The warehouse was bursting.
Bales of grey woolen cloth were stacked to the rafters. The smell of lanolin—raw sheep grease—was overpowering.
"We have a problem, My Lord," Varrick said, tapping his ledger. "We have produced four thousand yards of broadcloth this month. The local villages have bought all they can afford. The Grey Legion is fully outfitted. We have nowhere to put the rest."
Ronan ran a hand over a bolt of fabric. It was rough, sturdy, and warm. In the past, a yard of this cloth would cost a silver stag and take a week to weave.
"The Spinning Jenny spins the yarn," Ronan said. "And the water-powered fulling hammers felt the cloth. We have reduced the labor cost by 90%."
"Which means we have too much stock," Varrick countered. "It is sitting here, eating up space. If we don't sell it, the moths will eat it."
"Send a raven to White Harbor," Ronan said. "Summon Master Symon. We are going to flood the market."
The Merchant's Shock
Master Symon, the representative of the White Harbor textile guild, arrived three days later. He was a man who knew the price of everything.
He walked through the warehouse, feeling the cloth. He tried to hide his impression, but Ronan's [Architect's Eye] saw the micro-expressions.
• Pupil Dilation: Greed.
• Hand Tremor: Excitement.
"It is... adequate," Symon lied. "A bit rough. The weave is tight, I grant you. But the grey is drab. No dyes."
"It's for the smallfolk, Symon," Ronan said. "They don't need red velvet. They need to not freeze to death."
"I can take five hundred yards," Symon offered. "At four coppers a yard. The market is soft right now."
"I will sell you ten thousand yards," Ronan said.
Symon choked. "Ten... thousand? There isn't that much cloth in the whole Wolfswood!"
"There is in this room," Ronan said. "And the price isn't four coppers. It's two."
Symon froze. Two coppers a yard was below the cost of the raw wool for most weavers. "My Lord... at two coppers, you are giving it away. You will bankrupt every cottage weaver from here to the Dreadfort."
"That's not my concern," Ronan said coldly. "My concern is clearing my inventory. Do you want it, or do I sell it to the Karstarks directly?"
"I'll take it," Symon said breathless. "All of it."
[Economic Warfare Initiated]
[Effect:] The Northern market is flooded with cheap, durable Blackwood Wool.
[Consequence:] Traditional hand-spinners in rival territories (Bolton, Ryswell) cannot compete. Their income collapses.
The Weaving Bottleneck
The warehouse cleared, but the mill didn't stop.
Ronan stood on the factory floor. The Spinning Jennies were humming, producing yarn at a terrifying rate.
But the looms were silent.
The weavers—mostly men—were taking a break. They looked exhausted.
"Why is the yarn piling up?" Ronan asked the foreman.
"We can't keep up, My Lord," the foreman said, rubbing his aching shoulders. "The Jenny makes yarn faster than we can weave it. To throw the shuttle across a broad-loom takes two men—one to throw, one to catch. It is slow work."
Ronan looked at the loom. The bottleneck had shifted.
• Old Bottleneck: Spinning (Solved by Jenny).
• New Bottleneck: Weaving.
"The shuttle," Ronan muttered. "We need to make it fly."
The Flying Shuttle
Ronan went to the carpentry shop. He took a standard wooden shuttle—the boat-shaped block that carried the weft thread.
He added small wheels to the bottom. He tipped the ends with iron points.
Then, he went to the loom frame. He built a "race"—a wooden track for the shuttle to run on. At each end of the track, he installed a small box with a spring-loaded hammer (or a simple cord-pull system).
"Watch," Ronan told the weavers.
He sat at the heavy loom. Instead of reaching his hand into the threads to throw the shuttle, he simply jerked a handle cord.
Clack.
The hammer hit the shuttle. It shot across the track like a bullet, carrying the thread.
Ronan pulled the beater bar to lock the thread in place.
He jerked the other cord.
Clack.
The shuttle flew back.
Clack-Thump. Clack-Thump.
He wasn't reaching. He wasn't stretching. He was just pulling a handle. He could weave a fabric wider than his own arm span, all by himself, at double the speed.
"One man," Ronan said, standing up. "Double the width. Double the speed."
[Tech Unlock: The Flying Shuttle]
[Production Bonus: Weaving Output +200%]
The weavers stared. They realized that their jobs had just gotten easier, but also harder. They would be expected to produce twice as much.
The Luddites
Not everyone was happy.
That evening, a crowd gathered at the factory gates. They weren't Ronan's employees. They were the independent weavers from the outer villages—the ones Master Symon had warned about.
They held torches.
"Burn the machines!" a man shouted. "Bread stealers!"
"My father wove by hand!" a woman screamed. "Now I can't sell a blanket for a copper! You are starving us!"
The Grey Legion stood at the gate, halberds lowered. They looked at Ronan for orders.
Ronan walked out to meet the mob.
"Go home!" he ordered.
"We have no homes!" the leader shouted. "We can't pay the rent because no one buys our cloth! Your devil machines do the work of ten men!"
"Yes," Ronan said. "They do. And that is why your children will have warm clothes this winter for the price of a loaf of bread."
"We don't want cheap clothes! We want work!"
"Then come inside," Ronan said.
The mob fell silent.
"I am expanding the mill," Ronan announced. "I need fifty more operators for the Flying Shuttles. I pay in silver. I provide housing. I provide food."
He pointed to the dark, cold woods behind them.
"You can stay out there, clinging to the old ways, and starve. Or you can come in here, learn the machine, and eat."
It was a brutal choice. The choice of the Industrial Revolution.
One by one, the torches were lowered. The woman who had screamed stepped forward.
"Does the housing have... that warm floor?" she asked quietly.
"Yes," Ronan said.
She dropped her torch in the snow. "I'm a weaver. I can learn."
The Riot in the Dreadfort
A week later, Varrick brought a report from the Semaphore line.
"My Lord, code 9-9-2 from the Northeast."
"Civil Unrest?" Ronan translated.
"Riots in the Bolton lands," Varrick said, grinning. "The price of wool collapsed. The peasant weavers who pay taxes to Roose Bolton couldn't make their coin. They couldn't buy grain. They are rioting at the Dreadfort gates demanding food."
Ronan nodded.
He hadn't sent an army to the Dreadfort. He had sent cheap blankets. And the economic shockwave was destabilizing his enemy faster than a catapult.
"Let them riot," Ronan said. "And when they get hungry enough, send word that Blackwood is hiring."
Status Update:
• Economy: Textile Monopoly established.
• Tech: Flying Shuttle (Weaving Bottleneck solved).
• Political Effect: Destabilizing rival economies through price wars.
..…..
Author Note
Hi guys! Thank you for reading my fanfiction.
I wanted to let you know that I'm releasing bonus chapters for Power Stones. Here are the goals:
100 Power Stones: 2 Bonus Chapters
125 Power Stones: 2 Bonus Chapters
150 Power Stones: 2 Bonus Chapters
Thanks for the support!