, their resolve broke, and they turned to flee.

Paxter led the retreat, his heart pounding as they raced back through the twisting corridors of Dragonstone, the shadows snapping at their heels like hungry wolves. The castle seemed to come alive around them, the very walls shifting and closing in, as if trying to trap them within.

But finally, they burst out into the open air, the cold wind of the Narrow Sea hitting them like a slap to the face. Paxter gasped for breath, his lungs burning, but he didn't slow down. They had to get back to the boats, back to the safety of the fleet.

The Redwyne men scrambled down the rocky slope, slipping and stumbling in their haste. The sounds of battle still echoed from the ships anchored off the coast, the cannons booming as they continued their assault on Dragonstone. But now, in the light of the moon, Paxter could see the dark figures moving on the castle walls, shapes that were not entirely human, flitting from shadow to shadow.

They reached the boats, throwing themselves into the longboats with a desperation born of pure terror. Paxter took his place at the helm, his hands shaking as he grabbed the oars. "Row!" he shouted. "Get us out of here!"

The men needed no further encouragement. They rowed with all their strength, the boats cutting through the water as they fled the cursed island. Behind them, Dragonstone loomed like a dark sentinel, its walls glowing faintly from the fires of the bombardment. But even from this distance, Paxter could feel the malevolent presence that lingered in the air, a force that defied all logic and reason.

As they approached The Pride of Arbor, Paxter could see the worried faces of the crew on deck, their eyes wide with fear as they watched the returning boats. They helped haul the men aboard, their questions dying on their lips as they saw the state of the soldiers—pale, shaken, and silent.

Paxter was the last to climb aboard, his legs trembling with exhaustion. He looked back at Dragonstone, now just a dark shadow on the horizon, and felt a deep, gnawing dread settle in his chest. They had survived the assault, but at what cost? The Red Priestess was still alive, and her power was greater than anything he had ever imagined.

"We've lost many good men tonight," Paxter said, his voice hoarse. "And we've gained nothing."

Maester Ferris approached, his face grim. "My lord, we must consider the possibility that Dragonstone cannot be taken by conventional means. If Stannis's forces are using such dark magic, we may need to seek out other allies, other resources."

Paxter nodded slowly, his mind already racing with the possibilities. "Send a raven to Highgarden and King's Landing. Inform them of what we've encountered. And prepare the fleet to withdraw. We'll regroup at the Arbor and plan our next move."

Ferris bowed and left to carry out the orders, leaving Paxter alone at the helm. The night was calm now, the wind gentle, but the tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Paxter knew that this was only the beginning. The war was changing, becoming something far darker and more dangerous than he had anticipated. But House Redwyne had always stood strong, and he would not allow his fear to dictate his actions.

As the fleet slowly turned away from Dragonstone, Paxter cast one last look at the cursed island, now fading into the distance. He knew that they would have to return, that the battle was far from over. But next time, they would be prepared.

The night was indeed dark, and full of terrors. But Paxter Redwyne would face them, no matter the cost.