Don't Panic Chapter 26: A Most Unusual Buyer

Last Time: ... “Now that we’ve travelled much of the North, and met it’s wise rulers” Sirius nodded to Lord Manderly who chuffed good naturedly, “we’re tempted to establish a proper trade relationship with our foreign business.”  

Seeing Lord Manderly’s intrigued look, Sirius continued. “There definitely seems to be more demand for goods in this region than there is supply, especially in the more remote regions of the North. And we certainly have that supply. Both in normal food-stuffs and in luxury items that the North might desire”  

Sirius paused, holding up his glass of whiskey in emphasis. “But for this, we’d need a writ of permission to form a company properly and trade as an organisation, rather than just three wandering merchants.” 

Chapter 26:  A Most Unusual Buyer

Sirius was a man of action, and with the company charter from Lord Manderley in hand, he wasn’t going to waste any time in getting this business up and running. In-fact, he was looking forward to hiring some help and offloading the more tedious elements of running such a business. 

As Harry began his light reading of some sort of rune book or something, Sirius set out on his own mission – to secure a prime piece of property for their newly established Peverell and Black Trading Company or ‘P&B’ for short. 

The need here was pretty elementary. They needed a base for the business in Westeros, and Harry would likely have a preference for that base being in the North. That left few good options, and even less when you consider the charter was issued by Lord Manderly himself; it would be seen as a bit of a betrayal of trust if they setup their headquarters elsewhere and deprived the Manderlys of the substantial tax revenue they’d be bringing in. 

With that in mind, it was an easy choice to buy up real-estate here. He might look into residential property within the walls to house staff as well, but the primary goal was to secure a warehouse. One that could store goods, and hold a vault for the coin their staff would bring in. 

The sun was just beginning to rise as Sirius made his way down to the bustling docks of White Harbour. The morning air was crisp and cool, and the salty tang of the sea filled his nostrils. Sirius was pleased to note the morning breeze made short work of any lingering sewage smells from the open drop holes scattered throughout the city. 

Stopping at a street vendor, Sirius purchased a simple, freshly baked breakfast bun, the aroma of warm bread and melted butter filling his senses. Taking a bite, Sirius savoured the delicious flavours, feeling the warmth of the bun spread through him, alleviating the brisk morning chill. 

As he strolled along the docks, Sirius took in the sights and sounds of the busy port. Men were scurrying about, loading and unloading cargo from the many ships that filled the harbour.  

This was obviously his first preference for a front for their business. Where better than in prime position right on the harbour front? Sure it would be pricey, but the honest truth was that he and Harry had coin to burn, they didn’t have to scrimp and save to set things up.  

Sirius would be the first to admit he still didn’t have a firm grasp of what things were worth in Westeros. But if the reaction of Lord Stark to those chests of gold they had found in the crypts was anything to go by, then Harry and Sirius were certainly richer than any lord they had met so far. 

In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if the combined Potter and Black vaults made them richer than anyone else they were ever likely to meet in this world. So they could afford to throw around a bit of coin here and there. 

This venture wasn’t about coin anyway, it was about creating jobs and supporting the economy as a whole. After all, the smallfolk can’t eat gold. A steady job and a reliable flow of imported grain would do much more good for the people. Which is why they needed a warehouse to begin with. 

At a glance, a few promising warehouses stood out. Especially those in less than stellar states of repair. He doubted the more established merchants would sell their prime spots, but those showing evidence of disrepair were likely held by those who’d gone out of business due to bad trades or bad luck.  

He obviously had an advantage, in that a liberal application of magic could easily solve any structural problems. 

Picking the first such warehouse, Sirius mustered up his best ‘pureblood’ business face and approached what looked like the owner standing out front counting his stock.  

“Ho there good man”, Sirius said as he approached with a wave and a smile, 

“Hold there” the gruff man responded. “I don’t know you, you don’t know me, and I’m definitely no good man. So you can piss off. I only deal with those I know” 

Sirius paused mid-step with a frown. “Ah, this might be harder than I thought” he muttered to himself as he swivelled around to head on to the next possible option. He did, however, have an answer for why the man’s warehouse was in such disrepair. If the man supposedly ‘only does business with those he knows’, and he’s not willing to get to know anyone, he can’t really be doing that much business. 

