"Managing a large nation is like cooking a small fish." This principle has guided Simon's management of the increasingly vast Westeros system in recent years.
The more he observed people and events, the clearer it became: whether at the scale of nations or corporations, there are countless successful examples of both hands-off, macro-level management and hands-on, micro-level oversight. Yet, for every success, there's also a litany of failures. Ultimately, it all boils down to the philosophical notion that every inevitability is rooted in chance, and every chance holds a seed of inevitability.
And, of course, history is written by the victors.
In Simon's view, however, dedication is what truly matters.
The saying "Heaven helps those who help themselves" is not an absolute truth, but its logic is sound. The problem lies in the fact that most people fail to genuinely exert effort, instead defaulting to complaints about life's injustices.
Arriving in New York on a Monday, Simon spent the following days tackling a backlog of work from his West Coast vacation. This included the autumn premieres of TV shows like American Idol, Cisco's $2 billion bond issuance in September, the rollout of private security teams for Westeros subsidiaries, the bustling U.S. presidential election and its associated political maneuvers, and the recent review of investment projects led by James Rebold.
Beyond New York, there were developments elsewhere:
In Hollywood, after extensive negotiations, Saving Private Ryan was finalized. Daenerys Entertainment would cover 50% of the production budget and handle global distribution, while DreamWorks and Paramount split the remaining 50%. With this project, Spielberg fulfilled his last film obligation from the Universal era. In Ukraine, the $200 million resettlement housing project in Rivne officially launched. In China, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon began filming this week. Simon's private intelligence team successfully facilitated the first wave of Somali illegal immigrants into France. Though modest in number—just over 50 individuals, grouped into 23 couples with a few children—it was merely a pilot phase.
These individuals, all conspicuously dark-skinned, were to be settled permanently in France, with a singular objective: reproduction. Each couple was expected to produce at least one child annually. Though France had abolished birthright citizenship, children born on French soil were practically impossible to deport. Moreover, these immigrants had no passports to return to. Trained in advance, they "forgot" their origins entirely.
Should any government attempt mass deportations, the leftist organizations funded by the Westeros system were poised to counter.
By the end of the year, once the smuggling and settlement networks were fully operational, Simon planned to funnel tens of thousands of illegal immigrants into France annually. While France's population of nearly 60 million might make this seem insignificant, the key lay in birth rates.
Recent years saw around 800,000 annual births in France, a relatively low figure. By introducing 400,000 childbearing couples, each having one child a year, Simon's immigrants could account for over half of France's newborns. Though 400,000 couples (800,000 individuals) might seem like a daunting number, spread over a 10- to 20-year period—with potential refugee waves sparked by conflicts—the goal was feasible.
Simon envisioned a day when France might produce its own "Mandela-like" Black president to "liberate" the nation entirely.
This strategy was, in essence, a brazenly open secret. Even if someone discerned Simon's intentions, they could hardly voice opposition without alienating Black voters. The political cost of lost ballots was too steep.
East Hampton, Long Island.
After a grueling week, Sunday was declared a day of rest.
On the second-floor terrace of a luxurious beachfront mansion, Simon basked in the warm autumn sunlight. Reclining on a lounge chair, he had just written a note and was about to hand it to A Girl, who would deliver it to Neal Bennett, head of the intelligence network. Suddenly, a slender white arm darted out from behind, snatching the note.
"'Find a group of intelligent, diligent French second-generation mixed-race Black boys.' Simon, what is this?" Irene Lande asked, holding the note.
Simon didn't answer immediately. Instead, he grabbed Irene's arm, pulled her closer, kissed her cheek, and replied with a smile, "Nothing much—just setting up a scholarship program."
Irene leaned in for a kiss on his lips, then hopped over the back of the sofa to sit on his lap. Waving the note, she teased, "I don't believe you. You must be up to no good."
Simon took the note back, handing it to A Girl, who had risen to retrieve it. Feigning displeasure, he said, "Is that really how you see me?"
"Of course, you must have an ulterior motive," Irene huffed, wrapping her arms around his neck. Coquettishly, she added, "Tell me, please? I promise I'll keep it a secret."
"Actually, I've been thinking about two things recently," Simon said.
