Chapter 88: Across the Narrow Sea

The Redwyne fleet, Dornish warships, and Greyjoy longships spread across the Summer Sea like a gathering storm. Their sails, a clash of crimson grapes, golden suns, and black kraken banners, fluttered in the wind, an unnatural alliance forged not by friendship, but by a shared purpose—to cross the Narrow Sea and stand before Daenerys Targaryen.

Paxter Redwyne stood at the bow of the Gilded Vine, his cloak snapping in the wind, the salty spray of the sea stinging his face. The sunlight shimmered on the horizon, but his mind was focused on what lay beyond it. Meereen. The Dragon Queen. The future.

Aboard the Dornish flagship, Prince Quentyn Martell stood with his men, his eyes fixed on the same horizon. His demeanor remained unreadable, though Paxter sensed the quiet weight pressing on his shoulders. Quentyn was a man who had everything to prove but no room for mistakes.

The Greyjoy fleet, on the other hand, moved like a pack of wolves. The Ironborn had no formation, no discipline, their longships darting through the waters with reckless confidence. Victarion Greyjoy, their commander, was an infamous brute, a man said to have crushed enemies beneath his bare hands, and now he sailed beside them, his intentions as murky as the depths beneath them.

Paxter had made alliances before. He had navigated the mercantile courts of Braavos, the treacherous halls of Highgarden, and the deceptive waters of the Arbor's trade routes. But never had he stood alongside such volatile allies.

Ser Martyn Harte, ever the realist, leaned against the railing beside him. "I don't trust them," he muttered, eyeing the Greyjoy fleet with barely concealed disdain.

"You're not alone in that," Paxter admitted. His hands tightened on the wooden rail. "But trust is not what binds us. We're all here for the same reason—to see the Dragon Queen and to choose the right side of history."

Martyn's expression darkened. "You believe that's what this is? A choice?"

Paxter exhaled. "No, Martyn. This is a wager."

A high-stakes bet. If they backed Daenerys and she failed, the Lannisters would burn the Arbor to the ground. But if she won…

Paxter's gaze drifted to the Meereenese coin in his hand. A queen had risen in the east, and he was sailing to meet her.

—

Later that evening, as the fleets sailed under the cover of twilight, a longship bearing the Greyjoy sigil pulled alongside the Gilded Vine. Paxter stood at the railing, watching as a massive figure climbed aboard.

Victarion Greyjoy.

The man was a mountain of muscle, his face hidden beneath the shadow of his iron helm. His armor was blackened steel, worn and battered by a thousand battles, and on his belt hung a cruel-looking axe, its blade chipped but still deadly.

Behind him, a handful of Ironborn reavers followed, their expressions sharp, their presence reeking of salt and blood. They were not men of words; they were men of war.

Victarion stepped forward, towering over Paxter. "Lord Redwyne." His voice was deep, like rolling thunder.

Paxter did not let himself be intimidated. He stood firm. "Lord Greyjoy."

Victarion's lips curled into something resembling a smile. "We sail as allies, aye. But an alliance means terms. And the Ironborn have our own expectations."

Ser Martyn, standing at Paxter's side, rested a hand on his sword hilt. The tension in the air was thick as the coming storm.

Paxter's voice remained level. "Speak your terms."

Victarion crossed his massive arms over his chest. "When the Dragon Queen comes to Westeros, she'll need ships. And the Ironborn will give them to her."

Paxter frowned. "And what do you want in return?"

Victarion's grin widened. "The Iron Islands take what is owed. When the war is won, the Queen shall grant us what we have long sought—control of the western shores."

Martyn stiffened. "You mean the Shield Islands."

Paxter's blood ran cold. The Shield Islands, four strategic isles at the mouth of the Mander, were the first line of defense against raiders. His defense.

"The Shield Islands belong to the Reach," Paxter said carefully.

Victarion shrugged. "Not for long."

Paxter inhaled slowly, keeping his fury in check. "And if the Queen refuses you?"

Victarion's smirk vanished, his eyes gleaming dangerously beneath his helm. "Then we take them, with or without her blessing."

For a long moment, neither man spoke. The waves crashed against the hull, and the stars overhead blinked cold and distant.

Finally, Paxter nodded. "This is a matter for the Queen to decide."

Victarion studied him, then let out a low, rumbling chuckle. "Aye. It is." He turned to leave, but before stepping back onto his ship, he threw one last glance over his shoulder.

"When the time comes, Redwyne… I hope you remember which side of the sea you belong to."

Paxter watched him go, jaw clenched. The Shield Islands were his, a key piece of his domain, and now the Ironborn had set their sights on them.

Martyn cursed. "We should have cut him down."

Paxter shook his head. "No. We need them… for now."

He turned back toward the sea, where the horizon stretched dark and endless.

One war was ending. Another was beginning.

—

By the next day, the sky had turned an ominous shade of gray. The winds had changed. A storm was coming.

Sailors rushed across the decks, securing ropes and fastening the sails. Paxter watched the clouds roll in, dark and heavy, as lightning flashed in the distance.

Quentyn Martell's flagship signaled a warning. The Ironborn ships, born for the storm, did not slow.

Paxter braced himself against the mast, turning to Martyn. "We hold the line."

The storm hit like a vengeful god.

The waves rose like walls of water, crashing against the hulls, tossing ships like toys in a child's hands. Paxter gripped the railing as the Gilded Vine lurched violently, the crew shouting orders over the howling wind.

He saw Dornish ships battling the current, their sails struggling to hold against the storm's fury. The Greyjoys, in contrast, moved through the chaos like demons, their longships riding the waves with terrifying ease.

A bolt of lightning split the sky, illuminating the maelstrom of ships and men fighting for control.

Paxter's ship veered sharply, and suddenly, he was falling.

The world turned upside down, the freezing water swallowing him whole.

Darkness.

Silence.

Then—hands grabbing him, pulling him up. The surface broke, and he gasped for air, coughing up seawater as strong arms dragged him onto a ship.

Not his ship.

As he collapsed onto the wooden deck, he looked up into the face of Victarion Greyjoy.

The Ironborn's grin was savage. "Well now, Lord Redwyne… welcome aboard."

The storm raged on.

And Paxter Redwyne had just lost control of his fate.