Jason swung his leg over the saddle to dismount. Kent, his loyal guard, rushed forward to assist him.
"It's alright, I've got it," Jason said, waving him off with a weary smile as he dismounted on his own.
Maester Saranke hurried over, his large grey robes flapping around him as he trotted to keep up.
Jason looked west, toward the endless expanse of the ancient forest. Under the gloomy sky, the Wolfswood, which had stood for thousands of years, was a deep, dark green.
"Has the logging been going well?" Jason asked, turning to Saranke. The timber business was still his most important source of income.
Saranke wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and nodded eagerly. "At first, as we cut deeper, the distance became a problem for transportation. But with the cement you provided, I organized two thousand men to build a proper road stretching more than ten kilometers into the forest." He gestured proudly. "Between that and the five hundred steel-framed wagons we have, transport is no longer an issue."
Jason raised an eyebrow. "Five hundred? I thought I only allocated two hundred to this camp."
"I sent a request to Starfire City half a year ago," Saranke explained. "Qyburn approved the transfer of three hundred more wagons. They have been essential to maintaining the pace of our operations." The maester followed a step behind Jason, his voice full of a newfound confidence. Managing a town of tens of thousands had forged him into a capable leader, a far cry from the overlooked acolyte who had languished for decades at the Citadel without earning his chain.
Jason nodded in approval. "Well done. As long as you guarantee the output of timber, Starfire City will support you with any equipment you need. You've done excellent work here this year, Maester Saranke."
Hearing the praise from his lord, the forty-year-old maester flushed with excitement. "Thank you for the recognition, my lord," he said modestly. "It is my honor to serve you and your house."
As they were discussing the future of the logging town, the sound of hoofbeats approached from the east, echoing on the cement road. Kent immediately took a few guards to investigate, returning moments later with a visitor.
"My lord, it's Ser Rodrik Cassel of Winterfell," Saranke said softly, recognizing the stout, white-haired man walking toward them.
Jason wasn't surprised. News of his return would have reached Winterfell quickly.
Ser Rodrik, the master-at-arms of Winterfell, strode up to them and gave a slight bow. "Lord Jason."
"Ser Rodrik," Jason replied with a nod. "Welcome. Shouldn't you be at Winterfell? What brings you all the way out here?"
Ser Rodrik's short grey hair and thick white beard framed a weathered face. Though no longer young, he still looked immensely strong. "Lord Jason, Lady Catelyn heard you had returned from the Riverlands and sent me at once. She wishes to invite you to Winterfell as a guest, to thank you for aiding Lord Robb in the south."
"I had great respect for Lord Eddard," Jason said, offering the expected pleasantries. "When I heard he was wrongfully executed by the Lannisters, I felt it was my duty as a friend to House Stark to help." In truth, he had little interest in the invitation. He was overwhelmed with work. The sudden arrival of three hundred thousand refugees in Starfire City had created a mountain of logistical problems that needed his attention. He planned to stay at the logging town for a few more days before rushing back.
He politely declined the invitation. "As you can see, Ser Rodrik, I have a great many refugees to resettle and countless matters here at the town to attend to. I'm afraid I won't be able to get away. Please give Lady Catelyn my apologies."
An embarrassed look crossed Ser Rodrik's face. He clearly hadn't expected to be refused. He stroked his white beard thoughtfully. "Lord Jason, if you are busy during the day, perhaps you could join us in the evening? Lady Catelyn simply wishes to host a dinner in your honor to express her sincerest gratitude. Please, do not refuse. This comes from the heart of Lady Catelyn and all of House Stark."
A dinner in the evening was manageable. With that in mind, Jason agreed.
Four hundred kilometers to the east, the administrators in Starfire City were just as busy.
"Master Qyburn," a subordinate said, rushing up to him. The man's face was slick with sweat despite the cool air. "There are tens of thousands of elderly and children in the refugee camps. It's a mess. I don't know how to place them."
The charitable smile Qyburn usually wore had long since faded under the strain of constant work. He looked older, wearier. He rubbed his swollen forehead and thought for a moment. "For those who cannot do heavy labor," he ordered, "send soldiers to instruct them to collect stones from the riverbank. It doesn't matter how many they gather. What matters is that they are not left idle. When people are idle, their minds wander, and they cause trouble."
Qyburn was a firm believer in his lord's philosophy: keep the refugees busy with work they are capable of, and they can be managed. Food must be earned, never given freely. This prevented people from developing habits of idleness and becoming a drain on the city.
This work-for-food system was proving remarkably effective. He had hundreds of thousands of people repairing roads, transporting wood, building houses, crushing stone, grinding lime, firing cement, and digging sand. Starfire City was a massive construction site with no shortage of tasks. With soldiers maintaining order, the refugees worked honestly for their daily bread and broth.
Since Joseth had taken the new fishing fleet out to sea from the mouth of the White Knife River, they had been bringing in massive hauls of saltwater fish each day. As a result, the three hundred thousand refugees from the landlocked Riverlands were now able to eat fresh, salted fish almost daily. For peasants who had rarely tasted fish in their entire lives, this simple luxury made their mouths water. After more than a month, they still hadn't tired of it.
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