The skies above Westeros wept ash and fire as spring wore on, though no harvest was in sight. It had been nearly three years of bloodshed, and the lands of men were charred, their spirits worn thin. From Dorne to the Neck, from the Westerlands to the Vale, all of Westeros braced for the inevitable. The final clash was coming, and every bird that took flight from the battlefield carried tales of horror and fire. Yet amid this brewing storm, Edward Grafton remained in Gulltown—distant from the roaring sounds of battle, but no less a force upon the realm.
He did not ride beneath Baratheon banners. The silver seahorse of House Grafton fluttered high above Gulltown's towers, undisturbed. Though no army under his command had taken the field at the Trident, none could deny his impact. His ships moved goods, men, grain, weapons, and whispers. His coffers ran deep, and his influence ran deeper still.
Edward had, by now, secured full de facto control of the Three Sisters. The islands, once quarrelsome and divided, now followed his lead through clever diplomacy, strategic marriages, and when necessary, sheer intimidation. Though no raven from the Eyrie had officially named him Warden of the Sisters, no lord there dared defy his rule. The ports of the Sisters were guarded by ships built in Gulltown and manned by sailors trained in Edward's newly formed naval academy. With control over the eastern sea lanes and Gulltown as the spine of trade in the Vale, Edward's dominion over commerce and wartime logistics was unparalleled.
And so, while the banners of lions, roses, stags, and dragons gathered by the riverbanks of the Trident, Edward remained within his city—watchful, patient, and precise.
From the tower that overlooked the harbor, he studied maps and raven scrolls. His latest reports described the consolidation of armies: Jon Arryn had led the Vale host to the banks of the Green Fork. Hoster Tully and his riverlords reinforced Robert's lines. The rebel armies, once scattered and hesitant, now formed a mighty spear aimed at the dragon's heart. But they were weary, bruised by months of attrition and guerrilla tactics that Edward himself had secretly supported.
The Mad King, meanwhile, had been overthrown in all but name. Rhaegar Targaryen had taken the mantle of command after slaying his father in a quiet, bloodless coup whispered only among the highest of circles. The city of King's Landing had not burned, thanks to Rhaegar's swift hand—but it trembled still under the weight of expectation and fear.
From the south, the Reach was moving. House Tyrell had finally committed its hosts under Lord Mace, eager to preserve the remnants of Targaryen power, though many questioned their loyalty. From the west, Lord Tywin Lannister marched—ostensibly neutral until now, but rumors claimed he would back the winning side at the final moment, and every side knew what that meant.
Edward's part in all of this was never spoken aloud. He had sold grain to both sides, offered ship passage to wounded soldiers under false names, and housed informants from Essos who helped him twist the blades of fate without ever drawing one himself.
Now, on this cold, fog-drenched morning, Edward walked the stone corridors of his harbor fortress. The master of logistics was inspecting the latest shipment of Myrish crossbows and crates of obsidian arrowheads. His steward, Malden, trailed behind him, scribbling every order in a leather-bound ledger.
"Two hundred barrels to go north," Edward said. "Only half marked for Robert's cause. The rest should be seized mid-route by 'pirates' loyal to House Greyjoy."
Malden raised an eyebrow but wrote it down.
"And the Three Sisters?" Edward asked.
"They're quiet," Malden replied. "Fishermen from Longsister report a Redwyne patrol on the horizon, but no landings. Your garrison holds all three keeps."
"Good," Edward murmured. "Send a rider to the governors. No trade to Driftmark. All sails for White Harbor, Braavos, and Gulltown."
He turned and looked at the horizon. His wife, Alys Arryn, had begun taking more duties within the household, slowly integrating herself into the city's noble network. Her presence legitimized his claim in the eyes of many in the Vale, especially after Jon Arryn's formal acknowledgment. But her brother, young Elbert Arryn, was less pleased with Edward's growing influence, even if he lacked the strength to act on it.
Outside, the city hummed. Gulltown's streets had never been more prosperous, even amid war. Edward's new navy shipyards stretched beyond the harbor walls, and his academy for captains trained young men from the Vale, the Sisters, and even from Braavos. Contracts with foreign shipbuilders were paid in gold weighed by the pound.
In Essos, Edward's name was spoken among the merchant princes of Pentos and the iron vaults of Tyrosh. Through a network of seemingly independent shopkeepers, he purchased warehouses and docks, creating a web of influence across the Narrow Sea. If Westeros burned, his trade empire would survive it—and perhaps, thrive.
As the sun climbed behind pale clouds, a raven arrived bearing the seal of Jon Arryn. Edward broke the seal, read the message once, and tucked it beneath his coat.
"It is time," he said quietly.
"Time for what?" Malden asked.
"For the end," Edward replied. "The river will run red."
Back on the Trident, the drums of war began to beat.
Across the camps, the leaders of Westeros held their final councils. Jon Arryn's face had aged a decade. Robert, broad-shouldered and bruised, shouted at his men with the desperation of a commander who knew the outcome would define history. Lord Tully's men prayed in silence. Lord Tywin's hosts camped just west of the hills, waiting.
And on the far side of the river, beneath black and red banners, stood Rhaegar Targaryen. His armor gleamed like polished moonlight, a thousand rubies set in his chestplate. He stood beside Ser Arthur Dayne and Prince Lewyn Martell. Fewer in number, but elite beyond measure.
Between them, the river flowed.