The Seven Realms

Ironhold, the Mutelands, Crimsonflame, the White Tower, Deepwood, the Black Sea, Sandgold—seven kingdoms divide the world. The central plain is Ironhold; the throne is there, and so is the right to mint coin. The northernmost ice-waste is the Mutelands, where House Crowfeather has guarded that wall for the whole world, generation after generation. The other five kingdoms hold their volcano, their church, their ancient forest, their archipelago, their desert—each with its own armies, each with its own gods.

The seven realms intermarry, scheme against one another, owe one another debts. No one remembers why these seven realms were, from the start, seven—no more, no fewer; they remember only that every generation of kings sits the same chair, and every generation of the Wall Garrison guards the same wall.

For four hundred years, the world has been at peace—a peace as smooth as a lie. Now the old king is dead, the chair stands empty—and all seven kingdoms lift their heads at once, looking toward the center.