The next one was just as unsuccessful, they simply stated that unclean northern scum were unwelcome on their premises though they said it in far less polite terms. To be fair, the building looked poorly funded, but it did have a big decorative star made from wood planks above the doors, one with seven points instead of the usual five of a normal ritual star. He suspected this lot were tied to that religious group. 

After breaking for lunch he continued his quest. Though he did wonder if he should simply introduce the concept of a real-estate agency instead. There was clearly a dire need for a better system. 

He was also moving down the mental checklist of options from best to worst, and these ones really did put emphasis on the word ‘dilapidated.  

Nonetheless, he approached the likely owner of manager of the next warehouse. A warehouse that seemed to have a different opinion on what a right-angle looked like. 

He jingled his coin purse to grab the man’s attention and dove right in. “what would you say about selling this... slightly lopsided warehouse of yours for good coin?” this finally got some attention. 

“I’d say you’re as thick as a plank” the local said with a snort “I can see you’re not from around here. Let me tell you, there ’aint no-one going to sell you a prime warehouse in the middle of the North’s only port city. A ‘bit lopsided’ my lovely girl might be” he said as he patted the less than sturdy frame of his building. "But it’s been in my family longer’n anyone can 'member, and it ‘aint leaving any time soon.” 

Sirius sighed, “Fair enough”. This was the first good interaction he’d had, and all it told him was that he’d struggle to find anyone willing to offload such a prime asset. “Thanks anyway for that insight” he added, tossing the man a silver. “This could take a bit longer than I thought” he finished with a sigh, now with far less energy than when he’d started. 

“Yes, I imagine it might” the man said, taking a bite of the silver, seemingly surprised at being tipped for stating the obvious. “I’ll wish you good luck though, we could do with good traders in the city” he seemed to think for a second, but you’re probably best off trying further down the docks, towards the walls. Still prime property, but not as close to the market” he said, pointing over his shoulder. 

 ____________________________________

Sirius had been trudging along the docks for the better part of the day. They weren’t exactly massive, but it wasn’t easy finding the owners, most of his time was spent being sent back and forth by one sailor or another on a wild goose chase. Of course, many were off on voyages themselves, and unreachable, which was supremely unhelpful. 

Of course, at this point it was tempting to simply cast a light compulsion on one of the warehouse owners, but he didn’t feel like that would be sporting, and it certainly wasn’t urgent enough to trample on the financial wellbeing of a smallfolk merchant. 

He’d be leaning on magic to give their trading business an unfair advantage in other ways, but in this, the negotiations and politics were all part of the process. He’d manage. Compulsions were unnecessary. 

As Sirius reached the far end of the docks, he noticed the foot traffic began to dwindle. Here, the waters and dredged docks were deeper, allowing for larger ships to dock close to the inner sea gate. The warehouses lining this section were also larger, reflecting the grander scale of the vessels they serviced. Though these ships were not grand by Sirius’ standards, they still dwarfed many of the smaller, single sail cogs that more commonly frequented the docks. 

Of the five warehouses that caught Sirius’s eye, three were adorned with the Manderly sigil, their banners fluttering proudly in the sea breeze. Those were an obvious no-go. 

Another warehouse bore the three headed Targaryen dragon which Sirius surmised must belong to the Royal Fleet, serving as a storehouse for their supplies. This was made obvious by the uniformed guards overseeing the gangway to a warship across from the warehouse doors.  

Sirius was again rather unimpressed by the military ships of this world. They required oarsmen to move at any reasonable pace, and were clearly built for ramming and boarding enemy vessels. There was a complete dearth of any distance based offensive weaponry, beyond simple archery bows. 

Scorpion type weapons were a known concept in this world, he knew that from Harry’s readings, but they didn’t seem to mount them on ships. 

Thankfully, Sirius noted the last warehouse, tucked right up against the city wall. This one truly piqued his interest. 

Calling it a warehouse was generous, despite it’s notable size. It would be better described as a burnt-out husk, nothing more than a series of charred beams and blackened walls. Clearly the victim of a devastating fire. Small flurries of melting snow layered the charcoal beams. The adjacent Manderly warehouse appeared to have suffered a less violent fate, though scorch marks and fire damage were evident in various spots. All-in-all, it made for a sorry sight. 

“It’s perfect!” Sirius announced loudly to absolutely no one, in a suddenly renewed exuberant manner. This got some suspicious and groggy looks from the previously napping Royal Fleet guards on the neighbouring warehouse.  

