Grafton Hall, the Vale — 281 AC
The sea wind swept over the high walls of Grafton Hall, carrying with it the briny scent of Gulltown's harbor below. Gulls screeched overhead, darting between the towering masts of docked ships. The banners of House Grafton—silver seagulls on a blue field—fluttered lazily in the breeze.
Edward Grafton stood atop the battlements, his hands resting on the cold stone as he watched the horizon. The wind played with the hem of his cloak. He looked every bit the lordling of sixteen years: tall, broad-shouldered, with the proud bearing of nobility. Yet his eyes betrayed a weight no youth should carry—gray, unreadable, cold as deep water.
He remembered everything.
From the rise of Daenerys to the fall of Cersei. From Jon Snow's bastard birth to his reluctant crown. Edward had seen dragons rise, kings burn, and kingdoms collapse. He remembered the Red Wedding, the White Walkers, the long night. But none of it had happened yet.
He had not lived it. Not in this life.
He had awoken on his fourteenth nameday with knowledge that should have belonged to a god. Memories of lives unlived, futures not yet written. He had seen the story from beginning to end, a narrative soaked in blood, honor, betrayal, and fire. A tale told over centuries, carved into the bones of Westeros.
He knew it. Every detail.
And he had no intention of stopping any of it.
"Ser?" a voice called behind him—timid, uncertain.
Edward turned slightly. A boy stood at the top of the stairs, out of breath. His squire, Meryn—freckled, soft-spoken, and easily frightened.
"Your lord father asks for you in the hall," the boy said, eyes fixed on the floor.
Edward nodded. "Then I'll go."
Meryn fled back down the steps, eager to be out of his presence. Edward remained still for a moment longer. He could see it all in his mind—the road ahead. The names. The deaths. The war. The long game of thrones. And somewhere in that path, he saw himself.
Not as a hero. Not as a villain.As a man who knew the ending and planned to win regardless.
He turned and descended.
The interior of Grafton Hall was narrow and dark, all carved stone and looming shadows. Servants moved from his path like whispers. They had learned not to speak when he passed. Not because he was cruel—but because they sensed something off about him. Something too perfect. Too controlled.
He had stopped pretending to be ordinary months ago.
His father waited in the hall, standing near the hearth, arms crossed behind his back. Two men in Arryn livery stood to one side, both travel-worn. One was old, his face lined and pale; the other young and alert, with a hawk's watchfulness in his eyes.
"Edward," Edmure Grafton said without turning, "we have guests."
"I see," Edward replied, voice even. "From the Eyrie?"
"From Lord Jon Arryn himself." His father motioned toward the elder of the two men.
The man stepped forward and presented a sealed parchment. The Arryn sigil—a white falcon and crescent moon on blue wax.
Edward broke the seal and read silently.
Let it be known that a great tourney shall be held at Harrenhal. Lords and ladies of the realm are invited to witness the finest in martial contest. Let banners fly and steel sing. By decree of Lord Whent and with the blessing of King Aerys II Targaryen.
His mouth curved slightly.
Harrenhal. The beginning of it all.
The tourney would mark the first public spark between Prince Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark. It would end with a rebellion, a crown broken, a family burned in dragonfire. All of it inevitable. All of it profitable—for those who knew the turns before they came.
"I'll attend," Edward said.
Edmure raised a brow. "You are not yet knighted."
"I don't intend to win. Just to compete."
"You intend to compete?" Edmure asked. "This tourney is a place to watch noble fools risk their lives for flowers and pride. Is there something you can gain even if you don't win?"
Edward smiled faintly. "Exactly."
There was a long silence between father and son. Edmure had never understood him, not since that strange illness two years ago—after which Edward had emerged sharper, harder, void of the childish eagerness he once had. He rarely smiled. Never laughed. And always knew too much.
"Then go," Edmure said finally. "Represent House Grafton. But speak little. Listen more."
Edward inclined his head. "As always."
The messengers departed. The great doors creaked shut behind them. Edward remained by the fire, eyes fixed on the flames.
So many people would die.So many names would vanish into history.
He would not mourn them.He would use them.
He was not here to change the game.He was here to play it better.