The road from Harrenhal to Gulltown was long, winding through the heart of the Vale, skirting the stormy coast and the quiet villages nestled between the fingers of the Fingers. With him rode thirty men, gathered during the tourney—knights, squires, sellswords, and sons of lesser houses, all drawn to the quiet confidence and tactical brilliance of Edward Grafton. They did not yet speak of allegiance in loud voices, but their eyes followed him like he was already a lord.
The sun was high when they reached the King's Road, the sound of hooves muffled by mist and pine. Edward rode at the front, his cloak bearing no sigil, though everyone who passed knew his name by now. Whispers of his duel with Barristan Selmy, his supposed restraint against Arthur Dayne, and the thirty men he commanded spread like embers in the wind.
The journey was deliberate. Edward stopped often, not for comfort but for opportunity. In every town, village, and crossroads, he watched, listened, and tested those who might be more than they appeared. He wasn't just gathering swords; he was building a house.
In Maidenpool, they paused. A lean man named Hal Vex approached Edward in the courtyard of a weather-beaten inn. He was a former ship captain turned mercenary, known for navigating the dangerous Straits of Braavos during storms most men wouldn't brave. His eyes were sharp, his tongue quick, and his loyalty clearly tied to silver—but Edward had no intention of wasting talent. He watched Vex throw a dagger into the eye of a target dummy at twenty paces, then hired him that same evening.
"Do you expect a naval war?" Vex asked.
"I expect to win," Edward replied.
In Duskendale, he found two more: a mute giant called Norr who could lift a horse cart on his back, and a middle-aged healer named Sister Myria, expelled from the Faith for refusing to let noblemen die when it was politically convenient. Norr spoke only in grunts and looks, but once, when a bandit tried to steal from their camp, he broke the man's leg with a single flick of his hand.
Myria rode at the rear with the injured and sick, never asking for thanks.
At Crackclaw Point, a grinning thief named Tym the Quick challenged Edward to a mock duel in the street. He lost—badly—but his speed was unmatched. Edward spared him and gave him coin and a blade. Tym swore fealty that night, laughing into his cup.
"You'll never regret this, m'lord. Well, you might. But you won't die regretting it."
Then, in a village outside Runestone, he met a woman named Lira. She was a falconer, one of the best Edward had ever seen. Her hawk, Ember, circled above with eerie intelligence. Lira was silent at first, skeptical. But Edward spent an afternoon with her, letting her watch how he led.
"Why do you want me?" she asked at dusk.
"Because your eyes see things others miss," he said.
By the time they reached the Vale's eastern rim, Edward had over fifty followers. Twenty new blades and minds, each one chosen by merit, not birth. Among them were:
Jory Longbrook, a blacksmith's son whose hammer swung faster than most blades.
Alen of Three Rivers, a bard with a perfect memory and a knack for reading men.
Falia, a former maid who had killed a knight in self-defense and had the scars to prove it.
Braedon, a boy of thirteen who could track a deer across bare rock.
Edward kept notes, memorized their faces, listened to their worries. He wasn't just building a force—he was building loyalty.
But his thoughts were fixed on Gulltown.
Gerold Grafton still ruled there—young, capable, and loyal to the Targaryens. Too loyal. And that loyalty would be his undoing.
Edward's plan was simple: build his strength in secret, gather allies among the harbor guilds, and sow dissent quietly within the Grafton retainers. The city's merchants remembered the old days, when Edward's father had led with a firm but fair hand. Though a bastard, Edward's father was the elder half-brother of Lord Grafton, and his influence had once steadied many hands in Gulltown's politics. Now he lived quietly in the hills outside the city, cast aside by courtly politics but remembered fondly by many.
Gerold was brash and ambitious, and his ties to Dragonstone worried many who now saw the winds turning.
They crested the last ridge at sunset. The sea opened before them, a glittering plain of steel and flame. Gulltown spread out below like a jewel set into grey stone, ships rocking in the harbor, the lighthouse tower burning against the coming dusk.
Edward halted his horse.
"This is our new beginning," he said to his riders.
They entered the city in smaller groups, not as a host, but as travelers returning home. Edward visited old contacts first—shipwrights, spice merchants, ironmongers. Men and women who remembered his father's name and owed debts, spoken or unspoken. He didn't ask for coin or power—only ears and eyes.
Every night, he dined with a different faction. Dockworkers, stevedores, fishermen's guilds. He paid well, listened more, and let his presence speak for itself. Word spread: Edward Grafton had returned, and he was not his uncle.
Within a fortnight, he had access to over a dozen key trade routes through quiet agreements. He began sponsoring patrols on the outer roads, protecting trade under the guise of civic responsibility. Norr's size and Lira's hawk made them both local legends.
Tym ran a quiet network of whispers in the streets. Myria healed both beggars and nobles. Even the skeptical started to take notice.
One night, over a simple meal of fried eel and dark bread, Edward spoke to Hal Vex.
"What would it take," he asked, "for this city to turn on Gerold?"
Hal leaned back, calculating. "You've got half the harbor already. The Watch is still loyal to him, but they're not fools. If he slips, even once—if the dragons fall—they'll look to you."
Edward nodded. "And what of the nobles?"
Hal smiled. "The nobles follow whoever pays their debts."
The next day, Edward made quiet overtures to a septon who had influence in the court. He provided grain to three orphanages. He helped fund repairs to the city walls—at his own expense.
But still, he waited.
Because timing was everything. And rebellion, true rebellion, must never look like treason. It must look like salvation.
In the final days before the storm, Edward met with his core followers. They convened in a sealed chamber beneath the old salt tower.
"The dragons will fall," he said. "And when they do, chaos will follow. Our task is not to create the fire—but to offer shelter from it."
No oaths were taken that night. None were needed.
Lira offered a hawk feather, a symbol of silent vision.
Norr bowed without words.
Tym grinned. "Let's rob a kingdom."
And Edward, born of noble blood but sharpened by foresight, stepped into the shadow of Gulltown's walls with a clear heart and a cold mind.
He would not conquer by blade.
He would inherit by will.