"Have you looked into purchasing wool?" I asked him.
"As you requested, I spoke with a few local merchants," he replied. "They are, of course, amenable to selling to Lady Stark."
"And the cost?"
"For the amount you requested, a groat per pound of wool," he replied.
A groat was worth 4 pennies, which was roughly 4 dollars back home. From what I knew, that was a very low price for raw wool. For 1000 pounds of wool, more than enough to run this small operation for a time, the cost was a little over 10 silver moons. Easily payable from the coin I had on hand.
"Excellent," I replied, pleased at this development. I fished out my coin purse and began pulling silver coins out of it. I debated a bit, but I eventually settled on 12 silver moons and held them out to the steward. "If you don't mind, would you return to the merchant and pay for the goods? The extra coin should cover the cost of delivering it here to the tower."
"It would be my pleasure, my lady," he replied.
"Catelyn?" A loud, familiar voice called out to me. Turning, I saw Benjen lingering near the entrance to the hall, eyes wide as he stared at all the activity in the room.
"Over here, Benjen," I called out.
His eyes fixed on me and he began walking over, dodging around lines strung up to hold the drying racks and weaving his way between household servants.
"What is going on here?" he asked in bewilderment. "I thought the First Keep was abandoned?"
"It was, but I decided to put it to good use," I replied, a secretive smile on my face. At his inquisitive look, I explained. "Do you remember a while back when we spoke about the wool problem?"
"Yes… you mentioned you wanted to spin and weave it before it left the North," he replied.
"Well, welcome to Winterfell's weaving workshop," I replied with a wide, sweeping gesture that encompassed the whole room. "Since appropriating the previously unused First Keep was less expensive than building a new building, I decided it would be better to be wise with how I spent my coin."
"Weaving workshop?"
"Aye," I confirmed with a nod. "I will be employing experienced spinning women and weavers at first. When we need to expand, I will hire less experienced people from Winter Town to learn from them, and when a new spinning machine or loom comes in, they will have the skill necessary to operate it."
"I see," he murmured. "What are you going to do with what you produce?"
"At first, I'll sell primarily to local merchants, if only to earn the necessary coin to pay for expansion," I replied. "Later, once we are capable of producing more, I will start sending it by cart to White Harbor, where I can sell it to merchant ships bound for the other Kingdoms and to Essos. Since the cloth is in such high demand, I expect to be able to turn a tidy profit."
Benjen nodded along, before giving me a teasing smirk. "Are you sure my brother married the right woman? You sound more like the daughter of a merchant than the daughter of a Lord Paramount."
"Well, perhaps the North needs the gentle touch of a merchant's daughter," I joked back at him. "Given how desperately you need the coin."
"Perhaps you're right," he said with a chuckle. "Have you any other ideas for bringing in some much needed coin, o' merchant's daughter?"
My gaze drifted toward the large cauldrons as yet unused over by the fireplace. With a secretive smile, I replied, "I might have an idea or two…"
"Hrm," Rickard, one of the local merchants that was based out of Winter Town, grunted to himself as he examined the samples of the products of my little workshop.
I shifted Robb in my arms, settling the fussy babe into a more comfortable spot. He was growing fast, and was a jolly, tubby two month old child. Sure, he was a bit fussy, especially when he was hungry, but he was overall a well-tempered child.
Back in my old life (as I had begun to think of it) while I hadn't had any children of my own, I'd had several nieces and nephews. One particular nephew was the most fussy child I'd ever had to deal with. As an infant and a toddler, even the slightest of discomforts would set him off, and he would loudly and inconsolably scream his frustration to the world. The few times I had to babysit him were… trying. Thankfully, he'd (mostly) grown out of it by the time he entered kindergarten.
Compared to my nephew in my old life, Robb was a dream to take care of, and thankfully the maternal bond I had with him was growing stronger every day. I'm sure part of it was the time and effort I spent playing with and taking care of him, but I also suspected that I was finally starting to settle into my role as a woman and a mother.
My mind (or soul, or consciousness, or whatever you wanted to call it) was used to interacting with a male brain and a male body. I could now state with absolute certainty that a female brain and body acted and reacted differently from a male one. The differences were overall minor and rather subtle, but the more I paid attention to it, the clearer those differences were. Perhaps the most disconcerting thing was realizing that my body would… well, physically react to the sight of some of the better-looking guards and servants around Winterfell. The cognitive dissonance was jarring; my body was saying 'yes', while my mind said 'no, no, no!'.