This was in-fact the best possible outcome. He had no doubt he’d find a willing seller once he found the owner, and he’d likely get a bargain for it. He could even afford to be generous, since even at a mark-up, he’d still get the price for a burnt wreck, not the grand warehouse it might have once been. Fixing, or rather, re-building would be far more viable for a wizard.  

With the right application of a series of reparo spells, a lot of scourgifying, and a whole load of new materials, Sirius could get the warehouse up and running in no time. 

Sirius stepped cautiously into the charred ruins of the warehouse, his eyes scanning the scorched beams and blackened walls. He ran his fingers over the burnt wood, feeling the gritty texture beneath his fingertips. The adjoining dock, though not as severely damaged, showed signs of fire damage as well, with scorch marks marring the wooden planks and support structures.  

Despite the destruction, Sirius felt confident that he and Dobby could restore the property to its former glory. Most importantly, he was sure the owner would be amenable to selling the warehouse, given its current state. He should even be able to purchase it for a mere fraction of its true value. 

Before he could proceed with negotiations, Sirius needed to find the owner of the warehouse. He approached a group of nearby dock workers, who were busy loading crates onto a Royal Fleet ship, and inquired about the proprietor. 

“Excuse me, lads,” Sirius called out. “Would any of you happen to know who owns this burnt-out husk? I’m in the market to buy, and this warehouse looks like just what I need.” 

The workers eyed him sceptically, muttering amongst themselves that he must have more money than sense, considering the state of the warehouse. One of them, an older man with a grizzled beard, replied, “Aye, that’d be Owen. Lives in that big house near the central square. But I’m tellin’ ya, it’s a lost cause.” 

“Thanks for the information,” Sirius responded with a smile, tossing a silver for their trouble. “I’ll take my chances.” 

Making his way back towards the bustling streets, Sirius eventually found the house he’d been directed to, or rather, he found the impressive manse. It sat in prime position just a black back from the main market square. It definitely belonged to one of the wealthier merchants. 

Sirius straightened up, putting on his best merchant face before knocking lightly on the grand oak door. “time to get to business” he muttered to himself.  

The door opened slowly giving Sirius a moment to take in the large space inside … the large empty space. The man who lived here was clearly a minimalist in the most extreme sense of the word. But who was he to judge someone else for their taste in décor. Sirius shrugged, maybe it was just a northern thing.  Either way, he had a deal to get done. 

____________________________________

Earlier: 

The morning chill seeped into Owen's bones, mirroring his despair. His once comfortable home now felt cold and hollow, the rooms empty.  

He ran his hand through his hair, some still singed from his efforts to rescue what few documents he could. Deeds to his warehouse and the few goods that remained inside. Not that the documents were worth anything now. All the goods were gone. Taken by the iron bank before they set the whole place ablaze.  

Owen knew it was a warning to others. The Iron Bank would always get it’s due. They’d lend with a smile and a handshake, yes, but they’d always get their due. 

He sighed at the thought of his poor daughter, all the family he had left. She’d soon be as homeless as he. His shoulders slumped. It was the duty of a father to provide, and his small family had always been comfortable under his guidance, until now.  

Losing his wife and son to the winter chills was a barely survivable blow. He struggled through for Sara’s sake, but now even that seemed to be falling apart.  

He was just thankful he lived on this side of the Narrow Sea. He’d seen an occasional contact in the Free Cities lose everything, and it wasn’t pretty, usually the debtor’s family would be sold into slavery. 

He scrunched up the documents he’d wasted his time saving from the fire. What was even the point? These few parchments were worthless.  

They were all that remained of his small trade business. Worthless deeds to a charred ruin of a warehouse, two ships lost to pirates, and a few orders he couldn’t even begin to fulfil.  

He tossed the balled-up parchments at the fireplace, missing by a bare inch. He sighed, even in this he failed. 

It just seemed so unfair, he’d not failed in skill or daring as a merchant, he’d failed in luck. Maybe he’d not prayed to the gods enough; or maybe he’d prayed to the wrong gods. 

Owen was a good merchant, that much he knew. He’d built his father's one ship outfit into a small fleet of two fully-owned cogs and three more hired on contract.  

