The salt pans on the western coast of Pyke stretched under a leaden sky, like open sores on the land.
Murky seawater flowed into crude drying pools, baked by the sun and lashed by the sea wind, gradually leaving a layer of grayish-white crystals, coarse and mixed with brownish-yellow impurities.
The air was heavy with a bitter, saline tang, the unmistakable scent of low-quality salt—rust, seaweed, and toil.
Salt workers, hunched and barefoot, trudged through the mud, their skin cracked and eroded by brine like shattered reef stone. Each shovelful of coarse salt was accompanied by suppressed groans and the rattling sound of chains.
For generations, this humble cycle persisted across the Iron Islands. Coarse salt, mixed with mud and bitterness, was cheaply packed in burlap sacks and exchanged for iron ore or meager grain—a bitter, unchanging rhythm.
Yet within the towering black keeps of Pyke, the air was different: cold, clean, filled with the scent of parchment, whale oil, and power.
Euron stood at the massive sea chart table, small but serene under the flickering glow of the whale-oil lamp. His gaze did not wander to the laboring salt pans, but rested on the two stone basins before him.
One stone basin contained coarse salt fresh from the pans—grayish-yellow, clumped, rough, and briny. The other held a small pinch of crystalline powder, fine as sand, shimmering like a sacred relic under the lamp.
Lord Quellon's large fingers picked up a pinch of coarse salt. He touched it to his tongue, and his brow furrowed at its harsh bitterness and grit.
He then tasted the crystalline powder. A pause. An almost imperceptible hesitation. When the pure saltiness dissolved, undisturbed by impurities, he blinked. Only the concentrated essence of the sea remained. His hawk-like eyes flared with surprise and calculation.
"Wha… what kind of salt is this?" Quellon's voice was deep, carrying a rare tremor. He had never tasted anything like it—not even the famed "Sun Salt" of Dorne, known throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
"Salt," Euron replied, almost blandly, though the fire in his eyes betrayed him. "Sea salt from our Iron Islands, refined through the Salt-Refining Art."
"Salt-Refining Art?" Quellon's eyes narrowed, cold as the Sea of Drowned Men.
"Yes, Father," Euron said calmly. "Coarse salt from the pans is cheap, worthless as pebbles. But through washing, dissolving, and careful crystallization—" He tapped his temple, then gestured to Maester Tymor, standing like a shadowy wraith—"the impurities, bitterness, and moisture are removed. What remains is pure, and valuable beyond measure."
Euron lifted the stone basin to the light. The crystalline grains danced like liquid silver.
"Dorne's Sun Salt is prized across the Seven Kingdoms," he said, "but our Refined Salt surpasses it. Its value is ten times, perhaps more, than ordinary salt. Merchants, maesters, and even Red Keep chefs—anyone who knows quality—will pay handsomely for it."
Quellon's breathing quickened. His eyes flicked between the refined salt and the gray, bitter pans outside. The contrast struck him like a thunderbolt.
Ten times the value of coarse salt.
This meant Pyke's barren salt pans could be transformed into mountains of wealth. The islands' humblest resource would become the lever to pry open the riches of the Seven Kingdoms.
"This method…" Quellon's voice was solemn, almost reverent, laced with greed, "must remain the secret of House Greyjoy—Pyke alone!"
"Of course, Father," Euron replied, lips curving in a subtle, cold arc. "The method is locked in Pyke's deepest cellar. The keys are held only by you and me. Maester Tymor handles the core blending, with every step supervised and isolated by the most loyal Ironborn guards. No one, not even the slaves, sees the full process—like the sea keeps its secrets."
He turned to the distant Salt Cliff Island, domain of Earl Garrik Botley, another coarse-salt producer.
"Lord Botley's salt is bitter, grayish-yellow, coarse. Pyke will produce only Refined Salt," Euron said sharply. "We will supply it to loyal lords in limited quantities, creating dependence. Gold, grain, silk from the mainland—they will crave it. They will have no choice but obedience."
Quellon understood. The refined salt would be an invisible chain, binding allies and subjugating rivals alike.
Euron continued, cold and methodical: "The loyal receive abundance; warehouses piled high with snow-white wealth. Those who feign loyalty? Their allocations cut. Entirely severed. Let them guard mountains of coarse salt, while their people starve, their wealth rots."
He turned, eyes gleaming like polished obsidian. "Salt is the lifeblood of the Ironborn. Control its purity, and you control the islands. Refined Salt will be our scepter, our instrument of power. Let every lord understand—their wealth, prosperity, even peace, depend on Pyke. Salt rights are hegemony."
Quellon's fists clenched, knuckles white. He stared at his son, already wielding the mind of a master strategist. The Refined Salt in the stone basins glittered like a promise of limitless power.
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📚 Author's Note:
Thanks to calixto488 for the 1 Power Stone!
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