When the Dragonpit meeting concluded, the sun had not yet dipped below the horizon. The weight of what had transpired hung heavy in the air, lingering in the expressions of every lord and lady who filed out into the dry, cracked earth surrounding the ancient ruin. Paxter moved with quiet grace behind Daenerys and her retinue, his mind a tempest of thoughts.
A truce had been agreed upon—tentatively. Cersei Lannister, with her usual flair for manipulation, had promised a ceasefire. But Paxter knew better than to take her at her word. She was never one to play fairly, and her promise of peace felt as brittle as the bones buried beneath the Dragonpit.
Once Daenerys mounted Drogon, Paxter remained behind briefly. The breeze stirred the dusty air, lifting scraps of cloth and echoing the creaking groan of the old pit's ruined walls. He turned, observing the last of the nobles depart, their guards close and expressions guarded.
"You seemed far too calm," came a familiar voice beside him.
Paxter turned to find Varys adjusting his cloak. "Calm? Hardly."
"Indeed. And what did you make of Cersei's declaration of peace?" an amused Varys asked turning to Tyrion.
Tyrion chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "She has a plan. She always does."
"You all scheme," Grey Worm announced frustratedly, "But plans rarely survive the first swing of a sword."
"Our Queen has asked you join her outside the city." Missandei motioned for them to follow her.
They left the Dragonpit together, walking the winding roads back toward the temporary encampment outside the city. A patchwork of Dotharaki, Unsullied, and Northmen tents were being raised, fires lit, and food prepared. The massive, allied army outside King's Landing look more like a sieging force, a diplomatic delegation. Even at this distance, Paxter could make out the nervous faces of the guards atop King's Landing walls.
As they approached the edge of the encampment, Paxter caught the scent of roasting meat and heard the distant laughter of Dothraki warriors sharing tales of battle. The rhythmic clanging of hammers echoed from the blacksmith's tent, where Unsullied armor was being repaired and readied for the journey north. Despite the air of tension, there was also purpose. Each man and woman here knew the cost of inaction.
As soon as they arrived at the camp, Daenerys summoned her inner circle to a private tent. The fabric was thick with embroidered dragons and bathed in flickering torchlight. Paxter was the last to enter, the scent of campfire and sweat still clinging to his cloak. Inside, he found Tyrion, Varys, Jon Snow, and Ser Jorah already gathered. Missandei and Grey Worm stood behind the queen.
Paxter entered, but said nothing, quickly taking his place. He noticed Daenerys and Jon sitting next to each other, but their actions seemed intimate, as if they were unintentionally imitating each other.
Daenerys looked tired but resolute. Her hands rested on the edge of a table bearing a map of Westeros. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across her face, accentuating the weariness in her eyes. Yet her voice was steel. "Tomorrow, we leave for Winterfell."
A silence settled as they absorbed the weight of the revelation.
Then she gazed coldly at Paxter. "Lord Redwyne, establish a supply line to White Harbor."
"I'll send a raven to the Reach and Dorne tonight. My liege, can expect routine shipments to White Harbor."
"Varys," she commanded next. Varys shifted in his seat. "I want to know everything happening in King's Landing. If Cersi plans to betray us, I want to know beforehand."
"It shall be done my, Queen," Varys bowed.
"We need a show of unity," Tyrion added. "You and Jon should head north together. Let the people see you are one of them."
Ser Jorah's eyes flickered for a moment before returning to normal stoicism, "The northern winds will slow our journey. I shall accompany you."
Daenerys glanced at Jorah with the trace of a smile—fond, familiar. But when her eyes turned to Jon, her expression softened differently. There was admiration there, and something gentler still. Jorah noticed, his jaw tightening just slightly, though he said nothing. Paxter, watching from his place, took note of the quiet triangle forming between queen, knight, and king.
"Is there anything else?" Daenerys let out a breath and nodded. Hearing none, she commanded, "Then we'll ride north at first light."
One by one, they bowed and left to issue orders to their commanders. Paxter lingered a moment, watching the way Jon paused at Daenerys's side, murmured something too quiet to hear, and how she smiled before nodding him away. These moments spoke volumes.
Paxter left and made his way over to a bird cage filled with ravens. He found the bird cage listed Reach and Dorne. He wrote a message to Mina and Prince Martell and hoped they would be ready for the war to come. As Paxter released the last raven Varys and Tyrion walked over.
Tyrion handed Paxter a goblet and poured a cup of Arbor Red, then poured Varys and himself a cup.
Varys offered a thin smile and said, "A copper for your thoughts, Lord Redwyne?"
"Logistics. Rations. The cost of feeding an army this large is tremendous and now, Daenerys request I send supplies to White Harbor? The Starks are broke, Daenerys is nearly broke. How am I to do my job without resources?" Paxter asked himself, more than to Tyrion and Varys.
"Cheer up Lord Redwyne, after this next war the number of soldiers will decrease?" Varys remarked crudely.
"That's if we win?" Tyrion added downing his goblet. "Don't forget Lord Redwyne, the dead don't eat.
Paxter understood. He too was shaken from seeing the undead earlier today. All these people were bravely marching to fight an army of the undead. Yet, so many of these people would die. He might die.
That thought weighed on Paxter's mind. Paxter glanced toward the tent flap and thought of his sons, safe in Highgarden, and of Mina, who had kissed his cheek and whispered for him to return. The thought of them warmed him briefly before the chill of duty returned.
Paxter waved farewell to his compatriots and found his tent and drained the last of his wine. As he lay down on this cot, and listened to the distant hum of soldiers still awake—voices, hammering, clinking cups. He closed his eyes, not sure if sleep would come. In the quiet, he wondered what future his sons would inherit, and whether the world would survive to see it.