The sea was quiet at last. The roar of fire had dwindled to the crackle of burning wood, the hiss of dying embers swallowed by the soft lap of waves. Paxter Redwyne stood at the rail of the Gilded Vine, his hands blackened with soot, his body aching from the wounds and weight of battle. The sun broke through the smoke in pale streaks, turning the sea to molten bronze.
Around him, the remnants of his fleet drifted in silence. The once-proud banners of the Reach hung in tatters, their green and gold smeared with ash. Dornish ships floated low in the water, masts snapped, decks littered with the dead. The Iron Fleet—Euron's mighty terror of the seas—was nothing but burning hulks and shattered hulls, its survivors clinging to driftwood or sinking beneath the waves.
Daenerys had already left him on the quarterdeck, her words still echoing: "Your attendance is required in my small council." He'd bowed and promised to come ashore, but before he faced councils and queens, he needed to see the cost of victory.
Victarion Greyjoy limped toward him, his great frame hunched, a bloody bandage wrapped around his arm. His armor was dented, his beard singed, but his eyes burned with the satisfaction of survival.
"You fought well, Redwyne," Victarion rasped. "Didn't think you had it in you."
Paxter's lips twisted into a weary smile. "Nor did I think you'd choose the right side."
Victarion snorted, a harsh sound. "Right side? No such thing at sea. Only the winning one." He stared out toward the wreck of the Silence, now a skeletal shadow against the smoke. "Euron's dead. Burned or drowned—it matters not. The sea's taken him back."
Prince Martell joined them, his Dornish cloak torn, one arm bound in a makeshift sling. His face was set in grim exhaustion, but his tone was steady. "And half our fleet with him."
Paxter nodded. "We've lost too much for any man to call this a triumph."
"Loss is the price of crowns," Victarion said. His gaze turned south, toward the unseen city beyond the horizon. "The Dragon Queen won this war on the waves. Now she'll want to win it on land."
Paxter met his eyes. "And you'll follow her?"
Victarion's grin was dark, half-iron, half-pride. "Aye. I'll serve her until the sea itself dries. I've no wish to rule what my brother ruined."
By nightfall, the fires along the bay were brighter than the stars. The survivors gathered along the decks and docks to give the dead their rest. Rafts were bound with rope and soaked in oil. Bodies—Ironborn, Dornish, and Reachmen alike—were laid upon them, faces covered with torn sails. Paxter watched in silence as torches were passed down the line.
"Light them," Martell ordered softly.
One by one, the flames took. The pyres drifted from the shore, spreading across the dark water like floating constellations. The smell of pitch and salt filled the air.
Victarion stood apart, his head bowed. When Paxter approached, he said nothing for a time, then murmured, "I knew some of them since boyhood. Drank with them. Fought beside them. Never thought I'd be the one setting them aflame."
"We all burn what we love before the war is done," Paxter replied quietly.
The Ironborn said nothing more. Together, they watched the last of the bodies vanish into smoke and sea.
A shadow fell across the pyres. Drogon descended from the clouds, wings spread wide, stirring the sea into fury. Daenerys stood atop his neck, silver hair glinting in the firelight. She dismounted on the shore, her boots crunching in the ash. The men fell to their knees—not from fear, but from something close to awe.
"Rise," she commanded. Her voice carried over the waves, sharp and clear. "You have done what no army in the world could do. The Iron Fleet is destroyed. The sea is ours."
Cheers rippled through the survivors—weak, ragged, but real.
Daenerys's gaze swept over them, resting briefly on each of the three men before her.
Paxter bowed his head. "Your Grace, it was our honor to serve you. The ships need repair. Then your navy will return to full might."
Daenerys's expression softened, a faint smile curving her soot-streaked lips. "Your men fought well," she said. "Tell them to rest. My army will rest once the usurper is dead."
Prince Martell stepped forward, bowing low despite the sling binding his arm. "Your Majesty," he said with quiet conviction, "today you shall be victorious."
Daenerys regarded them both, her silver hair glinting with embers from the funeral pyres behind her. "Then let the world remember this day," she said, her voice low and fierce. "The day the sea bent its knee to fire."
Later, when the council dispersed, Paxter remained by the water's edge. The waves were calm again, their surface broken only by drifting embers. The tide had carried away the last of the corpses. For the first time in weeks, the horizon was clear.
He thought of his home—the vineyards of the Arbor, the soft winds of Oldtown. He wondered how many men from those distant shores lay now beneath this dark water.
Martell approached quietly, a flask in hand. "For the fallen," he said, offering it.
Paxter took a long drink, the wine thick with smoke and salt. "Do you ever wonder," he asked, "if victory feels the same as defeat, only slower?"
Martell gave a sad smile. "Every day."
They stood together in silence, watching the last fire drift beyond sight. Somewhere out on the water, the charred remains of the Silence sank beneath the waves, taking with it the ghost of Euron Greyjoy and the legacy of his madness.
At dawn, the sky blushed red. Crews worked to raise the surviving banners. Blackened sails were patched, ropes restrung, hulls reinforced. Daenerys's dragon circled once more, its shadow sweeping over the repaired decks.
Paxter stood at the prow as the fleet prepared to sail again. His wounds still throbbed, but his voice was firm as he gave the order.
"Set course south. For King's Landing."
The men cheered weakly, the sound carried by the wind.
As the fleet turned toward the rising sun, Paxter looked back one final time. The bay was quiet, the fires gone, only smoke and memory lingering on the air.
"The sea's last breath," he murmured.
Then he faced forward, toward war once more, as the red dragon banners caught the wind and the fleet of fire and ash began its slow, fateful journey toward destiny.