Tyrion's eyes shifted to Ser Davos. "That means someone still has to go to King's Landing to secure the terms of this… armistice."
Davos crossed his arms. "Aye. And that someone would be me. I am, after all, a smuggler." He offered a lopsided grin. "I can slip myself and a passenger into King's Landing well enough, given the right tide and a bit of luck."
Everyone understood he meant smuggling Tyrion into the capital to meet with Jaime Lannister. The plan was risky—if Tyrion were caught, it would mean certain death. But Tyrion was already nodding, resolute.
"I'll go," the dwarf said. "I know the secret paths in the Red Keep. And my brother Jaime will listen to me, if no one else. He may be the only one who can make Cersei listen… even if only for the sake of her own survival."
His voice faltered slightly at the mention of his brother, but he masked it with a sip of wine from a cup near the table.
Queen Daenerys's gaze swept across her council. "So be it," she said. "While Jon and Ser Jorah travel north, Tyrion and Davos will go to King's Landing." She almost smiled, a wry twist of her lips. "My Hand smuggled into the city by the Onion Knight… what a time we live in."
Paxter managed a chuckle under his breath, along with Davos and Tyrion. It was a small moment of levity—a brief easing of the tension. But as the council turned to the details—routes, timing, supplies—Paxter's thoughts began to drift.
King's Landing.
They were going to King's Landing.
A memory stirred, unbidden: two boys with the same ruddy hair as his own, laughing as they tried to swordfight with wooden sticks in the vineyards of the Arbor. Horas and Hobber. His sons. His pride. His weakness.
They were captives in the capital even now, prisoners of Queen Cersei's whims. Paxter's throat tightened. He had not heard word of them since the fall of Margaery Tyrell and the destruction of the Sept. When Cersei seized control, she'd taken everything—and everyone—of value. Paxter's sons, once wards at court, had become hostages overnight.
His thumb brushed over the garnet signet ring on his finger, engraved with the grapes of House Redwyne. The metal was cool and grounding.
For all he knew, his sons languished in a black cell. Or worse. Every day since their capture, fear gnawed at his heart. He had imagined—more times than he dared admit—the horror of receiving their heads in a box, a message from the Queen to punish his defiance.
And now… an opening. A chance.
Davos and Tyrion would be slipping into the lion's den. This might be the only opportunity to reach the Red Keep before war made it impossible.
His hands trembled slightly. He balled them into fists.
Would Davos allow him to come? Would the Queen? Would it jeopardize the mission?
A dozen questions raced through his mind, but one rose above all: What kind of father does nothing when his children are in chains?
The war council was winding down. Jon and Jorah were speaking with ship captains. Tyrion was consulting with Varys. No one had yet mentioned Paxter's sons—perhaps some here didn't even know of them.
They would know soon enough.
Paxter stepped forward from the shadows of the chamber, his voice strong and steady.
"Your Grace. Ser Davos. Lord Tyrion," he said, sinking to one knee beside the Painted Table. "I ask your leave to accompany the mission to King's Landing."
The room fell instantly silent.
Davos and Tyrion exchanged a glance. Daenerys's brows lifted in surprise.
Paxter raised his head, letting his voice carry. "My sons," he said. "Cersei has held my twin sons captive since the day of Margaery Tyrell's wedding. They are hostages in the Red Keep. I intend to free them."
...
"No names, no allegiances, no sudden movements," Davos Seaworth said in a low voice, his tone sharpened by years of survival and sea winds. "You're not here to start a war, only to win a sliver of it. Blend in. Speak little. Never flash coin unless you're paying. And for the Seven's sake, don't look anyone in the eye too long."
Paxter Redwyne and Tyrion Lannister stood opposite him on the swaying deck of the modest vessel they'd commandeered for their clandestine mission. The shadow of Dragonstone had long vanished into the morning mist, and now the faint silhouette of King's Landing loomed in the distance, her familiar towers piercing the skyline.
"You know," Tyrion said, gripping the ship's railing as a gust of wind flapped his cloak, "for all your charm, Ser Davos, you do have a talent for instilling dread."
"Good," Davos grunted. "That means you're paying attention."
