The Dornish Gambit CH 5 (Patreon)

Planky Town, 14 AC

The past six months had been a whirlwind, and it had started with the return of the first Northern trade fleet. Elder Ferris had been as good as his word and found a pair of merchants that were willing to risk the voyage. They had cost Lewyn several hundred Suns to hire, but that was gold well spent.

It had taken until the middle of the year to harvest enough salt to fill half of the tonnage of the trade fleet he had rented and he was thankful he had listened to Elder Ferris’ advice to leave half the holds for the merchants to fill. It had saved him coin and put some silver in the pockets of the people of Planky Town as the merchants filled most of the remaining space with citruses and spices. They had set sail with tons of salt that had been harvested from hastily constructed flats on the mouth of the Greenblood and returned with three times the weight in green timber.

Lewyn and his council of two had gotten thoroughly drunk on one of his finest bottles of Dornish Red that night.

It turned out the Northern lords were crazy for salt. The fruits and spices the merchants had picked up from Planky Town and the wines from when they had stopped in Starfall had sold well enough in the Reach and Lannisport, but the salt? The Mormonts had taken every single ounce and very politely interrogated the captains as to when they could expect another shipment. They had happily traded timber for salt and had alluded to other Northern likely being interested in trading for salt as well. 

The second voyage was even better. Lewyn had expanded the salt fields in the interim, betting heavily on the success of the expedition, and so had even more salt ready to sell by the time the ships had returned. The Northern lords had timber ready to load when the small fleet arrived, reducing the total round trip to just over two months instead of the four the first trip had taken and the captains had been confident they could shave another week or two off the journey as they became familiar with the route. Lewyn was still losing money on the deal, because he couldn’t sell the wood directly for nearly what it was worth, but he had already seen an increase in taxes so Quentyn’s suggestion had had merit.

A pleasant side effect he hadn’t anticipated was the sailors and captains he had hired gossiping in every port they stopped in up and down the coast. He probably should have–seamen spending their pay wagging-tongues in portside inns was what they were most famous for–but he hadn’t. Conquently, when the surviving pier of Planky Town had started to fill up with merchants flying flags of the Reach and the Westerlands he had been surprised. Only after inviting several of the captains to dine at the house he had acquired in town had he discovered what had happened: his sailors had spread the word that Planky Town was open for business anywhere a sailor could buy a pint of piss-poor ale.

In the end, almost the entirety of the first load of timber had gone into rebuilding the second pier and a good portion of the second load into the third. 

“It’s only going to speed up from here my prince,” Elder Ferris said. 

Lewyn was walking back from the ceremony to open the third pier and Ferris had decided to join him for a drink back at the house Lewyn had converted to a series of offices.

“The traders heading west will talk in Narrow Sea ports and soon enough we’ll see traders coming from the East again,” Ferris continued, “you’ve done something special here for Planky Town.”

“Aye,” Lewyn agreed, “now only if we hadn’t been forced to use green wood to build those piers. You know we’ll just be tearing them up in ten years because they’ll have rotted out from under us.”

“You know what they say about wishes, Wāli,” Ferris laughed, “There will be plenty of seasoned wood when it’s time to build them right. The Long Night will come again before the tree-lovers stop buying your salt.”

Lewyn snorted at that. The third voyage was still sailing north and his father had said that he had received letters barely on the polite side of demanding yet more salt. Apparently his father had tasked his maester to figure out how best to increase the salt production in the Shadow City to then sell out of Planky Town. 

“Prince Nymor is pleased,”  Lewyn told Ferris, “and grateful that Planky Town is recovering so well. Not all of  Dorne is so lucky.”

Ferris nodded his head in acknowledgement, “I live to serve the Emir.” The two men continued in a comfortable silence before Ferris spoke again, “what do you plan to do next my prince? Planky Town will recover to what it was soon enough, but, forgive me my impertinence, I’ve worked with you long enough now to know that is not enough for you.”

