Kapitel 8: Threads of the North!
It was much easier said than done. At least a month would be needed to harvest the ice and store it properly. The task was immense, and it required careful planning and coordination. Yet, Cregan didn't have to manage every detail himself—others were tasked with the relevant duties. His role was to provide support where needed, stepping in only when they encountered trouble or when his guidance was required.
With the initial plans set in motion, Cregan returned to his chambers.
Cregan sat by the small hearth in his chamber, a pile of parchment spread across the table before him. The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls, while outside, the cold winds of the North howled against the grey battlements of Winterfell. In the flickering light, Cregan dipped his quill into ink, the scratch of his writing the only sound to break the stillness.
His mind was a whirl of thoughts, filled with memories from a world no one else could possibly understand. In his past life, wool and textiles had been refined through innovation and machinery, advancements the North of Westeros could scarcely dream of. Yet here he was, reborn as the fourth son of Rickard Stark, a man out of time, with knowledge that could shape the North's future. If he was to secure his family's strength, he would need more than just swords and shields. The North had resources—resources that had long been underutilized.
Wool.
It was everywhere in the North, in every house and village, on every back that sought warmth against the biting cold. The sheep of the North were hardy, surviving in the bleakest of winters, their wool thick and coarse, perfect for the cold. But the way it was processed, that was a different story. It was slow, inefficient, and left much to be desired. Cregan knew better ways.
He leaned back in his chair, watching the ink dry on his sketches. The wool industry could be revolutionized. These ideas, simple by the standards of his former world, would seem like marvels of engineering here. But they didn't need to know that. He would present these as innovations of a clever mind, nothing more.
The process began with the shearing of the sheep, a tedious task done by hand with clumsy shears. He thought back to the mechanical shears of his old life—simple devices, but much faster. He sketched a crude design on the parchment before him, a hand-powered machine with rotating blades, something that even the blacksmiths of Winterfell could fashion if given proper guidance. It wouldn't require anything fancy—just some basic gears and a crank.
Cregan's hand moved to another sheet, sketching the wool-cleaning drum. He knew that simply washing wool in cold rivers left it full of dirt and lanolin, making it rough and difficult to work with. The drum he imagined would be a basic wooden contraption, filled with water and lye soap. The wool would be placed inside and spun gently, washing it thoroughly without damaging the fibers. He smiled as he drew the basic structure—just a few supports, the drum, and a crank or watermill to turn it. The North had the streams and manpower for such a task.
He pushed the sketch aside and turned to carding. Another slow process that took hours, sometimes days, to align the wool fibers by hand. The carding machine he designed in his mind had rows of small metal teeth on rotating rollers, much like the looms he had seen in his former world. As the wool was fed through, the teeth would pull and align the fibers, readying them for spinning. A few simple wooden frames and some iron would be enough to create this machine, and it would save countless hours of labor.
Cregan's fingers tapped the quill against the table as he thought about spinning. In the North, women used drop spindles, delicate tools that could only produce thread slowly. But a larger spinning wheel, one with multiple spindles, could spin several threads at once. He drew a wheel with a foot pedal to keep both hands free for the wool, imagining how this simple device could transform production. The more thread they produced, the more cloth they could weave, and the wealthier the North would become.
He paused, considering the loom. The weavers of Winterfell were skilled, but they relied on traditional looms, slow and prone to error. A foot-pedal loom, like the ones in his former world, would allow weavers to raise and lower the warp threads with their feet, leaving their hands free to shuttle the weft back and forth. Cregan's design would allow for faster, more efficient weaving without compromising quality.
Lastly, he sketched a fulling mill. This was perhaps the most ambitious part of his plan. The cloth produced by the North was strong, but it lacked the finish of southern fabrics. A fulling mill, powered by a water wheel, would pound the cloth with large wooden hammers in a soapy bath, cleaning and thickening it in the process. This would make the fabric denser, warmer, and more valuable. And the North had no shortage of water for such mills.
He leaned back, satisfied with his progress. If implemented, these innovations would not only increase production but also improve the quality of the wool and textiles produced in the North. Cregan could already see the impact it would have. Winterfell would no longer be known only for its harsh winters and hardy warriors. It would become a center of trade, where lords and merchants from across Westeros would come for the finest woolen cloth.
A knock at the door broke his thoughts. Cregan looked up from the intricate designs scattered across the table, his mind still half-immersed in the plans for the wool machines. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting long shadows on the walls of his chambers. The door creaked open, revealing Jory Cassel, his face respectful yet serious.
"Lord Cregan," Jory said, his voice steady, "I'm here to remind you that we are about to install Lady Lyanna's statue in the crypts."
Cregan blinked, as though shaking off the weight of his thoughts. The room felt smaller suddenly, the warmth of the fire unable to chase away the chill that the mention of Lyanna's name brought. He glanced towards the window; the evening had already settled in, the sky outside darkening as the last light of day slipped away.
"Of course," Cregan replied, his voice quiet. "I'll be down in a moment."
Jory nodded, sensing Cregan's need for a brief moment to gather himself. He quietly withdrew, leaving Cregan alone with his thoughts once more. Cregan leaned back in his chair, staring at the papers before him but no longer seeing them. Lady Lyanna, the sister he had never met, yet whose legacy lingered in every corner of Winterfell.
He had worked with Bael, the stone carver, to make sure the statue was worthy of her memory.
Despite the sculptor's skill, Cregan couldn't help but feel his own hands had shaped a part of her likeness—if not through stone, then through the drawing he had given Bael. Lyanna's face, brought to life with his own charcoal, had given the carver the guidance he needed to perfect her features.
The evening air outside promised a colder night, but Cregan felt it was fitting. The dead in Winterfell's crypts were watched over by the eternal chill, just as the living were bound by the weight of their memory. Lyanna would now take her place among the rest, in the silent stone halls beneath Winterfell, where the long line of Starks stood guard.
With a final glance at his sketches—plans that could wait until the morrow—Cregan rose from his chair, adjusting the cloak around his shoulders. The time for innovation and machines could wait. Tonight was about family. About remembering.
And so, with a steady breath, he left his chambers and made his way down to the crypts, where Lyanna's memory awaited its eternal rest.
OOO
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Wöchentlicher Energiestatus
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