The Dornish Gambit, CH 11 (Patreon)

Planky Town, 15 AC

The weaver’s workshop was sweltering when Lewyn finally managed to visit. A pair of women sat at every loom, their hands dancing as they threw a wooden device to-and-fro across the face of the machine. Their feet tapped a strange rhythm atop wooden pedals that somehow made sheets of valuable linen cloth out of flax thread. As Lewyn watched one loom run it seemed to him that it was not a quick conversion, but the spools of completed cloth at the end of each machine put lie to that impression. 

A pair of women sat at the other end of the workshop, sipping at cups of well-watered wine and nibbling on dates. As he watched, a woman at one of the looms stood and made her way over to the table, one of the women who had been sitting taking her place. As the weaver took the opportunity to wipe her face with a rag sitting on the lip of a bucket of water, Lewyn saw it was Jacelyn, the woman he had appointed to run the workshop moons ago.

She looked better than when they had first met. Flushed from the heat and work, her clothes were of a better make, clearly new and richly dyed, and her cheeks fuller from moons of affording more frequent meals. She grinned and dropped into a curtsy when she realized he was present.

“Prince Lewyn! Here to see how your investments are working out?”

“That is correct, goodwife,” Lewyn said, “how are you and your workers finding them?”

She scratched at her hair before answering, “They’re impressive. Never weaved anything so quick. Took some training though; not all of the lasses could figure out how to operate them.”

“Why not?” Lewyn asked, “I will admit I didn’t ask much beyond what were the most advanced looms in Braavos. It never occurred to me to inquire as to why they were the tool of choice.”

“It’s the pedals, see,” Jacelyn gestured to the feet of one of the weavers sitting at the front loom. “When she steps on a pedal it raises one of the bars to allow thread to be passed through the bones of the cloth. Speeds up the process mightily but makes it more complicated if you want anything but the most simple of patterns. And exhausting. More than a few of my workers called it quits after a few days because they couldn’t keep up”

Lewyn found it fascinating, in an intellectual way. The craft was intricate and the work immense. The building housing the workers was a cacophony of clatters and bangs as the women beat the thread into obedience. While they joked and gossiped as they worked, it was in the strained manner of sailors in heavy seas: comfortable enough to make conversation but not so relaxed as to turn their attention away from what they were doing, lest they risk ruin. 

The contraptions themselves were indecipherable. A byzantine web of strings seemed to be connected to beams that hung atop the cloth being made, bouncing and jerking in time with the feet of the weavers. In between every step the workers would slam a plank of wood towards their chest, setting the last weave into place like a blacksmith at his anvil. 

“Is the linen selling well?” Lewyn asked. He had reports from Ferris but he wanted to know how Jacelyn felt about the business as well.

“Like honeyed dates at a wedding,” Jacelyn said, “I’ve never seen so many Silver Rivers, the merchants can’t get enough of it.” 

That made something he had read before setting out stand out even more, “Then why isn’t it selling well in the North? The Reach, the Westerlands, and the Free Cities all buy our linen, so why not the North.”

Jacelyn hummed thoughtfully, “Well we wear linen because it stays cool in the sun. Reckon they don’t wear it for the exact same reason.”

Lewyn was surprised. He hadn’t actually expected an answer to his question and had been speaking mostly out of frustration.

She huffed at his disbelief. “Just because I’m not a lady with a keep of my own doesn’t mean I’m stupid. They called themselves the Kings of Winter. Stands to reason it’s fuckin’ cold up there. You wouldn’t wear a linen tunic and nothing else in the desert night would you, my prince?”

That was true. Many travellers to Dorne only experienced the scorching heat and arid sands of the sunlit desert and assumed that it must always be so. What only the natives, maesters, and those unfortunate enough to find themselves in the deep dunes understood was that the warmth fled with the sun. Once the stars came out it could get cold enough to freeze a man dead.

“Could you weave wool if I get you the thread?”

“S’pose I could, my prince,” Jacelyn said, “but I’d be wanting more looms. Should probably be buying some more anyway, since the merchants are buying everything we sell them.”

