The sun was sinking behind the top of the North keep, small puffs of rosy clouds unravelling like beginners' samples in the evening breeze. Soon the daylight would be too dim to see by, and lamps would have to be lit, a job for idiot Nan who could be trusted with menial tasks but was herself too dim too wield a needle and might hurt herself with a crochet.
Purlybell's fingers danced their intricate moves, white yarn looped around her index, gossamer gold wire around her middle finger, needles flashing in the waning daylight. Knit two together, make one, skip one, knit one, pass slipped stitch over, make one, knit five, purl two. It was like a song, a song of wool and wire, and you could not miss a stitch or you would have to unravel the whole blooming thing and start all over again. Her back ached, her mind ached, her arms and fingers ached, but she knew it would be another two hours before they could stop. And no one dared protest, for if they did, the old crone who presided over their toil would only say, in that hoarse, rasping voice that could serve to card the fleece of a shaggy boar, Winter is coming.
Winter was coming. The white raven from the citadel said so, the morning frosts that turned spiders' webs into crystal crochet doilies said so, and so did the yellowing ears of thingum, the bloated gourds, the dying roses. Winter was coming, and with it the huge increase in demand for socks and warm woollies. All the other houses were busy making war. In their blindness and pride, they wasted the precious shortening days ravaging the land and slaughtering its people. Only House Worsted watched and prepared for the long night.
In summer they had little enough knitting to do, apart from socks for the Night Watch or crocheted bikinis and caftans for Dorne. Besides, summer was the season of shearing and washing fleeces, carding the wool, or spinning yarn. It was the time when the Maester had boys and girls run the countryside gathering herbs, barks, pollens, earth and stone that would be boiled or ground into tinctures. No other house could produce the deep blood red dye favoured by House Lannister from the dung of the crimson beetle, the green of Highgarden from yellow pollen mixed with blue firestone, the deep black of Winterfell from the gall of bats – though Lady Worsted had sworn she would see her house burnt and razed before she knitted even one sock for the likes of the Bolton usurper. But no matter what the season was, spring or summer, autumn or winter, the old women were always at work, plying their needles and crochets, turning the yarns into socks and stockings, caps, mufflers, mittens, capes, thin pullovers that could be worn under an armour or bulky ones over a leather jacket. In Winter they were joinded by their daughters and grand-daughters, so they too would learn, although they reserved themselves the most difficult tasks while girls who had not yet lost their baby fat made the easy ones, like mufflers in garter stitch.
But the young ones were restless, and some wondered. What was the use of knitting socks for dead bodies ? For who would buy their stock when so many had died ? Renly Baratheon's forces at the battle of the Nera, The King in the North and his army at the red wedding, Stannis Baratheon and his army before Winterfell. To say nothing of the poor, uprooted by war, pillage and slaughters, dying in ditches all over Westeros. And if the white walkers crossed the wall, for sure they would not need mittens or slippers. Still the old women knitted in silence, only pausing to rasp their throats and murmur,Winter is coming. And the other crones would nod their heads and whisper Winter is coming, Winter is coming, knitting heel flaps and gussets with flying arthritic fingers.
The flag of House Worsted flew over the keep, a silver distaff on a sable field. Ever since the death of Warp Worsted, the sheep killer, only women had inherited the title. Mad Warp Worsted, it was rumoured, had been in love with a ewe, and finding her in a compromising situation with a ram, had endeavoured to slaughter his flock in a mad, revengeful spree of thwarted lust. Fortunately for House Worsted, his daughter, Jenny (they called her spinning Jenny, so nimble were her fingers) had stuck him through the heart with a pair of shearing scissors before he could carry out his mad plan. Then she had put his head on a distaff and planted it over the main gate, as a warning for would-be sheep killers or ewe rapists to desist.
Not a voice was raised in defense of Mad Warp, but in the next weeks and months, a steady stream of bannerets had flowed into Castle Fleece to pay homage to the new Duchess. Sheep were revered through the West Downs, and a man who slept with a ewe and killed woolly lambs deserved what he had got. Jenny, poor Jenny, warm as a beanie, did not live long to enjoy the fruits of her parricide. Six months later, she died giving birth to a daughter whom they called Eunice, although they were not sure what her mother had been babbling about in the end, and some said she should have been named Eustacie.
Be that as it might, six months had been enough to woo the Downs to the advantages of matriarchy. Jenny's husband was pensioned off, her mother, the dowager Lady Worsted, became the regent, and under her iron rule (an iron hand in a cashmere mitten was what they called her) Worsted flourished as a center for the wool trade.
Many a youth who had been wilting at the prospect of training as a knight and been offered the possibility to go into knitwear design instead had done so enthusiastically. In the past, Worsted had bred sheep and exported wool, but now it bought wool from its neighbours and sold it back as manufactured goods to immense benefits. Cash flowed into the dukedom, merchants from all over the world sent caravans and agents, and the Bank of Braavos opened a branch on the Market Place that did a brisk business. Winter was coming, and so was business.
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