The Moon's Grace glided into Gulltown's harbor, her white sails catching the spring breeze, oars dipping in steady rhythm. Edric Arryn stood at her prow, sandy blond hair tousled by the salt wind, blue eyes scanning the docks. His blue doublet was creased from the voyage, silver falcon clasp glinting at his collar. The deck hummed beneath his boots, alive with the shouts of sailors as the ship eased toward shore. Storm circled high, her storm-gray wings flashing against the clouds. Edric glanced through her eyes—piers bustling, gulls wheeling, the Vale's mountains looming faint in the distance—then snapped back, steady and alert.
Behind him, Tom, Wyl, Davos, and Waymar crowded the rail, their blue leathers scuffed but proud, falcon badges catching the light. Waymar's brown leather and chainmail clinked, his silver falcon clasp stark against his cloak. The other six ships trailed, their blue falcon and crescent moon banners bold against the sea, laden with Braavos's treasures. Edric's hand brushed his steel sword's hilt, a quiet thrill in his chest. Gulltown meant home—the Vale, his birthright—but also eyes watching, judging.
Figures waited at the dock: four Arryn guards in sky-blue cloaks, falcons embroidered in silver, and a taller man, broad-shouldered, in dark chainmail. His surcoat bore a black trout, leaping fierce, and a graying beard framed his weathered face—Brynden Tully, the Blackfish. Beside him stood another, out of place: a lean man in a fine green doublet, no armor, his sharp eyes darting over the ships. Edric's letter had reached Brynden, then, and he'd brought what was asked.
The Moon's Grace docked with a groan, gangplank lowered. Edric led the way, boots thudding on wood, his crew and guards trailing. Storm swooped low, landing on a nearby post, her amber eyes fixed on the crowd. Brynden stepped forward, his chainmail clinking, and gave a curt nod.
"Fine bird you've got, lad," he said, voice rough but warm, eyeing Storm. "Your letter found me—Braavos, of all places. Gave us a start, hearing you'd veered off." His gaze sharpened, a hint of steel beneath the gruffness. "You were due here over a month ago, Edric. Your father's none too pleased you took a jaunt across the Narrow Sea without so much as a word. Jon Arryn's Hand, not a bloody nursemaid, and even he didn't expect his heir to play merchant in Braavos."
Edric met Brynden's stare, chin up. "I had business to settle, Ser Brynden. The Vale's stronger for it." He kept his tone firm, though the scolding stung—his past-life knowledge had driven him to Braavos, but he couldn't say that, not here.
Brynden grunted, half a laugh. "Business, is it? You're bold, I'll give you that." He jerked his head toward the man in the green doublet. "This is Merton Grafton—no kin to the lord, mind, but sharp with coin and trade. You asked for a steward in your letter, one who knows Gulltown's markets. He's your man."
Merton stepped forward, bowing smoothly, his eyes keen under a sweep of dark hair. "My lord," he said, voice clipped, professional. He stood out against the armored guards, his doublet embroidered with subtle silver threads, a quill tucked into his belt like a dagger.
Edric sized him up, then gestured toward the ships. "I've goods from Braavos—silk, lace, saffron, spiced wine, ivory. Enough to fill a lord's hall. I need a man to stay here, speak with my captains, sell what we've brought, and keep the trade flowing. Can you do it? Will you?"
Merton's lips twitched, almost a smile. "I can, my lord, and I'm willing—for a price. Gulltown's markets are no Flea Bottom stall. Moving silk and ivory takes work, contacts, care. I'd ask ten percent of the profits."
Edric raised a brow, folding his arms. "Ten? For goods I've already bought and shipped? You'll stand in no debt, Merton. Three percent."
"Three?" Merton laughed, sharp and quick. "You'd have me starve for loyalty alone? Eight, and I'll make your silks the talk of every lord from here to Storm's End."
"Five," Edric countered, voice steady. "And you'll be my first man for trade—any plans I weave, you'll hear before the captains. That's worth more than coin."
Merton paused, stroking his chin, then nodded. "Five it is, my lord. No cost to me, and a seat at your table? I'll see your goods turn to gold."
Edric offered his hand, and Merton clasped it, sealing the deal. Brynden watched, a glint of approval in his eyes, though his face stayed stern.