Black smoke hung over the sky, and the air stung the throat.
Solomon pulled his horse to a stop. Behind him, Hebbard, Rosso, and Brin reined in as well.
The workers nearby all stopped what they were doing when they saw him arrive.
A noble had come.
Their lord.
They bowed deeply toward Solomon. The motions were clumsy, but the fear and reverence in them were real. In Westeros, nobles and commoners might as well have been different species.
Solomon swung down from the saddle and looked ahead.
A rushing stream thundered down from the Moonstone Mountains. Felled logs floated along with the current. On both banks, where there had once been only silence, two small towns had now taken shape.
The timber and stone had all been taken from the mountains themselves. The people assigned to the charcoal works had used them to put up rows of neat, plain houses. They were ugly things, built for no beauty at all. Their only purpose was to give people somewhere to live, somewhere to keep out wind and rain.
Hebbard's little eyes were already darting everywhere.
Unlike Solomon, he paid no attention to how the smallfolk lived. He was staring at the stacked wood, estimating charcoal output in his head.
After a moment, he turned to Solomon.
"My lord, it's only been a little over a month, but these farmers have adapted quickly. They're working hard."
Solomon's gaze swept over the bowed heads in the crowd.
"They get food for working. They get wages for working. Of course they're motivated."
Then he said, "Today, let them see what a month's labor for me looks like when it comes back to them."
He motioned to Brin and Rosso.
The two exchanged a look, then immediately turned and began issuing orders to the mounted retainers who had come with them.
One group rode into the two towns to gather everyone. Another quickly set up a long table outside the settlement.
Soon the entire population, men, women, children, old folk, all of them, had been gathered into the open space. The crowd was packed tight around the table.
Hebbard stood behind it with several soldiers, looking unusually solemn. A thick registry and account book lay open on the tabletop. Beside them sat several heavy sacks, bulging with copper coins and a smaller amount of silver stags.
The people swallowed hard as they stared.
This was nothing like farming.
With land, you waited through a long season, prayed for weather, prayed for luck, and only then saw what your labor had earned.
Here, one month of work brought real payment straight into the hand.
That kind of immediate reward gave them a sense of security even land had never truly given them.
The air was thick with excitement, expectation, and just a little fear.
Hebbard cleared his throat. His shout boomed over the crowd and made his fat body wobble.
"Quiet!"
He lifted the registry and called out the first name.
"Rock!"
"Step forward!"
A man with soot-blackened cheeks pushed his way out of the crowd. He looked awkward and nervous, rubbing his hands as he came to the table.
One of the retainers pointed at the list.
"Leave your mark here."
Rock looked down at his blackened fingers, then solemnly pressed a clear thumbprint beside his name.
Hebbard counted out the proper number of copper coins from one of the sacks.
He couldn't help feeling a bit sour about it. Solomon really was paying in full. Worse, he'd set up receipt checks and handprint confirmation, which meant there was no easy way to skim anything off the wages.
So he passed the coins over with obvious reluctance.
"Take it, idiot. That's your pay for the month."
Rock accepted the small bag with shaking hands.
The weight of it seemed to make him dizzy.
He squeezed it and heard the bright clink of coins inside. A simple, foolish smile spread across his face.
But instead of leaving at once, he turned around.
He faced Solomon, who stood some distance away watching coldly, hugged the bag to his chest, and bowed deeply.
Then he shouted at the top of his lungs.
"Thank you, Lord Solomon!"
Solomon looked at him and gave a small nod.
Then Hebbard called the next name.
And the next.
Each time, the same thing happened.
A man stepped forward, pressed his mark, received his pay, then turned and bowed toward Solomon.
"Thank you, Lord Solomon!"
"Thank you, Lord Solomon!"
The voices started piling up, one after another.
Behind the men, women stood holding children, watching their husbands collect heavy little money bags. Quite a few were crying.
The wage distribution went on for a long time.
By the time the last name had been called, the crowd still did not break up. People clustered together in little groups, counting their money, talking excitedly, going over the weight of their new wealth again and again.
Solomon drew Hebbard aside and pointed toward the warehouse, where piles of black charcoal had been stacked high.
"Hebbard."
"What does a ton of charcoal like that sell for?"
Hebbard thought it over, then raised one thick finger.
"My lord, under normal market conditions, a ton of top-quality hardwood charcoal sells for roughly one silver stag."
Solomon frowned.
The number was about what he'd expected. Stable income for the domain, yes. But not much profit.
Hebbard saw that expression at once.
"My lord, that's only the ordinary market price. If we can get it to King's Landing and sell it to townsfolk there, we can double that."
Then he continued, warming to the subject.
"We can also train the women here in carpentry."
"Some of the timber being cut is of very fine quality. We should start making simple furniture from it."
"Tables, chairs, storage chests, cabinets. The designs can be plain, but they must be sturdy."
"We can sell those to our own people, to neighboring lands, and to passing caravans. That's another stream of income."
Solomon nodded and turned to Brin.
"Pass the order down. All the women in both charcoal towns are to learn woodwork. Whatever furniture they make, we buy it all."
Hebbard drew in a deep breath, as if he were finally choosing to say something dangerous.
He leaned closer to Solomon, lowered his voice, and pointed toward the vast, dark, ancient forest lying silent beyond them.
"My lord... if you have the nerve for it..."
He paused.
"Burn it."
Solomon didn't answer immediately.
He lifted his eyes toward the mountains and thought it through.
A large-scale burn would indeed clear land quickly, and after the fire there would be huge amounts of charcoal to gather. But this region was also the soil his future depended on. If they couldn't make development sustainable, the short-term gain would cost far too much in the long run.
At that moment, the pounding of fast hoofbeats broke through the noise of the settlement.
A rider came in hard, threw himself down from the saddle, staggered a few steps, and nearly fell in front of Solomon.
He was breathing so hard he could barely speak.
"Lord Solomon! Men from Lord Olivier's caravan have returned asking for help!"
He sucked in another breath.
"They were near the Green Fork ferry bridge on the road from the Silent Marsh toward Vikane Gorge. Men from House Valpin are chasing them!"
Solomon's eyes sharpened at once.
He turned toward the rider.
The business climate in Westeros really was abysmal. To avoid exactly this kind of greed-driven ambush, he had ordered Olivier to return each shipment after every completed deal before moving on to the next. And even then, someone had still decided to make a move.
He didn't hesitate.
"Rosso."
"Brin."
They came at once from not far away. Both had already thrown on chainmail, hands resting on their sword hilts, ready to move.
Solomon mounted in one smooth motion and looked toward the Green Fork.
"Gather every rider."
"All of them ride with me."
"We're going to the Green Fork ferry bridge."
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