Ned and I, with Clay's assistance, were going over ledgers and sums one late summer afternoon in late summer; he, of course, was focused on House Stark's finances and the income owed to the Crown as Warden of the North, while I went over my ventures' income and expenses. Given how much money I had been spending on new ventures, such as the mines in Clan Harclay's lands and Vayon's holdfast, and the establishment of several new holdfasts throughout the North, I had been spending much more than I really wanted to.
I wasn't in danger of running out. As a matter of fact, I'd had to ask Ned to set aside a designated space in Winterfell's treasury vault specifically for the coin I had at hand, which was a little less than five thousand dragons. However, I felt that I'd need some of these other ventures to start turning a profit soon if I wanted to start any more major operations. Vayon's coking ovens were starting to churn out coke, and his holdfast's blacksmiths had sung its praises; with any luck, word of its usefulness would spread quickly. Given my somewhat strained finances at the moment, I'd decided to wait until spring before I built a blast furnace.
Winterfell's available coin was almost ten times the amount I had on hand, but a little more than two thirds of that was owed to the Crown. A short time before the Harvest Feast, as was typical for the North, Ned would send the amount with a large guard escort to White Harbor, where it would travel by ship to King's Landing. With the increased trade and road traffic in the North, the tariff and toll revenue owed to the Crown had increased, but so had House Stark's revenue. Poor Clay certainly had his work cut out for him, given the added work the North's growing prosperity was generating.
"My Lord, my lady, a raven has arrived," a solemn-faced Luwin informed us as he stepped into Ned solar where we were working. "I'm afraid it bears ill tidings…"
"What happened?" came Ned's sharp voice. He had slipped into his Ice Lord persona, the cold mask of the Warden of the North, so different from the warm, kind face of my husband.
"It's Nanet Cassel, my Lord," Luwin answered. "I'm afraid her labor went… poorly. The babe didn't turn properly, and… Maester Wulfric was unfortunately forced to cut her open to save the babe. I'm afraid… Nanet Cassel did not survive her birthing bed."
"Oh no," I gasped, my hand rising to cover my mouth as tears pricked the corners of my eyes. I hadn't known Nanet very well, but she had been a jovial, big-boned woman. Not particularly beautiful, but handsome in a matronly way. Poor Rodrik must be beside himself…
"I see," Ned replied and solemnly bowed his head. After a moment, he looked up, turned to me, and said, "Go pack some clothing; I think we should go see to Rodrik in person."
"Yes," I agreed. "I think that's for the best…"
Ser Rodrik was a wreck when we arrived at Dorren's Bridge a week later. He clung to his newborn daughter, Beth, like a drowning man clinging to an emergency flotation device. His nephew, Jory, had shouldered Rodrik's responsibilities during this trying time, and by all accounts was doing an adequate job of it.
The funeral was a solemn affair. Unlike Winterfell, there wasn't an established crypt at Dorren's Bridge; the wooden motte and bailey fort that was going up at one side of the bridge wasn't even finished yet. Instead, Jory (with Rodrik's approval) had overseen the construction of a mausoleum in the yard of the still under construction castle. The temporary building was made of rough, native stone, and Nanet's bones had been placed within. Later, a more finely crafted mausoleum would be constructed, with a staircase down into a tunnel carved into the bedrock, much like the crypts at Winterfell.
Ned and I ended up staying for three weeks. Rodrik was still not entirely himself by the time we had taken our leave, but he was at least on the road to recovery.
The entire time, I had been preoccupied by the thought of the risks of pregnancy in a medieval society. I'd known, in a vague sort of sense, that it was dangerous; I'd ended up in this body thanks (or so I believed) to post-birth complications, but the reality of the situation hadn't entirely hit home to me until now.
And so, I began to wrack my brain, putting all my effort into trying to remember anything I could that would help make pregnancy, childbirth, and medicine in general safer and more effective. Obviously, basic hygiene came to mind; simple lye soaps worked well enough as an antibacterial for external use, and boiling bandages and medical tools went a long way. I'd heard somewhere that thyme had been used as a natural antibacterial for the better part of two millennia, and an essential oil made from thyme was even more effective.
