The next morning, Paxter stood at the prow of his flagship, the Arbor's Pride. Outside, a thin fog clung to the Blackwater Bay like a mourning shroud. Earlier, he had watched Daenerys' army disassemble the tents and prepare for their long march north. The clatter of hooves, the barked orders, and the rhythmic thuds of soldiers breaking camp still echoed in his mind.
In the distance, King's Landing shrank into the haze behind them. The city, ancient and crumbling, seemed to sigh with relief at the news of the peace treaty. Or perhaps it simply held its breath, waiting for news of the undead moving south.
Ser Martyn stood beside him, his gaze fixed at the rear. Behind them, Euron's fleet fled King's Landing, its black sails tattered but proud. His ships stretched across the bay like the wings of great seabirds sailing east for winter.
Yesterday, Paxter had written to Mina and Prince Martell, urging them to send supplies to White Harbor. From there, goods would be shipped upriver to Winterfell—assuming, of course, that the White Knife River hadn't frozen over by the time the first wagons arrived.
The voyage north was swift. The sea, calm and glassy, betrayed none of the storm gathering in Westeros. And yet the tension aboard each vessel was taut as a bowstring. Word of Eastwatch's fall, an army of the undead marching southward, and the uneasy alliance between Daenerys and Cersei had spread like wildfire.
As Dragonstone came into view, Paxter found himself swept by nostalgia. He remembered simpler times—when he had stayed at the fortress and counted coins, worried only about tariffs and taxes. Back then, the jagged black towers of Dragonstone had seemed ominous. Now, they reminded him of the people he had met, the leaders he had come to trust, and the moments of clarity between storms.
The sails furled as they neared the docks. Paxter's crew guided the Arbor's Pride into the harbor with practiced ease. He watched as the ancient fortress loomed larger—its walls glistening with dew, its gates closed but guarded.
Daenerys had given him a sealed letter for the Dothraki and Unsullied stationed there. As the ship docked, Paxter stepped down the gangplank and approached a tall Dothraki warrior. The man's face was expressionless as Paxter handed him the letter.
The Dothraki broke the seal and read the parchment carefully. After a moment, he nodded, barking commands in his guttural tongue. Warriors emerged from the shadows of the keep to begin unloading the cargo.
Paxter turned to watch his sailors offload the final crates of supplies—barrels of grain, salted meat, dried fruits, and wine. He knew it wasn't enough. But with most of their resources shifting northward, Dragonstone would have to make do.
The Dothraki didn't speak another word. He simply motioned with his head before walking away. Paxter remained for a moment, taking in the wind curling around the fortress cliffs, the hiss of rope against wood, and the distant cry of gulls.
He returned to the ship, and with a final check of the manifest, gave the order to depart. The sails unfurled once more, snapping in the brisk sea breeze.
As the Arbor's Pride glided out of the harbor, Paxter stood alone at the prow, the salty wind pulling at his cloak. The sea ahead was gray, and the sky was darker still. Somewhere beyond the horizon, White Harbor awaited. And beyond that, Winterfell. The heart of the North—and perhaps the last stand of the living.
He watched as Dragonstone shrank behind them, a black silhouette against a gray dawn. Then he turned his gaze forward. Toward ice. Toward war.
Behind him, the crew busied themselves with quiet efficiency. Ropes were coiled, sails trimmed, and lookout posts rotated as they moved northward. The deck, though orderly, bore the muted tension of men who knew they were sailing toward death. Paxter's officers avoided idle chatter, and even the usual laughter that accompanied the midday meal had vanished, replaced by murmurs of the undead and hushed prayers to gods old and new.
Below deck, Paxter had left a small locked chest beside his bunk—inside, his latest correspondence, ledgers, and an unfinished letter to Mina. He had not yet found the words to reassure her. How could he? What promises could a man make in the face of monsters and magic?
He clutched the railing tighter as the wind picked up. Salt sprayed across his face, and with it came the sharp sting of memory—his father teaching him how to navigate by stars, his sons playing along the bluffs of Arbor's cliffs, Mina laughing as she read him poetry by candlelight. Would those memories be enough to hold onto if this truly was the end?
The ship surged forward, the waves now choppier as they entered colder waters. Paxter exhaled slowly, calming his thoughts. He was not a swordsman or a hero of tales, but he had a duty. Supplies, leadership, stability—those were his weapons.
And in a war against the dead, every weapon would count.
And he wondered—not for the first time—if they were sailing toward salvation or ruin.