As the harbor neared, Davos ordered the two men into the smaller rowboat being towed behind. "We dock here, the Gold Cloaks will question us. We slip into a cove, nobody says a word. We come in quiet, we leave quieter."
The rowboat creaked as Paxter climbed in, followed by Tyrion. Davos untied the rope, dropped down behind them, and began rowing silently. The steady rhythm of the oars was the only sound until they reached a secluded cove behind jagged rocks.
Once ashore, Tyrion turned to Paxter. "If you get caught, try to die quickly. I hear Cersei's dungeons aren't known for their hospitality."
Paxter smirked. "You too, my friend."
They clasped forearms briefly before parting ways.
Paxter pulled his cloak tight around him, ducking into the narrow alleys of King's Landing. Familiar smells—rot, fish, and fire—stirred memories he had hoped to bury. Soon he found the inconspicuous general store wedged between a tannery and a dilapidated stable.
Inside, a plump, balding shopkeeper looked up as Paxter approached the counter.
"Many things pass through Lion's Gate," Paxter said evenly.
The shopkeeper paused, then replied, "Only the wise know what to let through."
"And what to let go," Paxter finished.
The shopkeeper gave a curt nod and gestured toward a door behind the shelves.
Paxter was led into a narrow corridor that opened into a chamber lined with oil lamps and barrels of dried goods. At a round table sat an elderly man with a thin mustache and sharp green eyes. He rose with effort as Paxter entered.
"Paxter Redwyne," the old man said with a dry smile. "The lost son returns."
"A merchant never forgets his roots," Paxter replied, shaking the man's hand.
"Welcome back to the Merchant Guild."
Through another door, they entered a hidden council room. Seated within were representatives from across Westeros: a lean woman in silks from Oldtown, a spice trader from the Stormlands, a fur dealer from the North, and at least a dozen more. Murmurs broke out at the sight of Paxter.
"You've been absent, Redwyne," said a portly man from Gulltown.
"Too long," added a Riverrun representative. "The Queen's war chokes trade, and what does the Guild have? Nothing. No voice. No protection."
Paxter raised his hand. "You're not wrong. Cersei Lannister has no seat at her council for merchants. Her coin flows only to blood, not bread."
"And what of you?" asked the woman from Oldtown. "You vanished when we needed you."
"I swore my allegiance to Queen Daenerys Targaryen," Paxter replied. "I am her Master of Coin. Warden of the South. The Guild has representation once more."
That changed the mood. A few leaned forward, others nodded thoughtfully.
"And will this dragon queen listen to us?" asked the fur trader.
"She listens to reason. And she knows that no realm survives without trade. Without us," Paxter said.
The conversation shifted to the challenges they faced:
Merys Thorne of Gulltown said, "Your return is timely, Lord Redwyne. Perhaps now someone with influence will finally listen. Cersei bleeds us dry—higher tariffs at the Rosby Gate, doubled levies on shipping through the Blackwater."
Orwyn Serry of Oldtown said, "And she's taken to seizing cargo 'for the crown.' My last wine shipment from the Arbor vanished en route. No compensation. Just gone."
Toman Rivers of Fairmarket said, "It's worse in the Riverlands. No law, no roads. Bandits everywhere, and what's left of the Freys demanding tolls for every barrel. There's no uniformity anymore—each region sets its own taxes, bribes, and fees."
Lhara Sand of Planky Town said, "We used to follow a single trade policy. A merchant could plan a route from White Harbor to Oldtown. Now, I need a map of who's allied with whom before I load my wagons."
Paxter leaned forward. "When did the bribes begin increasing?"
Halder Blackbar of Kayce said, "Since the fall of the Tyrells. The Tarlys are worse. They tax grain going both directions—first when it leaves Horn Hill, then again before it hits market."
Orwyn Serry added, "And if you don't pay, your goods spoil waiting at checkpoints. That's if you're not robbed by 'soldiers' claiming they need provisions."
Toman Rivers said, "Now prices have doubled on iron and timber. Try building ships when every sawmill answers to a different lord."
Lhara Sand said, "I have Dorne's salt. I can't move it. There's no corridor open through the Reach."
Orwyn Serry asked, "Why are we suffering when the realm needs us most? Paxter, your house was once the lifeline of the Reach. Tell us your Queen sees the importance of free trade?"