He was still a relatively small player, but his star had been rising so quickly among northern merchants that he’d even received the very occasional invite to one of Lord Manderly’s feasts up in New Castle. Sure, he was sat toward the back of the hall, well below the ranks of the landed knights, minor vassals, major vassals, visiting nobility, and the occasional visiting Magisters. Even in his low position, however, the simple act of receiving an invite singled you out for respect. It was also a sign to others that he was a good bet when it came to trade. 

But in the grating words of House Stark, Winter is Coming, and it came for him hard.  

Winter saw his three hired ships scampering back to their home ports, no longer able to ply the Norther routes. Even so, the remaining two ships he owned outright made reasonable headway plying the trade routes when the sea wasn’t frozen or covered in floating pack-ice.  

He’d even taken an order from Lord Manderly himself to move a shipment of grain and other much needed foodstuffs from the Riverlands via Maidenpool.  

He was managing the winter as well as you could with a dissipated trade fleet and a general lack of goods to move. 

That was until those accursed Sistermen pirated the shipment, taking his ships along with the grain he’d laid out good coin to acquire.  

He was certain there was something more to that story, those pirates from the Three Sisters islands in the Vale had to have been given prior warning of the shipment. Why else would they risk the winter seas to target only his ships.  

No others had been taken in the three moons prior. It almost seemed like a conspiracy to deprive the North of crucial food in the height of Winter.  

He wondered if Lord Manderly suspected the same, it was his order after all. In-fact, Owen suspected the order was made at the request of the Starks, which made him even more suspicious that greater conspiracies were at play.  

He was just the chump who took the hit. Alas, he had no proof of a conspiracy or a traitor in White Harbour’s ranks. Nor would he be dumb enough to accuse anyone in Lord Manderly’s household. 

Regardless, he was out of pocket for the shipment, which massively dented his wallet.  

In-fact, the shipment had been so expensive that he would have been completely underwater if Lord Manderly hadn’t taken pity on him and covered half of the loss.  

Sure it was a shipment on Lord Manderly’s orders, but Owen had followed normal practice for Northern merchants in choosing to take on the risk, and lay out the coin for the goods himself. Knowing without a doubt that the Manderlys would be good for the payment when the shipment arrived. 

It was common practice to form an such an agreement, knowing that the margins you could make on selling the food once ‘in harbour’ would be far greater than the fee you’d get as a simple facilitator in moving the goods. That was just good business when you were dealing with reliable customers. The risk, unfortunately, had turned out to be too high in this particular case. 

Now here he was, a merchant with no goods, and no ships. The shell of a burnt-out warehouse being the only physical evidence he had ever been a merchant at all. 

It was a shame really, he had an almost unrivalled network of contacts throughout the North that he could sell to, and some decent enough connections in the many cities and towns of the Narrow Sea. 

But that network that was worth nothing to him now. They may well have helped him get back on his feet… for a price, but he had no ships to trade with, and no coin to hire more.  

He was lost for the first time in his life. He wanted to break down and give up, but even alone in what remained of his home, he couldn’t show such weakness. He was a Northman after all.  

Though, maybe he should cut his losses here and leave for Pentos. Start again where coin moved more freely and ships were easier to come by. 

He discarded that thought. He had built his reputation as a merchant specialising in importing and exporting goods from White Harbour. All his contacts respected him as a point of legitimate access to the wealth of the largest kingdom by landmass. 

While the lords and merchants here didn’t carry the individual wealth of those in other kingdoms,  the coin moving around was nothing to scoff at. The Starks along were responsible for funnelling massive amounts of coin to the south to feed their people in Winter.  

It wasn’t strategically sustainable for the region, but it was lucrative for a merchant, and he was pleased he could keep the trade in the hands of a Northerner, providing at least slightly better prices to his people.  

His old Nan would roll in her grave if he ever fell so low as to rip-off the northern people. “We suffer enough for the greed of the South”, she would say, “let’s not be the face of greed in the North”. May the Old Gods bless her. 

As Owen brooded and contemplated how to dig himself out of this hole, he was startled by a knock at the door.  

He frowned, but brushed himself off nonetheless, prepared to face whatever music had found its way to his door. No doubt more bad news, another debt collector perhaps.  

At least Sara didn’t have to see this. His daughter was already squirreled away in a room at the local tavern. He didn’t want her to see their family home so empty after those cold men from the iron bank repossessed all their possessions. Furniture and fittings included. Leaving nothing but an empty shell of a house.  