“I can probably have the merchants inquire about buying wool from the Mormonts,” Lewyn mused, “The North must have sheep somewhere, otherwise they would’ve all finally frozen to death by now.” He wondered if it would be profitable enough to ship wool south only to sell the finished cloth back up north before growing disgusted with himself. He would never have imagined becoming such a copper-counter when he had first taken the role of Wāli. Maybe that was naivety or maybe he had been spending too much time with Elder Ferris.

Jacelyn coughed in amusement, “Now that sounds like lord talk. I just weave the thread.”

After a day of going over the books of the weaving business and discussing potential future supply routes with his advisors Lewyn needed a drink. Instead of calling for a glass of Dornish Red or Tyroshi Pear Brandy, he decided to sneak out for a drink at one of the pubs along the river. 

This wasn’t the first time he had done this. Occasionally, after a long day in his study overseeing the affairs of his demesne, he would find he couldn’t bear to read one more report or write one more letter. When this happened he would throw on clothing that would be more appropriate for a moderately successful merchant, run some grey powder through his hair, and slip out of one the servant entrances to the manor. 

He enjoyed wandering Planky Town in disguise. There was an honesty to the town when he wasn’t surrounded by guards and functionaries. When he was alone he took the narrower alleys and side streets. To the Planky Town where the average resident lived. The smallfolk that took to the river early in the morning to bring in the fish that kept the city in food and would make the journey to the orchards to harvest the fruits and spices that kept the city in coin. Lewyn appreciated the reminder of who he really governed; from his desk it often felt like Planky Town was a city solely of merchants and captains.

The buildings were more worn here. Wooden walls were bleached white by the sun and stained green by algae. Bridges that spanned between boats were warped by river spray, and countless unshod feet had polished the centerways to a dull shine. Whole streets carried temporary fixes from generations of lay carpenters.

Despite there being none of the purples of Tyrosh or the vibrant crimsons and gold of the Westerlands, the men and women Lewyn walked past were still awash in color. The more well-to-do or well connected of the side-street societies might be clothed in blues and greens.   Instead of bright, doubled dyed clothing of the rich and nobility, people draped themselves in muted reds and tans. Colors of the desert, offered by the desert.

On this particular outing, Lewyn had emerged back onto the wider promenades of the merchant districts shortly before the bells rang the evening calls to prayer. He joined the crowds streaming to a corner of the street where a Septon delivered a benediction of the Seven. Not everyone joined in. Lewyn knew that merchants were loathe to lock their doors or leave their wares unattended, lest they risk missing a sale, and those in the city who had traveled from further afield than Dorne saw it as a peculiar and vaguely heretical Rhoynish interpretation of the Faith of the Seven. He wondered how they could be so apathetic as to only worship once a sennight. 

He eventually made his way to his favorite tavern to drink anonymously. It was close enough to the piers to attract travelers but not so close as to only serve sailor rotgut. Instead it served the moderately wealthy. Captains who owned a single ship and merchants who had factors in only a handful of cities. And tonight, intriguingly, a young man wearing the robes of an acolyte of the citadel, slumped belly up to the bar. 

Lewyn took the open seat next to the man and gestured for the barkeep to pour him two flagons. Sliding one over to the man, he said “Greetings, friend. What brings a man of learning here tonight?”

“Heading back home and the ship I bargained passage on stopped over here,” the acolyte took a deep draught of the offered ale, “a drink felt like it was the best way to spend the night.”

Lewyn cocked his head. “Didn’t think you types went home. Just to whatever castles you get assigned to or never emerging from the Citadel at all.”

Dorne had a complicated relationship with the Citadel. Like every kingdom of Westeros, they had employed maesters for centuries, relying on their ravens and their healing. Lewyn suspected, however, that they trusted them less than other kingdoms. Rarely did the major Houses of the realm–such as the Martells, the Yronwoods, and the Daynes–allow their maesters to advise them, preferring instead local wise-men. Too much blood had been spilled in the marches to trust an institution so intertwined in the politics of the Reach. 

“Maesters don’t,” the man said, “acolytes that offended the Hightowers on the other hand?” he gestured disparagingly to himself, “They get sent home in disgrace. ‘Fraid my time in Oldtown is over.” 

