Marcos, the merchant Euron intended to plant as a spy in the Free Cities, had all subsequent operations handed over to Dagmer.
Dagmer had been assigned by Lord Quellon as Euron's personal guard—not merely to protect his safety, but to allow Euron free rein in his schemes. Dagmer's skills and connections made him an ideal partner for the boy, and after more than twenty days at sea aboard Silence, they had faced life and death together, forging an understanding.
Though Dagmer appeared rough, impulsive, and blunt, he was shrewd, capable, and meticulous beneath the surface.
Euron had many schemes swirling in his mind, but he could act only where risk was manageable and returns guaranteed. For now, the most accessible—and most profitable—venture was salt.
In the deepest stone cellar beneath Pyke, the air was damp and heavy as the drowned god's tomb. Salt crystals seeped from the rock walls, glowing pale under flickering torches.
Every breath carried the briny tang of the sea, and every drop of falling water echoed like a distant heartbeat.
Here, the cries of the salt mine slaves were muffled, the roar of the ocean cut off, leaving only the silence of stone—and a quiet that felt sacred in its intensity.
Euron stood in the center of the cellar, his dark gray cloak blending into the shadows. Beneath the hood, his sharp blue eyes glimmered with focus beyond his years.
Dagmer had prepared the cellar meticulously, and Maester Tymor stood ready—no longer the calm scholar of the rookery, but an obedient instrument. His eyes followed Euron's every gesture like a devotee.
On the table lay coarse, dirty sea-salt—gray, clumped, and rank with seaweed and sand.
Euron tapped the side of the rainwater barrel. "First step: dissolve."
Tymor obeyed, measuring the salt and pouring it in. The cloudy mixture swirled.
"When the filth sinks," Euron continued, "we keep only the clear water above. The rest is worthless."
Tymor nodded nervously.
"I… I see. This process is unfamiliar to me, my lord."
When the sediment settled, Euron instructed him to filter the brine.
"Second step: we strip it clean."
He opened a clay pot filled with fine charcoal. Tymor blinked in confusion.
"Charcoal? Mixed with saltwater?" he asked.
"Do as I say."
Tymor crushed it finer and poured it in. The water darkened.
"The charcoal binds to impurities," Euron explained. "It eats what we don't want."
Tymor hurriedly scratched a note into his wax tablet, terrified to miss anything.
Euron gestured.
"Stir. Slowly."
The brine began to clear again. Tymor filtered it once more, marveling at the blackened sludge left behind.
Next, Euron ordered the clarified brine poured into a cast-iron cauldron set above whale-oil braziers, their flames steady and smokeless.
Tymor adjusted the heat.
"You say it must be hot at first, then low? For crystals to form?"
"Yes," Euron said. "If the fire is wild, the salt burns. If weak, it rots. Control, is everything."
As the water boiled away, bright white crystals formed along the iron edges like winter frost.
When the time was right, Euron commanded Tymor to drain the crystals through linen. The runoff was bitter and brown; the crystals that remained were snow-white.
"For the final step," Euron said, "we dry it."
The damp crystals were spread on clay plates over low, slow whale-oil heat, drying them evenly without smoke.
Euron finally pinched a grain between his fingers and nodded.
"This is Refined Salt. Pure. Bright. Worth more than gold."
Tymor poured the finished batch into the stone basins, their smooth rims glistening under the torchlight. His hands trembled as he presented the first filled basin.
"My lord… with respect, this is unlike anything I have ever seen. Where did you learn this?"
Euron's eyes gleamed with delight, guarding a secret older than the sea.
"Far from the Citadel," he answered quietly.
He took the basin.
"With this… the Iron Islands will no longer starve. They will rule."
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📚 Author's Note:
Thanks to junior_volpi for the 1 Power Stone!
🐧