War feeds the strong. And Edward Grafton had no intention of letting the feast end too soon.
The rebellion, in its natural course, might have lasted a single bloody year—swift and decisive, with Robert Baratheon seizing the Iron Throne before the dust could settle. But that would not serve Gulltown's ambitions. Nor Edward's. He needed time—time for his city to grow, for his alliances to solidify, for the East to notice him not as a Vale lordling but as a power in his own right.
And so, with the Vale in chaos and Westeros ablaze, Edward began to pull strings.
His first move was subtle. Using intermediaries, he quietly redirected weapons shipments meant for Baratheon forces in the Stormlands to go missing—"lost at sea" due to storms or ambushed by mountain clans who were suddenly very well-armed. Without critical supplies, rebel advances slowed.
At the same time, Edward had agents whisper discontent among Crown-loyalist bannermen outside the core centers of power. In particular, he focused on ambitious, lesser houses who felt unrecognized or overtaxed. A few timely bribes and forged messages sowed unrest and slowed reinforcement logistics.
Then came the message to the Free Cities.
Using Essosi traders he had personally entertained in Gulltown, Edward spread rumors that a quick victory by Robert Baratheon would lead to a Westeros closed to Essos trade—"A new king with old values," the rumors said. "Isolationist. Proud. Dangerous."
In contrast, the Targaryens were painted as open to Essos influence, desperate to maintain economic ties.
The result? Essos merchants, especially from Myr and Lys, began funneling supplies toward Crown-loyalist regions, extending the war effort and further unbalancing the expected outcome.
Edward also instructed his men to intercept and delay ravens meant for critical coordination among the rebels. The Iron Hand's shadow network within the Vale—smugglers, riders, and informants—was perfectly positioned for such disruption. A day's delay in a battle order, a week's silence between two allies—such things turned swift campaigns into drawn-out slogs.
But Edward knew subterfuge alone wouldn't be enough.
He needed chaos.
In the Westerlands, he worked through a disgraced knight named Ser Daven Sarse, who claimed kinship with House Reyne. Daven was paid handsomely to rally surviving remnants of outlawed houses to stir rebellion near Lannisport, forcing Tywin to draw forces home for a time.
In the Riverlands, Edward's agents convinced a minor lord—House Vance of Atranta—to overstep his authority and raid a Crown-loyalist outpost. The Tullys, busy managing loyalties, hesitated. That hesitation gave the Crown more breathing room.
In Dorne, Edward sent a letter to Oberyn Martell—coded, but direct:
"Time is the only ally that cannot be betrayed. Let the days bleed."
Oberyn, clever as he was, understood. Dorne's entrance into the war came slower, more calculated.
Each of these delays, these pinpricks of disorder, lengthened the war by weeks—then months. Gulltown thrived. Trade boomed. Warehouses overflowed. Edward's men trained daily, now numbering in the hundreds, and his influence in the Vale expanded as nobles came to him for gold, food, and safety.
But Edward wasn't done.
He began spreading a new idea: that the war could not be truly won without the Vale.
He had his agents present the Vale's neutrality as a "strategic lynchpin," something that could tip the scales—if only it were brought fully into the fight. This pulled attention toward the Vale and kept commanders from coordinating directly.
Then he began arming the mountain clans again—just enough to cause panic, not enough to truly threaten Gulltown. Raiders hit supply lines, bridges were burned, and the road from the Eyrie to the coast became treacherous. Jon Arryn, fighting in the South, received garbled reports and conflicting requests for aid. His responses were delayed or confused.
The chaos served Edward well.
And perhaps most brilliantly, Edward sent small warbands to join both sides of the war—mercenaries who never revealed their true master. Their purpose wasn't to win battles. Their purpose was to prolong them—slow advances, retreat early, sow doubts about tactics. The battlefield became a quagmire.
By the end of the first year, the war still raged. And with Edward's help, it looked ready to stretch into a second, perhaps a third.
Gulltown's harbor now gleamed with new stonework. Its walls stood reinforced. Trade with Essos doubled, and Edward's name was spoken in Pentos and Braavos with equal interest and concern.
He stood atop his tower one night, overlooking the flickering lights of the city, and spoke to his steward.
"They think the war is theirs," Edward said. "They think the throne is the prize."
The steward waited, silent.
"They are wrong," Edward continued. "The true prize is time. And I am the only man who's claimed it."