Lewyn gave Ferris a wry grin as they stepped out of the way to let a gaggle of barefooted children run pass, shouting to each other about the newest ships to make port in the rhoynish-common creole unique to Planky Town. “You know me well, my friend. I was meaning to talk to the Grand Council about it tonight.”

Grand Council was a comical description for the group of now three men that advised Lewyn on the management of the town. Like many things that annoyed him, it had sprung out of a joke Quentyn had told.  

It had come to pass at the first meeting after they had invited the guard captain to join them in the regular gatherings; Port traffic had begun to pick up and Lewyn decided that the guard needed to be reformed and strengthened before sailors started getting knifed in alleys or drowning because they were too drunk to navigate the Planky Town bridges. It was after the business of the meeting had concluded and the four men were sipping on wine the Quentyn had raised a toast, “To Prince Lewyn Martell, the grandest Wāli Planky Town has ever had and us men, the Grandest Council!” 

Despite Lewyn’s best efforts the term had stuck and somehow escaped into Planky Town. The first time he had heard a fisherman’s wife opining that she hoped that the Grand Council would advocate for more timber being allocated to the fishing fleet he had nearly screamed.

“I understand my prince, I can wait.” Ferris changed the subject to discuss the current salt voyage and the subject carried them the rest of the way to the manor.

Lewyn and Ferris had been sipping tea at the council table for almost an hour by the time the other two men arrived. Quentyn gave a casual nod before sitting and pouring himself a cup while Captain Ormond came to a salute until Lewyn waved at him to relax.

Captain Ormund had come from Sunspear after Lewyn had written a request to his father to send a man that could turn the town’s militia into something more professional. Ormund had been the Sunspear guard lieutenant's assistant and had jumped at the opportunity to lead a force a decade before he would’ve been able to in Sunspear. He had the traditional sandy dornish look: umber skin that was lighter than those from the summer islands and slaver’s bay but darker than almost anywhere else, the straight, lightly flattened andal nose, and startlingly green eyes. Open close examination, pale scars criss-crossed his arms–a memento from the Tyrells, he had explained when Lewyn had asked. 

“Quentyn. Elder Ferris. Captain Ormund,” Lewyn greeted, opening the meeting, “anyone have anything they want to bring up before I say my piece?”

Ferris and Ormund shook their heads in the negative while Quentyn indicated he had a question.

“It’s about your sister, Princess Deria,” he said, “has she announced who she will marry?”

Lewyn scoffed, recalling a letter he had received from Sunspear.

“She has,” he confirmed, “she picked the brother of the current Lord Allyrion and my father gave his assent.”

“Allyrion?” Quentyn asked in stunned disbelief, “and your father let her? What was she thinking?”

“I agree with you,” Lewyn said, “but my father has never really been able to say no to her.”

“Forgive me, my lords, but what is wrong with House Allyrion?” Ormund asked, “They are honorable dornishmen.’”

Lewyn gestured to Quentyn to explain, too annoyed at the situation to speak.

“Aye,” he said, “and that’s all they are. They aren’t as loyal as House Dalt, have as storied a lineage House Dayne, or control an important keep like House Wyl. Mother above it would almost be better for House Martell if she was marrying a Yronwood and that would be like inviting the scorpion into the cradle. Lewyn, what was she thinking?

At that Lewyn could only shrug, “Knowing Deria? She probably thought he would look good leading her around the dance floor and that the politics would solve themselves. You know how she was after her accomplishments in King’s Landing.”

He looked around the room, as if suddenly realizing that this wasn’t news that should be shared with all ears.

“You never heard this Ferris, Ormund.” 

The two men quickly nodded their assent and Lewyn moved the meeting to what he had originally planned on discussing: 

“Now that the salt trade has started to stabilize, it is time to move on to the next stage in the plan to improve Planky Town.”

“And what is that next step?” Ferris asked.

“I’m not sure yet,” Lewyn admitted, “what does Planky Town have an abundance of that we’re not currently selling?”

The four men thought in silence, the noise of discussion behind replaced with the scents of spiced tea and muffled shouting of the last of the day’s market.

