Paxter responded in a measured tone, "She does. I've argued for a centralized economic policy—one that will streamline tariffs and abolish these endless checkpoints. Daenerys wants a united realm, and a united realm must move as one."
Halder Blackbar said, "Words. We've heard them before. What will make her different?"
Paxter said, "Because I'm here. Master of Coin. Warden of the South. And I haven't forgotten who built the prosperity of the Reach. Merchants like you. Guilds like this one."
Merys Thorne nodded slowly. "Then help us. Help us survive this chaos."
Lhara Sand said, "We need trade agreements ratified. We need safe corridors. We need taxes we can predict—not ones that change with every noble's mood. If Daenerys stabilizes trade, I'll swear loyalty twice over."
Toman Rivers said, "And we need the Queen's army to protect caravans.
Orwyn Serry added, "And she needs our taxes to fill her treasury."
"Indeed, it's a mutual relationship," Paxter agreed, as all eyes fell on him. "When Daenerys sits on the Iron Throne, you have my oath, the Merchant Guild will rise to prominence once again!"
"Was this your reason for coming to King's Landing. To gain our support?" Halder Blackbar asked.
After a pause, Paxter said, "I've come to rescue my sons. They've been prisoners since the day of the Tyrell wedding. Help me free them. I know you each have a network of bureaucrats in your coin purses. Please aid me know, and I will repay this in the future."
A long silence followed. Then, one by one, the merchants of Westeros nodded.
As the first nod came, Paxter felt the knot in his chest begin to loosen. Tonight, he would finally be reunited with his sons.
...
Night blanketed King's Landing in a veil of shadow and silence, broken only by the distant creak of rigging in the harbor and the occasional bark of a Goldcloak. The moon hung low and pale, casting its silver glow over the cobblestones as Paxter Redwyne moved swiftly through the alleys behind the Red Keep, his hood drawn low.
Ser Davos waited behind him, eyes alert. "This is madness, Paxter," he whispered. "We should've sent in gold and smugglers."
"No," Paxter whispered back, his voice resolute. "Gold would've drawn eyes. I need silence, not attention."
From beneath his cloak, Paxter pulled a key—old, rusted, but still intact. He approached a narrow passage wedged behind a row of crumbling storehouses, where stone met stone in an awkward seam. It was a forgotten servants' tunnel, once used during King Aegon III's reign, one only a merchant with ties in the right places would know about. The lock clicked open.
The tunnel was narrow, the air thick with mildew and the rot of disuse. The flickering light of Davos's covered lantern cast eerie shadows along the stone walls as they crept deeper. Paxter knew the prison level of the Red Keep was not far.
"They're being kept in the Queen's Gaol," he whispered. "After the riot during the Tyrell wedding, Cersei ordered all Tyrell-aligned noble youths imprisoned. My sons among them."
Ser Martyn, who had rejoined them at the cove, brought up the rear. "I still say this is too great a risk. What good is Hightower, the South, your whole legacy—if you die here tonight?"
Paxter rounded on him. "What's the point of winning it all if I can't pass it down? My sons, Martyn. My blood. My house will not end as prisoners in a queen's dungeon."
They reached a thick wooden grate. Davos pulled a rod of metal from his pack and worked the bolts free with silent precision. Beyond it, the narrow passage opened to a dimly lit corridor that ran alongside the prison cells.
Whispers echoed beyond the stone.
Paxter stepped forward.
"Desmond? Horro?"
The response came sharp and surprised.
"Father?"
"Father? Is it really you?"
A flicker of a torch revealed the gaunt, pale faces of his sons—Desmond Redwyne, tall and lean, the elder, and Horro, broader and younger, with a broken lip and bruised eye.
"Seven hells," Paxter breathed. He stepped forward, wrapping both in a hard embrace through the bars. "I've come to take you home."
"Cersei said you'd abandoned us," Horro muttered.
"She lied," Paxter said fiercely. "I bent the knee to Daenerys. I have ships, men, coin—and now I have you."
Ser Davos handed over the guard keys secured by their guild contact.
The cell door groaned open, and the two young men stumbled into the corridor.
"We've got to move," Ser Davos urged. "Guards change at the hour."
Davos led the way through the tunnels, guiding them through the winding passage and out through the smuggler's cove beneath the city.
By dawn, the Gilded Vine was already cutting away from the city. Paxter stood at the prow, one arm over Horro's shoulder, the other over Desmond's.
"You're safe now," he said quietly. "And when Daenerys takes the throne, you will never be prisoners again."
The brothers said nothing, only stared at the horizon.
Behind them, King's Landing grew smaller. Before them lay war, but also a future.
A future Paxter would fight tooth and nail to protect.