GOT: House Redwyne

The winds carried the scent of salt and wine as the Gilded Vine cut through the waves, its sails filled with the strong gusts of the Summer Sea. The Arbor was shrinking behind them, a green jewel in the distance, and with it, Paxter Redwyne left behind the security of home. His fleet moved in tight formation, Redwyne banners fluttering against the blue sky as they set course for Sunspear.

Paxter stood on the deck, arms crossed, watching the horizon. The Dornish envoy, Ser Jalyn Uller, stood beside him, hands resting lightly on the pommel of his curved sword. Unlike most lords, Jalyn dressed as a warrior, clad in light leather armor, his sun-kissed skin exposed beneath his open vest. He moved with the casual ease of a man who had spent his life aboard ships and in battle, though his sharp gaze revealed a mind as dangerous as his blade.

"We'll reach Sunspear within a few days, assuming we don't run into trouble," Jalyn said, eyes scanning the waves.

Paxter glanced toward the southern waters, where the Shivering Sea merged into the Summer Sea, a vast, open expanse leading to the Free Cities and beyond. These were waters unfamiliar to him, wilder than the controlled trade routes of the Reach, where the Arbor's ships held dominion. Here, the winds belonged to no one.

"What sort of trouble should we be expecting?" he asked.

Jalyn chuckled, his lips curling into a knowing smirk. "Pirates. Sellsails looking for easy prey. But you needn't worry—our fleet has ways of dealing with such problems."

Paxter studied the man carefully. The Martells were not weak, despite their relative isolation from the major conflicts of Westeros. House Redwyne had always viewed the Dornish as shrewd traders and patient schemers, but rarely had they seen them act with decisive force. Yet here they were, sailing toward an alliance that would reshape the balance of power across both Westeros and Essos.

A gust of wind ruffled Paxter's cloak as Ser Martyn approached, his sword belted at his waist. "The men are settled, my lord," he reported. "Mina has begun the repairs, but I fear we've left the Arbor defenseless."

Paxter gave a small nod, trusting in Mina's abilities. She was as calculating as she was fearless, and he knew she would mend Arbor men and finances alike.

"I hope it won't come to that," Paxter muttered. "Jaime Lannister is not the kind of man to forget a defeat. He'll be back, let's hope we return to the Arbor before he does."

Jalyn arched a brow. "From what I've been told, the Queen is quite protective of her vassals."

"I hope you're correct, Ser Jalyn," Paxter said before withdrawing to his cabin.

A large map of Westeros and Essos was sprawled across his desk, candlelight flickering over the parchment. He traced his fingers over the coast of Dorne, then further east across the Narrow Sea, toward Meereen.

Daenerys Targaryen.

A name that had once been a whisper of the past, a relic of a fallen dynasty. Now, she was a queen with dragons, an army, and a claim to the Iron Throne. The Lannisters feared her, the Iron Bank watched her, and soon, Paxter would stand before her.

The door creaked open, and Ser Martyn stepped inside. "You're thinking about her."

Paxter didn't look up. "It's hard not to."

Martyn exhaled, moving closer. "You're playing a dangerous game, my lord. Aligning with a Targaryen while the Lannisters still rule could make us enemies of the Crown."

Paxter finally turned to him, his gaze steady. "And what has loyalty to the Crown brought us? The Lannisters gave the Reach to the Tarlys. They burned our ships and tried to starve us of trade. The Iron Throne is nothing but a debt-ridden carcass, and I will not tie the fate of the Arbor to a sinking kingdom."

Martyn studied him for a long moment before nodding. "Then we sail for Sunspear, and from there, to Meereen."

Paxter allowed himself a small smile. "To see a dragon with my own eyes."

...

By the fourth day, the towers of Sunspear rose from the horizon, golden against the deep blue sky.

Paxter stood at the bow of the Gilded Vine, taking in the sight of Dorne's legendary stronghold. Unlike the towering castles of the Reach or the gilded opulence of King's Landing, Sunspear rose from the red sands like an extension of the desert itself—its slender towers made of yellow stone, their domed tops glinting beneath the midday sun.

From the sea, the Water Gardens could be glimpsed beyond the palace walls, cool and lush in the midst of the arid Dornish climate. Palm trees lined the courtyards, their green fronds rustling in the warm breeze. Below the castle, the harbor bustled with life—ships from across the world docked side by side, their sails a patchwork of colors representing trade from Braavos, Volantis, Qarth, and beyond.

The heat of Dorne settled over them, dry and relentless. The air smelled of spiced wine, citrus, and salt, a stark contrast to the lush, green air of the Arbor. The people of Sunspear were as varied as their banners—Dornishmen in flowing silks, iron-skinned mercenaries from the Free Cities, and traders wearing veils to protect against the sun.

Paxter stepped down the gangplank, cloak trailing behind him. He had visited Oldtown, Storm's End, even Braavos—but Sunspear was unlike anything he had ever seen.

Standing at the docks, waiting for them, was Prince Quentyn Martell.

The young Martell heir inclined his head. "Lord Redwyne. Welcome to Sunspear."

His tone was polite, but there was a sharpness in his gaze, a quiet intensity that revealed more than words ever could. Quentyn was not his father, Doran Martell, nor was he as reckless as his late uncle, Oberyn. He was a man weighing his options carefully, knowing that the world around him was changing.

Quentyn gestured toward the docks, where another fleet had begun assembling. Greyjoy ships.

"They arrived yesterday," Quentyn said. "Euron Greyjoy's forces. His brother, Victarion, commands the fleet."

Paxter exchanged a glance with Ser Martyn. The Ironborn were notoriously unpredictable, their loyalty shifting with the winds, yet here they were, gathered alongside the Dornish.

Quentyn's voice lowered slightly. "We all seek the same thing. An audience with the Dragon Queen."

Paxter nodded, his fingers brushing against the Meereenese coin still in his pocket.

"Aye," he said softly. "Then let's sail east."

The Redwyne fleet, the Martells, and the Ironborn had all converged on Sunspear.

Now, together, they would cross the Narrow Sea, bound for Meereen and the last Targaryen.