When Valen had first been granted the title Governor of Salthold by the prince himself, the honor had not come alone. Alongside the sealed writ of appointment had been a letter—thin parchment scrawled with his grace's tight, deliberate hand—outlining the policies Valen was to uphold now that he stood as the Crown's spearhead in a land still raw and uncertain.
Chief among those instructions was the directive to maintain and cultivate diplomatic ties with any tribal faction that could be turned to their cause. No matter how small, no matter how strange their customs—if they were willing to trade loyalty or resources for the Crown's favor, they were to be courted like nobles at a spring tourney.
Second only to diplomacy was the Prince's obsession with self-sufficiency. Salthold, far from home and at the mercy of narrow sea routes, had to survive on its own stores. A feat easier said than done. The land around the hold was a harsh mistress—rocky, windswept, stubborn.