It was Ormund who put forward a hesitant suggestion. “Well,” he said, “there are an awful lot of women.”

Seeing the other men turn and begin to frown he quickly clarified, “I don’t mean to sell or anything! I’m just sayin’ that when I’m on patrol or out at the markets it seems to me that for every young boy or greybeard there are two or three women.”

“Ah,” Elder Ferris said, “yes I suspect that is the case for much of Dorne. King Aegon did his best to kill the men of this land.”

Lewyn scowled and pretended not to notice Captain Ormund spit in disgust.

“So what do common women do all day?” Quentyn asked.

The four men looked at each other and were faintly embarrassed to realize that none of them knew the answer.

“Well,” Lewyn said, “I suppose we will just have to ask. Elder Ferris, if I give you a day or two do you suppose you can arrange a meeting?”

“I can do that, my prince.”

“In that case let us adjourn for the day and reconvene when Elder Ferris has gathered some women.”

“So you’re the ones asking what we be doing all day m’lords?” 

The morning two days after the meeting saw Prince Lewyn and Quentyn sitting down with a group of five women Elder Ferris had found.

The spokeswoman they had elected was a salty dornishwoman of medium stature by the name of Jacelyn. Her black hair was kept tied up and covered in a cloth to avoid the sand that habitually blew in and her hands were well calloused. She had apparently had a husband once, she said when Lewyn politely inquired, but told him in a no-nonsense fashion that he had died in the sands of Hellholt. 

“That is correct, goodwife. Myself and my council are exploring ways to better Planky Town and realized we were woefully ignorant on what you and the other wives and daughters of the city do.”

“Spinnin’ mostly, those of us that don’t have a dead husband’s business to run. Spinnin’ and weavin’, m’lords.”

“Really?” Quentyn asked, “All day?”

Jacelyn scowled at him. “Aye, ‘all day’. How many threads you think are in that fancy shirt o’ yours. Each one of ‘em had to be spun by some poor woman like me-self or my compatriots here, woven together into cloth by another one of us before some tailor turned it into that there shirt.”

“Well praise the Smith,” Quentyn murmured, “I had never considered just how my clothes were made.”

“Aye, that’s the noble in ya,” Jacelyn chuckled, “most of us here be spinnin’ and weavin’ for our kebdis and only sellin’ what bits and pieces are left over for an extra sweet or two come market day.”

“Would you spin and weave for pay? If I set up a workshop and hired you?”

Some of the women shook their heads no, but Jacelyn and a few others seemed intrigued by the idea.

“Would it be a proper guild and everything?”

“In time,” Lewyn said slowly, aware that his idea may already be slipping out of his control.

“Who would be the guild master?” She questioned sharply, “surely not one of you men here, seeing as how you had to go asking around to find out we even existed.”

“Well I suppose whoever would be best for the job,” he answered.

“S’pose it could be a guild mistress just as well as a guild master. Better even”

“I suppose it could.”

“You’re going to need to buy the tools,” Jacelyn said, “I don’t know what a big weavers workshop would use but I doubt it’s the rock-looms us Planky Town women have tucked away in the corners of our homes.”

“Who would know?” Lewyn asked.

Here Jacelyn hummed. “Those Braavosi bastards, the ones that come sailing in with their big purple sails. Takes a lot of cloth to sail across the world. I reckon if anyone knows what you would need it would be one of them.”

“In that case, I will have my father write to them to see what they know,” Lewyn said, “I appreciate your sage advice.”

Jacelyn stiffened and gave a quick curtsy as she suddenly remembered who she had been lecturing to all morning, but the cocky grin didn’t fully disappear. “You’re welcome your Wāli-nes. Your man Ferris there knows how to find me when it comes time to be hiring a guild mistress.”

With that she gave another curtsy and the group of women turned and went about their separate ways, leaving Lewyn to compose the letter to his father in his head while he wondered how much of his purse this venture would cost him.

A/N Did you know that the Small Council wasn’t formalized until the reign of Jaehaerys I? I sure didn’t when I wrote the Grand Council line. Annoying little rewrite that caused.