The Seven Realms

Ironhold, the Mute March, the Crimson Flame, the White Tower, the Deepwood, the Blacksea, Sangold — seven realms divide the world between them.

The central plain is Ironhold. The Throne is there, and so is the right to strike coin. The northernmost icefield is the Mute March, where House Ravenfeather has kept that wall for the whole world, generation after generation. The Crimson Flame holds the volcano mouth; the iron dug out of the mountain's belly is mixed with volcanic ash, and armour forged from it comes out three-tenths lighter than anywhere else, which is what the heavy horse live on. The White Tower holds the Pontificate in the middle lands, and oracles, paladins and the devotion of the common people all come out of there. The Deepwood lives deep among the ancient trees, whose rings are counted outward one ring at a time, and it is said the count can reach the future. The Blacksea is islands, where pirates and the deep-sea priests drink from the same water. Sangold lies in the southernmost desert, where caravans, assassins and banks all come from one door.

The seven realms marry into one another, scheme against one another, and owe one another debts. The Mute March's grain has to be drawn from Ironhold, Ironhold's iron has to be bought from the Crimson Flame, the Crimson Flame's soldiers are paid through Sangold's ledgers, and Sangold's caravans need a writ of passage from the Church to cross a border — the net has been woven for 400 years, and if anyone pulls at one corner all seven places sway together.

No one remembers why there were seven realms to begin with, no more and no fewer. The Church insists the number cannot be touched. The seats at council must be made up to seven, and if a seat falls empty someone has to be found elsewhere to fill it; the Church would sooner take a seat itself than let that table be one place short. As to why it must be seven, the Church's answer is that the gods laid down the rule, and if you press further, the man answering starts reciting the rites text.

For 400 years the world has been at peace, peaceful enough to sound like a lie. Now the old king is dead and the chair stands empty — and all seven realms have lifted their heads at once, looking towards the centre.