"Your Grace... though I have said this many times, as Hand of the King, I must remind you."
King's Landing, capital of the Seven Kingdoms.
This largest city on the banks of the Blackwater Rush began another morning to the sonorous tolling of the great bronze bell atop the Great Sept of Baelor.
Yet the city's undisputed master, His Grace the King, had wine matting his beard and held his belly, bleary-eyed.
Robert Baratheon had to get up to receive his Hand, yawning, with great dark circles beneath his eyes.
For once, he had spent the previous night sleeping with his queen, Cersei Lannister.
He had to admit, the Lannister woman's technique was rather good.
But deep down, Robert disliked this woman whose beauty was renowned throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
Every time he reached his peak atop her, he always thought of the girl named Lyanna Stark.
Yes... a girl.
Even though he was no longer young, in his heart, his Lyanna would always be at her youngest and most beautiful.
He roughly snatched the half-filled wine cup from his squire, that timid little lion, Lancel Lannister.
The king tilted his head back and drained the cold wine in one gulp.
He gave a violent shiver, and at last a glimmer of clarity returned to Robert's muddled mind. He began recalling what his Hand, Jon Arryn, had just said to him.
"Remind me of what? Oh, Jon, what is there in the Seven Kingdoms these days that needs me, the king, to worry about it?"
"If you ask me, Jon, you ought to sit on that spiked Iron Throne for me. Better yet, summon that stiff-necked Ned to King's Landing too."
He shifted his body, let out a long sigh, and said:
"Ah... Seven Hells, how many years has it been since I last saw him?"
His eyes slightly narrowed, the Lord Hand patiently listened to the king finish rambling, making certain there was nothing more to come.
Only then did he slowly speak:
"Your Grace, we must deal with the crown's debts. The additional tax revenue Petyr brought in from Gulltown is no longer enough to cover our needs."
The moment he heard talk of gold dragons, Robert's drink-dulled nerves began aching again.
He waved his hand forcefully in impatience and said sullenly:
"If it's not enough, ask the Lannisters for more. That old lion Tywin won't refuse, or I'll send his precious daughter back to Casterly Rock."
The Hand froze for a moment. In his aged face, his dull blue eyes held nothing but helplessness.
"Your Grace, we cannot..."
A slam on the table cut the Hand off:
"Of course I know that's impossible! Seven Hells, is that all our Master of Coin can manage?"
The king roared. Jon Arryn had ruined his good mood that morning.
Knowing Robert Baratheon's temperament well, Jon Arryn could only bow, then turn and leave the king's chamber.
Though disappointed countless times, the Lord of the Eyrie had never intended to give up.
What else could he do?
Have the Iron Throne ask the Lannisters for money again?
At this rate, before Robert went to meet the Seven, the whole Iron Throne could be bundled up and sold to House Lannister.
Especially when Jon Arryn thought of the current crown prince, Joffrey, and his golden hair, identical to his mother Cersei Lannister's, he felt a faint unease.
Too alike... far too alike!
Though there was nothing remarkable about a son resembling his mother, Jon Arryn simply felt something was wrong.
He could not say why. It was just a feeling.
The king would not budge, and the daily expenses remained. Wasn't another tourney coming up soon?
Jon Arryn returned to the Tower of the Hand and shakily settled into his seat.
The white sheets spread across his desk made his eyes swim. His wife Lysa was absent too, and who knew where she had gone.
"I must send someone to take out another loan from the Iron Bank. But we cannot sell off any more rights in Gulltown. I must find a way to have the Stormlands resolve this."
Muttering to himself, the old Hand tugged the cord on his desk.
A bell rang.
With a creak, an attendant pushed open the door and bowed.
"Lord Hand?"
Still buried in his documents, Jon Arryn spoke without raising his head:
"Please ask Lord Renly to come see me."
As the attendant prepared to leave the room, he seemed to remember something and added:
"Oh, yes. Sorry for the trouble, but ask Grand Maester Pycelle when he can give me the copy of 'The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms' I requested."
The door closed.
Only an aged figure remained, working alone in the cold, gloomy Tower of the Hand.
As the man patching up the kingdom, Jon Arryn was finding himself increasingly unable to cope.
"Hmm... I think New Land Village is a decent name... at least compared with the other candidates."
At night, the bonfire outside was still burning fiercely.
Darean had just gone out to announce that the first phase of construction had been successfully completed, that currency could now circulate freely in the territory, and that its people could trade freely.
It did not have to be metal currency, since even a hundred of the people who had followed Darean here probably could not scrape together a single gold dragon.
Barter would do as well. In any case, the territory's economy had to get moving as soon as possible.
Judging by the response after his announcement, his people thoroughly approved of this new policy.
It made sense. Before, whether they worked more or less, they received the same piece of black bread and bowl of vegetable soup.
Now, as long as they produced more, they could trade with others who needed their output for what they wanted.
For them, this was naturally a good thing.
But after soliciting names for the new settlement, Darean fell silent as he looked at the sheet Clyson handed him.
He had forgotten the educational level of the people under him.
He should never have come up with the stupid idea of soliciting names.
In the end, Marwyn, who had come over to join the fun, had the final say and chose the only passable name: "New Land Village."
As the old fellow put it, since there was an Oldtown, shouldn't they make something new?
And so this little village of twenty-five wooden houses-twenty-six, counting Darean's own-was officially named.
Just then, the Book of Strange Script resting against his chest gave off a burning heat he had not felt in some time.
"Green Lands, Prologue, Third Section."
"Shadow of Hunger."
"As one of the rulers of the Green Lands, your ancient and noble bloodline must never permit the shadow of hunger to exist. Fill your granaries and make the people love you from the bottom of their hearts."
[Collect twenty-five thousand jin of grain. Reward: Magic Tide revival accelerated by 2.2 hours, frost intensity reduced by 0.000026%, magic concentration increased slightly!]
This time, a strange stone symbol followed the passage.
Darean did not know what it meant.
Unlike before, he had not completed this objective, so he did not know what this locked spell could do either.
But that was not the question that concerned him.
Twenty-five thousand jin-by his rough calculation, that would feed the territory's current population for about three months.
Just enough to last until the next harvest.
Narrowing his eyes, Darean pondered.
Could this book actually know exactly how many people I have under me?
Interesting...
Before you continue