The cost of that room at the tavern came out of the very few coins he’d managed to hide from the men. There was barely enough to house them for a few more days before they’d be on the street. His coin purse now perilously light. He steeled himself, ready for whatever awaited. 

The door opened to reveal a well-dressed man with a warm smile. Owen raised an eyebrow at the happy face that greeted him. So not a collector then.  

Eyeing the man, Owen guessed he was a wealthy merchant of some sort. He’d not met the man, so he wasn’t a local, but he had the air of a Northerner about him, which would at least get him in the door. 

Owen would have guessed the man a Lord based on the incredible quality of his clothes alone, if it weren’t for the lack of a retinue of hangers-on that most of the nobility tended to have. Then again, he could just be a less conceited lord. Some of the nobles in the North were far more down to earth than their southern counterparts. 

“What can I do for you good Ser?” Owen asked politely. His old Nan always beat into him to treat everyone with proper manners, ‘you never know where your next meal ticket might come from’ she would say. “I’ve no goods to sell, if that’s what you’re looking for” he added, hoping this wouldn’t take long. He wanted nothing more than to go drown his sorrow at the tavern with some of his remaining coin, but he had too little to spare. 

“Ah, an introduction, yes, you can call me Sirius, there’s no need for anything formal” the man said in greeting, “and I’d dearly like to speak with Owen, if that’s possible; Owen the merchant. I was told I could find him at this address?” he asked politely. “I’ll make it worth your while” he said, jingling his coin purse. 

Owen raised an eyebrow and gestured the man inside, "Aye, I’d take your money to make an introduction, if I weren’t the man you’re looking for” Owen said, “you’ve found him, but what do you want? I’ve nothing left to take if you’re a collector” he added just to be sure. 

“Huh? ah, no, not a collector.” Sirius smiled, seemingly a bit distracted by the emptiness of the room, as he walked inside. 

“Oh, and ah, welcome to my humble abode. Please, take a seat," Owen said, somewhat facetiously since there were no seats left in the house. 

“erm… I think I’ll stand” was all he got back from Sirius, who was looking around somewhat sceptically. The expression on his face indicated he wasn’t quite sure of Owen's sanity at this point. Not that Owen could blame the man, he wasn’t quite sure of his own sanity anymore either. 

“Redecorating?” Sirius asked, maybe hopefully, or at least with a hint of confusion. Of course, Owen thought, a man with as much wealth as this stranger clearly had, would likely never have faced the prospect of bankruptcy. 

Choosing to ignore the question Owen got down to brass tacks. "So, Sirius, I’m a busy man” he lied poorly, “and you’ve not answered my question. Are you waiting for bread and salt or some such muddled waste of time?” he added with a gruff snort. “what can I do for you?" he finished with a practiced warmish smile.  

“Maybe we can do this at the Tavern?” Sirius asked hopefully. 

“Do I look like I have coin for that?” Owen replied testily. The guy seemed friendly but he was short on patience lately. 

“Uh.. yes … no?… well… anyway…” Sirius answered, before rallying “I hear you’re the owner of a warehouse down by the docks. We’re a small merchant company setting up shop here in White Harbour and need a place to store our goods. We’re looking to make a purchase.” 

“You can’t be serious!” Owen said in exasperation. 

“What? Why not?!” the man asked, seemingly taken aback and confused at the same time. “I’ve always been Sirius!  … But I guess you can call be Mister Black if the name offends you” 

“What?” now Owen was confused. 

“What?” Sirius added, seemingly lost himself. 

“Uh, what?” was all Owen could add in response. At this point, he sort of wished the man was actually a collector, at least the conversation would’ve been easier to follow. Mostly cursing and throwing things had been his plan for such an event. Maybe he could try that tactic here anyway. It would certainly end the confusion... and the conversation. 

Owen took a breath and cleared his mind. “I... whatever... yes, I am indeed the owner, but you’d be wrong in calling it a warehouse” Owen said grimly “I’m the owner of a burnt shell. Nothing more” 

“Ah, perfect. Yes, yes that’s the one” Sirius said, now smiling like he’d nailed a deal. 