'But what about pregnancy?' I wondered. 'Sure, all of that will help, but there are dangers specific to pregnancy that antibacterial oils and clean equipment won't necessarily help. Poor Nanet died because her child didn't properly turn, and it got stuck!'
And that was a bitter pill to swallow; the fact that no amount of clean bandages or oils could treat or prevent it. An accident, an unpreventable complication that the Maesters had neither the knowledge nor the tools necessary to deal with.
'I suppose it's fortunate that little Beth survived, at least,' I morosely mused. 'God, what a waste; a life lost for lack of a pair of forceps…'
I blinked. 'Forceps?'
I could have hit myself! Ob… obst… fuck, I couldn't remember the word, but it was a medical term relating to pregnancy. The type of forceps used to help deliver babies would have been useful in Nanet's situation. One of the longer designs could have been used to help rotate the child into proper position, and then helped to gently pull the child out. Sure, there was a risk of additional tears and internal injuries, but it would have been a lot safer than a caesarian section given the available medical knowledge! And a simple speculum used early in the labor process likely could have caught the issue in time to save her life and increase the odds of a successful delivery!
'Only… I don't have access to stainless steel,' I groused. 'Where would I even find chrome or whatever else the steel is alloyed with?'
I knew that some early versions of speculums and birthing forceps were made from highly polished wood, but even with decent sterilization practices, they carried a risk of infection.
'But still, they'd be better than nothing.'
And so, with my own potential future pregnancies looming over me, I tracked down a roll of parchment and a stick of charcoal and got to work.
'Garalt or Willard should have the skill needed,' I rationalized as I got to work. 'Oh, and I'll need to talk to Adrya. Luwin, too! Oh, I have so much to do!'
"Well?" I asked… no, I demanded of Garalt as he poured over the parchment I'd practically shoved into his hands. "Can you make them?"
"I could, milady, but…" he trailed off. "But what are they?"
"Tools to help a woman give birth," I bluntly told him. "So you'll need to make sure they're polished as smooth as silk, and you'll need to stain and seal them with your best oils!"
"So these… these go…?" He stammered.
"Yes!" I stressed. "These need to be your absolute best work! I can accept nothing less."
"Is this… is this about poor Lady Cassel?" Garalt quietly asked, looking solemn.
"It is," I replied with a sigh. "If these tools were available…"
"She might have lived," Garalt finished. He glanced over to where his wife was quietly watching from the corner. Their gazes met, and after a moment, he gave a firm nod.
"I will make them," he confidently replied. "Our own daughter… she died in her birthing bed, too."
"Oh. Oh, I'm so sorry, Garalt-"
"Don't you worry, milady; we've had years to mourn her," he replied. "But if these tools can save other women in the future, I will give them my very best effort."
"Then I will expect great things from you, Garalt," I answered, tears shining in my eyes.
"Thyme, milady?" Adrya asked, confused.
"Yes, thyme," I replied. "Can you make oil from it?"
"Of course I can," she replied. "But… why do you need it? Is it for the skin cream?"
"No. It's… well, it helps prevent… rot. Corruption in injuries and the like," I explained. "I'd like you to start making oil from thyme and storing it."
"I can, milady, but gathering thyme will be difficult," she replied. "It grows best in the hills southeast of Winterfell, but only in small amounts. I've heard that the Sheepshead Hills and Lonely Hills are covered with it, though, as are some of the high mountain pastures in the Northern Mountains."
"That'll work for now," I sighed. "But, how difficult would it be to grow it in or near the castle?"
"Not very," she replied with a shrug. "It needs sun to thrive, and if it's kept free from the taller prairie grasses that might choke it off, it'll grow well."
"Hmm. I'll see what I can do to get some growing nearby," I said, turning thoughtful. "Also, I'll talk to Ned; maybe we can convince some of the mountain clans to start cultivating it?"
"If you can get it to me, I can make oils from it," Adrya replied with a shrug.
"Then I'll get you as much as I can," I told her. "And maybe we can save a few lives along the way."