Either way, though, after nearly two months, I was starting to settle into it. Part of it was introspection and rationalizing the fact that whatever had happened was probably irreversible, and I was more or less stuck like this from here on out. Pushing through the five stages of grief to arrive at acceptance had been a necessity, even if that acceptance was coming slowly over time. The other part was becoming familiar with the differences between this new body and my old one.
"Well, milady, I can't fault the skill of your craftsmen," the merchant said, bringing me out of my introspection. "The thread is quite regular, though a bit tighter than is usual for wool. Your cloth is rather heavy, but very regular and quite strong."
"I take it that you are interested in purchasing from me, then?" I asked, trying to keep my grin off my face.
"I believe doing so would be profitable for the both of us," he replied with a polite smile. "Provided your asking price is reasonable."
"The average price of a skein or a spool of yarn is three copper stars and a groat," I replied. According to my basic price conversion, that would be priced at around $28 back home; almost double what it usually sold for in my old life, but everything was hand spun, so the price was comparable higher. "I think that's a fair price, don't you?"
"Aye, that's what the merchants sell it for," he replied. "But if I buy it for that price, there's no profit in it for me. I'm willing to pay two stars per skein."
"At that price, I could barely afford to buy the wool and pay my workers," I replied, fibbing slightly. If the price of wool went up, that price would quickly deplete me, but at the current price and at the rate my spinners were able to produce the yarn, I could have made that price work. But better to get the best price I could. "Three stars is much more reasonable."
"That would only leave me with a groat of profit per skein," Rickard the merchant complained. "Two stars and a groat."
I debated for a moment, considering asking for an extra half-groat per skein, but I decided against it. At the rate of production the Spinning Jennies were capable of, even if the price of wool doubled, I'd still be making a profit at that price. Besides, I could always renegotiate later.
"Very well," I sighed. "Now, how about the cloth?"
"I would be willing to pay ten stags for each bolt," the merchant replied.
My eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. The standard price was at least double that! Sure, he needed to make a profit, but he would be practically robbing me blind at that price!
It took roughly one skein of thread to weave a single yard of cloth, depending on the thickness of the thread, and the standard bolt of cloth, as decreed by the Targaryens, was 32 yards long. The cost in materials and labor for each skein was a little less than 2 stars each, or 64 stars per bolt, which was a little more than 9 stags per bolt in costs alone. Then, accounting for the cost of the weaver's labor, the total cost per bolt would certainly be over 10 stags, even with the improved efficiency my machines gave my workers. At that price, I would be the one not making any profit, and should the price of wool increase even a little, I'd be selling at a loss!
"You speak of making profits, yet you offer me prices that would ensure that I have none!" I complained. "No, I couldn't possibly sell for less than 18 stags per bolt; given the going rate of 20 stags, you still earn a tidy profit with each sale."
"A small profit," he complained in return. "Twelve stags would be better."
"Aye, and you keep the largest share of the profits for yourself," I countered. "No, 16 stags, and each of us profits about 4 stags per bolt."
The merchant tilted his head back and forth a few times, but eventually grudgingly nodded. "Very well, I'll accept that price. Now, how much do you have ready to sell?"
I smiled. "I have over 100 skeins and 10 bolts ready to sell today, and I'll have another 30 skeins and 5 bolts of cloth ready in the next sennight."
"That much?!" Rickard exclaimed, eyes wide. I could practically see the gleam of gold in his eyes as he mentally calculated his profits.
"For now. I expect my rate of production to increase over the next few moons, provided the supply of wool holds out."
"Hmm…" the merchant hummed to himself as he stroked his beard. "Perhaps there is an opportunity here. I have several friends who can acquire wool from all around the North and ensure it arrives at Winterfell. Should I acquire it for you, then I can trade wool against your produced goods."
"I would be amenable to such a trade," I agreed. "It would certainly save me the trouble of purchasing the wool myself. Of course, I am rather enamored at the current price of a groat per pound of wool…"
"Aye, but at that price, I couldn't possibly justify the expense of carting it to Winterfell," Rickard complained. "A copper star per pound would certainly leave me plenty of profits in the transaction."
"Aye, but at that price, I would have to raise the price of my goods," I retorted. "How about we meet in the middle? Six pennies per pound of wool, applied as credit against your purchases of my yarn and cloth? That way, the both of us continue to make a profit, so long as the price of wool holds steady."
"And what happens if the price goes up?"
"Then we renegotiate," I replied. "If wool becomes more expensive, by necessity my goods will have to sell at a higher price. We can keep the agreed upon prices until then."