The war had begun.
Across Westeros, banners rose and cities braced for blood. Lords pledged swords, ravens flew with oaths and orders, and the kingdoms began to tear at their seams. The death of Brandon and Rickard Stark, and the disappearance of Lyanna, had shattered any illusion of peace. Robert Baratheon, Eddard Stark, and Jon Arryn rode toward rebellion, and King Aerys clung to madness like a drowning man to driftwood.
But in the Vale, something else unfolded.
Jon Arryn, the Warden of the East, had left for war.
And Edward Grafton, still young but feared and admired in equal measure, took the silence from the Eyrie as opportunity.
He had not yet claimed the title of Lord of Gulltown, but no one dared call him anything less.
With Gerold Grafton gone, and his death blamed quietly on the Hand of the King, Edward became the city's center of gravity. The merchant families, the city watch, the captains of the docks—each turned to him in times of doubt. And he rewarded loyalty swiftly and severely punished hesitation.
In the first weeks of war, Edward moved with surgical precision. He called private meetings with his most trusted allies and unveiled a new vision: Gulltown would no longer be a distant port under the shadow of the Eyrie. It would become a power of its own—a city free to chart its destiny.
And to achieve that, he would tolerate no resistance.
Edward compiled lists. Nobles who had shown hesitation. Captains who had spoken in favor of the Targaryens. Watch commanders who had once bowed too deeply to Gerold's policies. One by one, they vanished.
Some were executed publicly, accused of treason. Others simply disappeared in the night, their homes claimed by new, loyal families. Every removal was followed by promotion—loyalty meant advancement, land, gold, and title. His personal guard swelled from thirty men to nearly a hundred in a month.
He called them the Iron Hand.
Their armor bore no sigil. Only blackened steel, silent obedience, and the authority to carry out justice in Edward's name.
With internal threats gone, Edward turned his attention to Gulltown itself.
He convened a new council of advisors—half from merchant families, half from among his warriors. They drafted new laws and reforms:
Port taxes were halved to draw in ships from Braavos, Lys, and Myr.
Dock workers were paid a fixed wage, cutting down corruption.
Foreign traders were granted temporary protection under Gulltown's banner.
Street patrols doubled, making the city safer than it had been in a generation.
Diplomats from the Free Cities arrived, curious and cautious. Edward met them personally. He spoke their languages, offered them wine from Dorne, and promised Gulltown would honor its contracts even as Westeros burned.
They left impressed—and with ships full of silver.
Meanwhile, Edward ensured Gulltown's workshops and foundries focused on war-time production. The city began producing weapons, ship parts, preserved food, leather, and medicinal supplies. What couldn't be made was imported and sold again at double the price.
He sold to both sides—Baratheon allies through intermediaries in the Vale, and the Crown's forces through quiet Essosi merchants. As blood soaked Westeros, Gulltown's coffers filled with gold.
Every coin earned went into the expansion of the harbor. Docks were extended. Storage houses reinforced. New cranes, shipyards, and quarters for Essosi sailors were built. Edward's goal was simple: make Gulltown the beating heart of East-West trade, unshaken by kings or thrones.
But reform bred resistance.
Not everyone welcomed the changes. Some families saw their centuries-old privileges stripped. Others chafed at the military presence in their halls.
Edward responded with ruthless clarity.
He did not host long debates. He did not write letters of compromise. He gave warnings once. And when those were ignored, he acted.
Three noble houses were extinguished before the rest understood his will was law.
By mid-summer, Gulltown stood transformed.
The docks buzzed with foreign tongues. Grain flowed in from the Riverlands. Iron was bought in bulk from the Westerlands through neutral intermediaries. Mercenaries passed through the city, often pausing to offer their swords—and sometimes joining the Iron Hand when gold wasn't enough.
Even the Mountain Clans, scattered by Edward's earlier campaigns, had gone quiet.
And yet, he was not content.
From his tower, he watched the horizon, eyes always calculating.
"My lord," said his steward one evening, "should we send a raven to Lord Arryn? He may think you've—"
Edward cut him off with a glance.
"We will send no ravens," he said. "Let Jon Arryn fight his war. Gulltown will fight no one's battles but its own."
"Then what shall we do?"
Edward rose. Behind him, a map of the Vale stretched across the stone wall. His finger tapped the Eyrie, then drifted down to the coast.
"We build. We strengthen. And when the war is done, we will not return to the Vale."
The steward frowned. "Then what?"
Edward smiled.
"We will make the Vale come to us."
In the following weeks, Edward met with scholars, shipwrights, and architects. A massive drydock was commissioned at the northern edge of the harbor. New towers were raised along the city's walls. Fortified outposts were rebuilt in the hills, manned by the Iron Hand.
He even began construction on a grand hall—taller than any in the Vale save the Eyrie itself.
Edward did not say it aloud, but those closest to him understood:
Gulltown was no longer a city under the Vale. It was the seed of something larger.
And in fire and silence, it was taking root.