Ah, well maybe he’d hold off on throwing things for a moment.  “Oh, uh, well then yes, that’s me. I have the deeds right over...” he paused midway through gesturing at the crumpled ball resting perilously close to the fireplace. Oops, not good. “Ah, well, I’m sure I’ll find them somewhere. Everything’s just so messy at the moment” he finished; hiding his gesture towards the crumpled ball by bringing his hand up to scratch his head in what he was sure was a completely natural looking move.  

Sirius seemed to be looking around for even the slightest hint of a mess in the empty room. “Yes … I can see. It’s always tough finding things in amongst all your stuff” Sirius said nodding politely, clearly deciding it was best just to ignore the thorough lack of anything even close to resembling a mess. 

“But I’m sure we can find it if we both look. The more important matter is that of price. How much?” asked Sirius. 

“That... that's a matter requiring thought. I’m quite attached to the place” he replied, basically on instinct. Negotiation was a hard-won skill, and the first thing you learnt was to stall, especially when you’d been caught off-guard. 

Sirius had nodded and Owen took the time to stoke the fire and surreptitiously pocket the crumpled ball of parchment that might now be much more valuable than he’d thought. Taking a moment to send a small prayer of thanks to the old gods that he had inherited his mother’s terrible aim and had failed entirely to hit the fire with this one particular deed. 

He was also still trying to figure out Sirius’s angle. What was this really? Was he being fleeced? Scammed? 

Or was Sirius serious. Oh... part of their earlier conversation suddenly clicked into place. 

Well, whatever was going on, they’d not pull the fleece over his eyes. He may have been knocked down, but he was still a merchant born and raised. He’d not be made a fool.  

He decided on the spot to employ the tactic his father used, he’d quote well over the odds, get this idiot out of his house for the few hours it remained his house, and find his way to a tavern. Nobody said his father was a good negotiator, but boy could he drink. 

If the man really wanted the warehouse, and it wasn’t some scam, he would surely come back later to try and negotiate a better price anyway. It was the way of any serious merchant … he grimaced slightly at the thought of this poor fellow’s strange name. That would probably cause him no end of issues as a merchant, he was sure. 

Of course, in the off chance the man was actually good for the money, Owen needed to consider what number would be large enough to get back on his feet? The warehouse was worth a pittance in its current state, but it was still a prime location. You only got into a spot like that through inheritance these days. 

He assessed Sirius once more and decided to be straightforward with the man. Who knows, Sirius looked wealthy enough that he may have a job or two after this unexpected transaction. 

Owen sighed dramatically, “Make an offer” 

Unfortunately, that just got a frown. “Pretend I don’t know the price of things” Sirius said, “give me a ballpark figure” 

He ignored the foreign turn of phrase. Merchants tended to pick-up odd terms through their travels, and he wasn’t going to bother asking what a ‘ballpark’ was supposed to be.  

This was, however, confirmation that his initial assessment was accurate. This ‘Sirius’ fellow was clearly a Lord, or an Heir of some standing. They’d be the only ones with such wealth that they could get by in life without knowing the cost of things. They had people for that.  

Though this lordling had clearly escaped his minders. Owen smirked at the thought of all those mighty Lords being toddlers with minders telling them not to touch things and to play nice. It was an oddly fitting analogy. 

This, however, was addressable. He’d given spiels on the value of goods in Westerosi currency to foreign merchants any number of times. Just didn’t think he’d need the spiel for a Northerner. 

“A smallfolk family” Owen began, “not of the merchant class, would be considered very comfortable on around 400 silver stags a year, which is about two gold dragons” he said. 

“Though most smallfolk households would earn less than 120 stags in a year. A merchant, on the other hand, is used to greater sums. Though usually in revenue, not in profit. In my most profitable single sale I offloaded ten complete sets of Qohoric steel armor to a group of travelling Northern heirs, with greaves, gorget, and great-helms, the lot; those cost me six hundred stags each and sold for eight hundred. Almost forty golden dragons, of which ten were profit.” He smiled at the memory of that day. And the memory of holding forty gold dragons in one coin purse. It had honestly been a bit nerve wracking. 

“Those forty dragons were worth over four hundred thousand copper pennys. Where three penny’s would buy a loaf of bread”. 

“I used those forty dragons to buy a second trade Cog for the family” He said proudly. This spiel served the purpose of both giving a feel for the ranges of prices for various goods in Westeros, and proving his worth as a merchant. He’d used it many times, though it rang hollow now that both the family’s Cog’s were gone. He frowned.  

