The fires in Gulltown had long burned out when the silence of midnight was broken—not by battle, not by rebellion, but by the subtle, final gasp of dying men. Gerold Grafton and his household were found at dawn, lifeless in their chambers, their faces pale, eyes wide with the sudden knowledge that death had come without mercy.
No blood had been spilled, no doors broken. But no one survived.
The whispers that followed named Jon Arryn. Who else had the reach? The precision? The cold resolve?
Edward Grafton said nothing.
Not when the raven arrived from the Eyrie with a sealed letter of measured condolences. Not when the council met in solemn quiet to discuss Gulltown's future. Not when Edmure, his father, came to him in the tower with a knowing look and a question that needed no asking.
Because it had been Edward's design all along.
Gerold's death, carried out by the same Vale forces that had once stood for order, was not a victory—it was a wedge. One that Edward drove deep between Gulltown and the Eyrie. And in that space, he began to build something new.
He did not proclaim himself Lord of Gulltown. Not yet. The people did it for him. The merchants who now felt safer under his rule. The soldiers who followed his word without question. The captains who docked their ships in peace, knowing the hills were no longer haunted by raiders.
The Mountain Clans had grown bold while the city faltered under Gerold's failed loyalty to the crown. Now, Edward's wrath turned fully to them.
With Gerold gone and Jon Arryn's complicity whispered in taverns and alleys, Edward gave his people a common enemy—and took the burden of vengeance upon himself.
He gathered his thirty loyal fighters and rode north by moonlight. They struck at the first clanhold by morning, a swift, brutal raid that left the rocky vale blackened with smoke and salted with ash.
They did not stop.
Over the next two weeks, Edward led a scorched-earth campaign. No prisoners. No survivors. The message was clear: the old order was dead, and Edward Grafton ruled with fire.
But behind the brutality, there was purpose. Each destroyed tribe meant fewer threats to trade routes. Each conquest expanded his influence beyond the harbor and into the hills. Small villages, long extorted by clansmen, pledged themselves to Edward in gratitude and fear.
Still, the killing was not without risk.
From the Eyrie, silence reigned. No ravens. No judgment. No reinforcements. Edward had cut himself free, and Jon Arryn, for now, let him drift.
Just as planned.
By the end of the month, Gulltown stood unchallenged on the eastern coast—safe, strong, and quietly severed from the political heart of the Vale.
In the city, children spoke of Edward in tales that blurred truth and myth. They said he wrestled giants in the mountains, that his sword burned like sunlight. The merchants smiled and let the stories spread. Legends made for loyal subjects.
In his tower, Edward watched the harbor from high above, Edmure beside him once more.
"They say it was Jon Arryn's doing," his father muttered.
Edward said nothing.
"They say he did it to give you power."
Edward finally turned. "Let them believe that. For now."
"Will he not demand repayment?"
"He thinks he already has it."
They stared out in silence.
Below, the banners of Gulltown swayed in the salt air—newly dyed, bearing no lion, no falcon, no dragon.
Only a silver tower rising above black waves.