The tide of war had shifted from snow to salt. Nearly a month had passed since the council at Winterfell, and now, the sea bore the weight of destiny.
The combined fleets of House Redwyne, the Reach, and Dorne—nearly two hundred ships in all—cut through the deep waters of the Narrow Sea. Their banners snapped in the wind, golden grapes of Arbor wine merchants flying alongside sun-speared Dornish crests and the seahorse sigils of minor coastal houses. Prince Martell's warships formed the right flank; Paxter Redwyne's command sat firmly at the center.
From the deck of the Gilded Vine, Paxter leaned over his sea charts, calculating the approach to Blackwater Bay. He was confident—he had chosen the route himself—but wary. King's Landing waited just beyond the horizon, and nothing about the capital ever went quietly.
Lord Martell's flagship cruised just off his starboard. Signal flags fluttered between them, relaying speed corrections, scouting orders, and formation commands. Paxter's eyes briefly scanned the eastern sky where Drogon, like a living shadow, soared high above. Daenerys Targaryen was their aerial escort, her silhouette sharp against the morning sun.
The sea was calm, unnaturally so.
Paxter's brows furrowed. Something wasn't right.
Suddenly, from the shadowed cliffs of Dragonstone, a shriek shattered the quiet. Flaming ballista bolts arced through the air. One slammed into the hull of a Dornish ship—wood cracked, sails caught fire, men screamed.
"AMBUSH!" came the cry.
Euron Greyjoy's Iron Fleet surged from the shadows like sea wraiths, their sails black as rot, war drums pounding. The cliffs had hidden their presence until it was too late.
"Raise the shields!" Paxter bellowed. "Signal Martell—pull into crescent!"
Arrows and fire rained from above. The sea turned to chaos.
"Where's Drogon?!" someone shouted, but Paxter already knew—Daenerys couldn't descend in the confusion without hitting her own ships.
The Iron Fleet fanned out quickly, slamming into the flank of the combined fleet. Paxter watched in horror as two Dornish ships were set alight, one of them sinking beneath the surface within moments, masts breaking like bones under hammer blows.
Euron's flagship, Silence, cut through the waves like a predator, its iron-rimmed bow plowing through a lesser galley. Men were thrown into the air. Paxter turned toward Martell's ship and saw the prince gesturing with fury, demanding a response.
Then, from the south, sails appeared—longships bearing Ironborn sigils.
Paxter raised his spyglass. The wind caught the black and red sails of the lead galley. "Greyjoy…" he muttered. But which one?
Prince Martell called across the narrow deck. "Is that friend or foe?"
Paxter didn't answer immediately. The last time he had seen Victarion Greyjoy had been in Meereen. The Ironborn captain had sought lordship over the Iron Islands, only to be dismissed in favor of Yara Greyjoy. A man denied title was not always one who returned as friend.
The incoming longships shifted formation—then fired.
Flaming bolts and grappling hooks tore into Euron's rear line.
Paxter's eyes widened. "They're attacking Euron!"
Cheers broke out. The surprise wasn't just to Paxter or Martell—but to Euron himself. The Kraken Lord screamed as his own kin turned on him.
Victarion stood tall on the prow of his ship, bellowing Ironborn war cries.
The shock of Victarion's betrayal caused momentary confusion among Euron's commanders. Some ships hesitated, unsure if they were now surrounded on all sides.
Paxter, sensing the moment, seized the advantage. "Reinforce the flank!" he shouted. "Push while they're divided!"
Martell's ships surged forward in renewed formation. Paxter's fleet closed in, drawing Euron's forces into a pincer.
Steel rang across the decks. The sea frothed red. And in the heart of the storm, the Greyjoy brothers met.
Euron's laughter rang out over the din. "Come, brother! Come die like Father did!"
Victarion snarled and swung his war axe. The two clashed amidst fire and blood, while Paxter and Martell, blades drawn, led boarding parties to support.
The sea boiled beneath their feet, and above them, Drogon circled but did not descend.
Victory—and defeat—hung in the balance.
The stench of pitch and blood thickened as twilight approached. Flames danced along the crests of the waves, casting grotesque shadows across the battered ships. Men fought in tangled heaps, grappling over blood-soaked decks slick with salt and gore. The clang of steel was endless, a fever pitch of war.
On the eastern edge, a Dornish war galley burst into flames, its hold struck by an incendiary bolt. The ship cracked open like a rotted fruit, spilling fire and men into the sea. Paxter felt the deck of the Gilded Vine lurch beneath him as a nearby explosion rocked the formation.
"Hold fast!" he roared. "Turn to windward! Pin them between us and Martell!"
Signal flags danced frantically. Drums beat across the waters. Victarion's ships rammed from the rear, skewering Ironborn vessels caught off guard. The trap had been reversed.
Paxter spotted one of Euron's lieutenants leap overboard as his ship crumbled under assault from two sides. The traitor swam toward a nearby wreck, only to be dragged beneath by another drowning sailor.
Amidst the chaos, Victarion's flagship rammed Euron's Silence. Splinters exploded. The two ships locked together like beasts locked in death.
"Protect our queen's banner!" Paxter called. "If Euron falls, the rest will scatter!"