Snapping out of it he finished with the last on his usual list of examples. “A lordlings ransom could be as low as 300 dragons, which usually bankrupts the affected noble family for a year or two.” He imagined Sirius would grasp that number if nothing else, as he was clearly an Heir or Lord of some type, despite not mentioning said title. 

At best, Owen hoped he might be able to wrangle 20 dragons from the man. He’d need at least forty to buy a new cog, but he doubted he’d get even close to that. He did however want to needle the man who’d interrupted his brooding, so he’d start with the ridiculous and let the man negotiate him down. 

“With all that said, I imagine you have an idea of the cost of things now?” He asked, turning from the window to Sirius who was sitting attentively in the simple kitchen chair and scribbling notes on some parchment. 

Wait, what? Where’d he... what? Was that chair in the other room? Did Sirius fetch it while he was lecturing? His house had been empty, he was sure of it. But he must’ve missed this. He wasn’t pleased to have somehow overlooked that. Not that the chair had any value, but he prided himself on being sharp. Either way, Sirius nodded in the affirmative … even if Owen could tell by the baffled look in the man’s eyes, that he hadn’t managed to follow along at all 

Owen rolled his eyes at the clearly hapless lordling playing merchant. “Well then, I’ll need at least 150” Owen said with feigned authority, puffing out his chest as if he was laying down the law “and I can’t go any lower than that.” He obviously knew the man wouldn’t accept such a ridiculous figure, but all good Merchants were mummers at heart, and he knew how to play his part. 

“Umm … 150 what?” Sirius asked in innocent bafflement. 

Owen rolled his eyes again, and just barely stopped himself from face-palming. Why was he bothering with this again? The man clearly had no idea what he was doing. He mused idly that maybe it still wasn’t too late to start throwing things.  

Owen took a calming breath and reiterated his offer for the man. Slower this time. “150 gold dragons”. He finished with a fierce smirk, knowing the man would never have such a sum. Nor would he be dumb enough throw it at a burnt wreck of a warehouse.  

“Oh!” Sirius said with a renewed smile, clearly back on the same page and ready to negotiate. “Alright, done!”... the man seemed to relax at that. “Thank Merlin that’s sorted” the man muttered as Owen froze in shock, ”this merchanting thing is harder than it looks”. 

“D ... done?” Owen sputtered, thrown off balance by the sudden response, his eyes drifting off into the distance as his mind struggled to process his sudden shift in fortunes. “What?” 

“Done” Sirius repeated, standing up and reaching out a hand to shake. “We have a deal” 

“Huh...” well that wasn’t how Owen saw this day going. Not at all. 

“Also” Sirius continued, completely oblivious to the state of shock he’d left poor Owen in just a moment ago. “You wouldn’t happen to be interested in working for our company would you? We sort of need someone who knows what they’re doing, to manage the operation while we travel.” 

Owen’s legs finally gave out and he collapsed into the, now thankfully vacated, chair. A chair he was now certain had not been anywhere in the house before this mysterious man arrived. A man clearly sent by the gods to bail him out of the hole he’d dug himself into. 

Well his old nan always said ‘the old gods provided for good men’. She also said you don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. So if the gods had seen fit to bail him out by sending him a hapless lordling with too much coin, who was he to complain? 

And if the same hapless lord now offered him a stable income he could use to support his dear Sara without having to worry about Vale pirates … well he wouldn’t question that either.  

It helped that Sirius seemed an unusually friendly sort, for a lordling. The poor fellow would surely get fleeced by every man and his dog if Owen turned down this job. It was clear the man desperately needed a professional to manage this business. 

“Aye, I’m your man.” he heard himself say, his mouth moving almost with a mind of its own “and I think I’ll take that drink now” he finished. After all, what’s the worst that could happen? 

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Chapter 27 Teaser: 

"Well," Sirius started, "Let's get to the exciting bit, shall we?" He leaned forward, elbows on knees, "I've procured us a prime bit of real estate, and for a song at that." He was clearly chuffed with himself.

“You’re lucky you’ve got a skilled negotiator in the team, you’d be lost without me” Sirius added, pretending to buff his nails and putting on a haughty air. 

Harry wondered if Sirius was actually as good as he claimed, but just decided to roll with it and clapped Sirius on the back in congratulations. “Well done Sirius. Excellent work, I'm sure.”