Night cloaked the towers of Gulltown in a cool mist, the lanterns flickering dimly along the docks. The sea whispered against the stone piers, whispering secrets as old as the tides. Inside Lord Grafton's great hall, the fire burned low, and Edward stood by the arched window, waiting.
He heard the door open before the guards announced the visitor.
"You came," Edward said without turning.
"Of course I did," came the familiar voice of Oberyn Martell. "You rarely invite a man twice."
The Dornish prince strode into the room, a shadow behind him cast tall and flickering. His silken tunic was red and gold, cut high to the chest, his boots damp from the street's moisture. He poured himself a goblet of summerwine without waiting for permission and settled across from Edward.
"What is this meeting about, Grafton? Another lesson in patience?"
Edward regarded him quietly. Then he stepped forward and unrolled a map across the oak table—King's Landing in full detail.
"You know the tide is turning," he began. "The Crown is bleeding. Your sister and her children are still in the Red Keep."
Oberyn's smile faded.
"And you're going to tell me you'll save them, out of mercy?"
"No," Edward said, his voice as cool as ever. "Out of strategy. If King's Landing falls, Elia and her children are vulnerable. If they die, Dorne may never forgive the realm. The war will change. I need the war to remain predictable."
He leaned in.
"If the moment comes, and I can act from a distance—with influence, gold, or quiet blades—I will do everything I can to get them out. But if I do this, you owe me."
Oberyn did not answer immediately. The wine in his goblet rippled as he tapped the table.
"You're not a man of mercy," he said slowly. "But you are a man of vision. If Elia lives because of you… I will stand with you when the ash settles."
They clasped hands in silence. A pact forged not in honor, but necessity.
Edward's next weeks were spent weaving his web wider.
In the Vale, House Waynwood and House Belmore were quietly brought under his influence. The promises were the same: security, trade access, and internal autonomy once the war was over. Edward's lieutenants provided supplies, rebuilt roads, and stationed discreet guards near their holdings.
He offered merchant lords of Essos the opportunity of a lifetime: unrestricted trade rights in Gulltown and naval protection in exchange for steady shipments of arms, grains, and coin. Myrish engineers were hired to improve Gulltown's shipyards. Tyroshi sailors patrolled Edward's private fleet. Braavosi bankers extended credit lines that rivaled those of House Lannister.
But Edward did not only build. He stirred the flames elsewhere.
From his spies, he knew the tensions between the Lannisters and Tyrells were mounting. Highgarden's supplies had grown unreliable, their harvests strained by war, their soldiers far afield. Edward paid certain mercenary captains—sailing under no flag—to strike Lannister caravans near the Mander, always leaving behind evidence of Tyrell involvement.
A whisper in Oldtown told of Lannister gold buying influence in the Citadel. A whisper in Casterly Rock warned of Florent ambitions in the Reach.
All guided, all seeded, by Edward.
And in the west, the Ironborn had begun to test the coastlines.
Edward ensured their success. He paid smugglers to deliver false reports of gold-laden ships headed toward Lannisport. The Greyjoys bit the bait. They raided with renewed fury, forcing Tywin to redeploy his naval assets westward.
With Tywin's attention scattered, the central Reach was left vulnerable. The Tyrells, eager to preserve their holdings, began to demand more autonomy from King's Landing. Rhaegar, stretched thin, could only offer promises.
It was a pressure cooker—and Edward stood over the flame.
One evening, he hosted a feast in Gulltown—not for lords, but for the captains of Essosi trade ships and local Vale merchants.
The hall was decorated with banners of various cities: Braavos, Pentos, Lys. A subtle gesture.
"Our strength," Edward toasted, "is not in swords alone. It is in our reach. In our vision. While kings burn, we prosper."
The captains cheered, drunk on gold and safety. Contracts were signed that night. Gulltown was no longer a harbor in the Vale. It was the eastern gate of Westeros.
Later that week, in his private solar, Edward drafted letters. He wrote to House Redfort, asking for support in reinforcing the mountain roads. He sent a coded raven to a merchant-prince in Lys, requesting a dozen ships be fitted as floating storehouses—mobile supply chains for an army that did not yet exist.
He penned a personal note to Oberyn:
"The time will come. Be ready for the flames. And the knife in the dark."
And lastly, he commissioned a shipment of wildfire. Not for use—but to control those who thought to hold him hostage with it.
As the war raged across Westeros, Edward Grafton remained untouched. He was no mere lord. He was a spider in the heart of the storm, and the web was only beginning to tighten.