Irene tilted her head, intrigued. "Oh?"
"First, the more civilized a society becomes, the more it falls prey to the phenomenon of bad money driving out good."
The abrupt statement puzzled Irene. "What do you mean?"
Simon elaborated, "Second, in an increasingly civilized human society, the ultimate competition for dominance boils down to something very primal and crude—a reproductive war."
Irene blinked, processing his words. Being a sharp woman, she quickly pieced it together. Blushing slightly, she forgot the original note's relevance to this topic. Instead, she glared at Simon and declared, "Well, I'm not having your babies."
Simon smiled, picking up a folder Irene had displaced when she jumped onto his lap. While jotting something down, he replied, "That's fine. I wouldn't have children with just anyone. They must be beautiful and intelligent. Only then can my future Westeros heirs properly carry on my legacy."
Irene tilted her head, scrutinizing Simon. Finally, she said, "I've realized you're quite primitive and crude after all."
"That's a compliment."
"Hmph."
"By the way, have you had breakfast?" Simon asked.
"Yes," Irene replied. Then, as if struck by a revelation, she gasped. "I noticed during breakfast—Angie didn't give me my... um, that. You sneaky devil! Are you trying to get me pregnant?"
Simon gently restrained the restless girl in his arms. "Like I said, not every woman qualifies to have my children."
Irene scoffed. "So, should I thank you for the honor?"
"No need. By the way, it's time for you to leave."
Irene playfully punched Simon's shoulder. "Jerk."
Simon remained calm, continuing to write in the folder now resting on Irene's thighs. "If you don't want to leave, behave yourself."
Deflated, Irene slumped against him, her arms draped loosely around his neck. After a moment, she muttered, "But you're not even going to marry me, Simon. If I have your child, the Lande family would be humiliated."
"Fine, you're off the list," Simon quipped.
"Ugh... Why did I ever fall for someone like you?"
Seeing her genuinely upset, Simon pulled her closer, gently kissing her. Irene resisted briefly before reciprocating passionately.
Later that evening, as Irene coaxed Simon into attending a dance performance by the maids—a favorite pastime of hers—the two spent a relaxed day at East Hampton.
The following morning, after seeing a reluctant Irene off, Simon boarded a helicopter bound for Boston.
Initially, the plan was to return to the West Coast, but Simon adjusted his schedule to meet with Ulyana Meletskova and Maria Rozin, two teachers he had relocated from Ukraine. Additionally, he planned to visit Harvard and MIT, followed by a lunchtime reception for prominent figures from Boston's political, business, and academic circles.
However, upon meeting Ulyana and hearing her tentative confession, Simon's plans were disrupted yet again.
Weston, a Boston suburb.
In the sitting room of a mansion 20 kilometers west of downtown, Simon reclined on a sofa, scrutinizing Ulyana Meletskova, who stood nervously before him. Frowning slightly, he asked, "Are you sure?"
"I... I haven't confirmed it," Ulyana stammered, trembling under his gaze. "But I haven't had my period in two months."
That was confirmation enough.
Adjusting his posture, Simon studied the woman's stunning features and poised demeanor. Internally, he felt little emotion.
This wasn't entirely unexpected. While Simon had made certain decisions recently regarding children, this particular incident was unplanned.
Though Ulyana was highly intelligent, well-educated, and exceptionally attractive—qualities he valued—Simon disliked surprises like this.
After a moment, he said, "I'll arrange for you to have a checkup. If it's accidental, we'll terminate the pregnancy. Are you willing?"
Ulyana exhaled in visible relief, nodding quickly. "I'll follow your decision, Simon."
After dismissing her, Simon summoned Angélique and gave specific instructions. Once Ulyana left the estate, Simon called for A Girl.
"Check on Ulyana's two children," he said. "What are their names?"
"Anna and Nicholas," A Girl replied, having met them earlier.
"By noon, I want a detailed report on their personalities, academics, and so forth." Simon added, "Also, gather similar information on Maria Rozin's four children."
"Noted," A Girl said. "And the luncheon?"
"Proceed as planned," Simon replied, then added, "One more thing. Since they're now in the U.S., restore Ulyana and Maria's original surnames."
"For the children as well?"
"Yes, let them all take their mothers' names."
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