Start to a book? Has potential.

	Frederick the Merciful sat upon his
throne brooding, his face just as serious and depressing as the
rumbling thunder beyond the castle walls. It had been a long,
restless day and he wanted nothing but sleep, yet it was not to be
so. As he stroked the rich fur of his rather extravagant royal robes,
a weeping woman knelt before him, her cries echoing endlessly off the
stone walls. Spots marked the ground beneath her, the graves of
fallen tears, and she added to them generously. The wind whistled
annoyingly outside, and everyone in the room gritted their teeth
against it. Frederick scratched his chin; it was shadowed with
stubble and rough against his finger, but he didn’t care. He
had too much on his mind to bother about facial hair.

	The woman before him moaned
pitifully and buried her head in her weathered hands. She was a
farmer, like a lot of the people in the cold kingdom. It had been
named so because of the winters that stirred there, temperatures
would often drop lower than anyplace else in Shorepan and summers
were, at best, chilly. There were six other kingdoms in the country,
each one trying their best to stand out among the rest. Frederick did
not care much for standing out though; the future for his kingdom, if
he had it his way, would not be one of power. It would be one of
peacefulness, one where its residents would not have the need to feel
threatened by the other kingdoms’ armies. The cold kingdom sat
high on the mountains of Ashah-Tir, overlooking all of Shorepan. It
was surrounded by snow-caked land, dotted with white trees and
populated by wild snow leopards. It was a terrible place for fishing,
the land too sloped and cold for any types of lake. It was a terrible
place for hunting, the snow leopards blending into the background
perfectly so you never knew whether you were the hunter or being
stalked yourself. People often rushed to the witch-doctors –
which Frederick was sure were all fakes – with snot frozen to
their faces, blue hypothermic hands and violent shivering. But the
place was Frederick’s home, and as a member of the royal family
he had a duty to protect it and keep it safe from harm. And Frederick
never shied away from his duties.

	Finally he looked up at the woman –
who still wept in front of him – with tired, sleep deprived
eyes and she jumped. Frederick shifted in his seat, one side of him
now numb from being in the same position all day. The cushioned
surface of the throne was comfortable, the fact could not be denied,
but it was not comfortable enough to excuse spending a whole day upon
it. “Ms. Hard-Hall, I believe?” Her bottom lip trembled
as she uttered a response, and it came out shaky. “Yes…
your Majesty, Ms. Elizabeth Hard-Hall.” She wiped her wet,
dirty cheeks with the back of her hand and looked at her king.
Frederick stared back at her for a moment; it seemed unfair that she
should die for such a small mistake. Would it even matter in the long
run? His brain hurt though, and he had been over it a thousand times
in his head. Once in a while, despite his nickname ‘The
Merciful’, he did have to abide by the law. “Ms.
Hard-Hall, I’m sorry to inform you that tonight will be your
last night on this planet. The time of your death will be midday,
tomorrow. And if you try to escape you will suffer public execution
while your family watches, and I’m sure nobody wants that.”
The words felt bitter coming out of Frederick’s mouth and he
did his best not to cringe at the meaning behind them. But there was
nothing he could do. Frederick was a man of many principles and did
not enjoy any kind of killing, whether it be on the battlefield or in
his own kingdom, but to show mercy too much in front of the castle
guards who lined the walls would be a mistake. As the woman knelt
speechless, her head unable to take in what her king, her Merciful
king was saying, tears flowed steadily down her cheeks. Her face gave
away no emotions; it was like looking at a statue, a living, crying
statue.