Lewyn looked at the man closer. Although he was wearing the grey robes of the citadel, now that Lewyn was paying attention they were worn and rumbled as if they had been slept in repeatedly, and the man was lacking any links of chain he must have forged during his studies. Combined with the ruddy stubble beginning to darken his face, Lewyn could buy his story of dismissal.

“How does a man get dismissed from the Citadel? You get caught fucking the Arch-Maester’s favorite whore? 

“Lewyn, by the way,” he held out his hand in introduction.

“Ha!” the man clasped his hand, “Jon. And, nay, nothing as pleasurable. I was delivering a presentation to earn the right to forge my first brass link–animal husbandry and agriculture,” he explained, seeing Lewyn’s uncomprehending look,”–and had the ill-fortune that some Hightower lordingly was in the hall.” He finished off the flagon before resuming, “Well how was I was supposed to know he would be offended by my talking on the dangers of breeding cows too closely? Maesters have been lecturing about the deleterious effects of incest on livestock for centuries! Not my fault that the king likes to get heirs on his sisters. Fucking Targaryens…”

Lewyn snorted into his cup. “Fucking Targaryens indeed!” He raised his cup in solidarity, the invective drawing cheers from the locals and awkward glances from Westorosi travellers. He bought another round, passing a cup to Jon again, “Bad luck, my friend. So where is home for you? Can’t be close if you’re taking a ship from Oldtown.”

Jon grimaced, “Little village in the Vale, north of Coldwater. Shithole of a thing. Nothing there but sheep and mountain men trying to steal what little villagers manage to get.”

“What are your plans for when you get back?” Lewyn asked, “You study anything in the Citadel you can turn into a living before they kicked you out?”

“Don’t rightly know,” Jon admitted, “S’pose I keep hoping the answer will be in one of these flagons. I forged links in iron, pewter, and a couple of gold–warfare, geometry, mathematics. Maybe some Braavosi merchant could use an extra accountant.”

“No ravenry or healing?”

“Nay,” Jon replied, “never much was one for blood and they don’t let anyone who hasn’t sworn the vows to forge a black iron link.”

Lewyn could sense the opportunity in front of him. The looms he had bought were expensive and he didn’t have a good plan for if they broke or were damaged other than sending for someone from Braavos. If Jon could learn how they worked then any wage he demanded would be a steal.

“If there was paying work here in Plank Town, would you consider staying?” Lewyn asked.

Jon answered thoughtfully, “S’pose I might. The floating houses would take some gettin’ used to, but the heat certainly beats the miserable wet of the Vale mountains. Why? Know someone who could use a washed up rat?”

Lewyn grinned, “I might be able to keep you wine for a few months at least.” He stood and gave a flamboyant bow, “Allow me to introduce myself properly: Prince Lewyn Martell, Wāli of Planky Town.” Lewyn knew that he had ruined the chance of ever drinking at this pub again, but as he took in Jon’s stupefied mien he thought it a joke well worth it.

“I could use a man with a sharp mine for numbers and mechanics,” he continued, “and it seems like you could use a reason to miss your ship.”

“Ah, I would be honored, my prince,” Jon said hurriedly, “but you barely know me at all. How are you sure I’m the right man for the job?”

Lewyn shrugged, “Worst case you catch another ship in a moon or two. I can afford a few Suns on an experiment.” He noticed that the crowded tavern had grown unnaturally quiet and decided it was about time to be going. Finishing his drink he turned to Jon, “Come to the Wāli’s manor in the morning once your hangover is gone and I tell you what I intend to have you doing.” He flipped a Sun to the barkeep and walked out into the evening air, whistling a tune from the war as he thought about all the work he was about to pile on the poor bastard still sitting stunned in the bar.

A/N This one kicked my ass. Anyone who has done a bit of research can tell you that textiles and their manufacturing underpin a vast amount of the medieval world. I really should have either skipped the descriptions entirely or given it multiple chapters. Unfortunately at that point it would be a nightmare to write and research and frankly just sounds like no fun, so I stuck with the awkward half-chapter, probably the worst of both worlds.