The salt pans on the western shore of Pyke stretched under the lead-gray sky like a festering wound on the earth. Murky seawater was led into simple drying pools, exposed to the fierce sun and whipped by the sea wind, finally precipitating a layer of grey-white salt mixed with brown-yellow grit, rough as sand. The air was thick with a salty, bitter smell—the lingering mix of rust and seaweed unique to low-quality coarse salt. Salt workers, backs bent, trod barefoot in the scalding salt mud, their skin eroded by brine like cracked reef rock. Every stoop to shovel salt was accompanied by suppressed groans and the harsh drag of chains. This coarse salt, mixed with sea mud and bitter impurities, was cheaply packed into rough hemp sacks, piled in damp warehouses, waiting to be exchanged for meager iron ore or moldy grain—this was the humble, bitter cycle of the Iron Islands salt pans for thousands of years.
But deep within the towering black stone keep of Pyke, the air was cold and clean, smelling of parchment, whale oil, and power. Euron Greyjoy stood before his father King Quellon's massive chart table, his small body looking exceptionally calm in the flickering halo of the whale oil lamp. He didn't look out the window at the salt pans representing poverty and hard labor; his gaze rested on two rough clay bowls placed side by side on the table.
One bowl was filled with the coarse salt sample just sent from the pans: grey-yellow, clumped, uneven grains, emitting a smell of sea and bitterness. The other bowl held a small pile of snow-white, crystalline powder, dry as fine sand, shimmering with a near-holy light under the lamp.
King Quellon's rough fingers pinched a bit of coarse salt, tasting it on the tip of his tongue. His brow immediately furrowed at the familiar, unpleasant bitterness and grit. He then pinched a bit of the snow-white powder, his movement carrying a trace of imperceptible hesitation. When that ultimately pure saltiness melted on his tongue, without any impurity interference, only the pure, concentrated essence of the ocean, a sharp light of disbelief exploded in his eagle eyes that had seen all storms! He tasted it repeatedly, comparing, as if appraising a rare treasure.
"This... what salt is this?" Quellon's voice was low, vibrating with suppressed shock. He had never tasted such pure salt; its quality even surpassed the Dornish "Sun Salt" known for its purity.
"Salt." Euron's answer was simple to the point of plainness, but deep in his mismatched pupils, the fire of control burned. "Iron Islands sea salt, purified by the 'White Gold Sand Project'."
"'White Gold Sand Project'?" Quellon's gaze hooked onto his son.
"Yes, Father." Euron's voice was clear and calm. "The coarse salt from the pans is cheap as roadside stones. But through a specific method of washing, dissolving, and crystallizing—a method held by Lysa, its secret formula existing only here," he tapped his temple with a slender finger, then pointed to Lysa standing in the shadows like a deep-sea ghost, "and in Lysa's brain—removing all bitterness, impurities, and moisture, we get this 'White Gold Sand', white as snow, pure as ice."
He picked up the clay bowl of refined salt, holding it up to the light, letting the crystalline grains flow in the light and shadow. "Dornish 'Sun Salt' is famous across the Seven Kingdoms for its purity, worth thousands of gold pieces. Our 'White Gold Sand' is even purer!" He paused, every word hitting the table like a cold gold coin. "Its value is at least ten times that of coarse salt, maybe even higher. Nobles, wealthy merchants, Maesters of the Seven Kingdoms, and even the Red Keep's royal chefs pursuing ultimate flavor will pay high prices for it."
Quellon's breathing became heavy. He stared fixedly at the bowl of refined salt flowing with silver light, then looked up abruptly at the gloomy, bitter salt pans outside. The massive contrast crashed against his inherent cognition like a tsunami! Ten times! Ten times the value of coarse salt! What did this mean? It meant Pyke's barren salt pans would instantly turn into veins flowing with gold dust! It meant the Iron Islands' humblest resource would transform into a lever to pry open the wealth of the Seven Kingdoms!
"This technique..." Quellon's voice carried an unprecedented solemnity and greed. "Must be like a holy relic of the Drowned God, belonging only to House Greyjoy! Only to Pyke!"
"Of course, Father." The corner of Euron's mouth curled into a cold arc. "The secret of 'White Gold Sand' is an iron chest locked in Pyke's deepest cellar; only you and I hold the key. Lysa is responsible for the core blending. Every step is supervised, segmented, and isolated by the most loyal Ironborn guards. Anyone, even the slaves responsible for specific operations, can only touch one link in the chain, like blind men touching an elephant, never seeing the whole picture."
He walked to the window, pointing toward Saltcliffe, the domain of Lord Gymond Botley. Saltcliffe also had large salt pans and was one of the main producers of coarse salt in the Iron Islands. "Lord Botley's salt remains bitter, grey-yellow coarse salt. While Pyke will produce only 'White Gold Sand'." His voice was like a poisoned dagger. "We will supply 'White Gold Sand' to the lords of other islands in limited quantities and selectively, in the name of 'Grace,' based on their loyalty. Let them use this snow-white salt to trade for mainland gold, grain, silk... Let them taste the sweetness, let them depend on it!"
Quellon instantly understood his son's vicious scheme. Refined salt would become an invisible chain!
"The loyal, allies steadfast as rock," Euron's finger sliced through the air as if distributing wealth, "will receive ample, stable supplies of 'White Gold Sand,' their warehouses piled with snow-white wealth. While those with ill intentions, those who obey outwardly but defy inwardly..." His voice dropped to freezing, like the northern wind. "Their quotas will be cut, even severed. They will be left guarding piles of bitter coarse salt, watching wealth slip through their fingers, watching their people complain in poverty! They will either submit completely to Pyke, or... sink in the bitterness of coarse salt."
He turned, his mismatched pupils shining with demonic and cruel light under the whale oil lamp, looking straight at Quellon. "Father, salt is the root of Ironborn survival, and also the lifeline for us to control the archipelago! Whoever controls the purity of salt controls the throats of all islands! Let 'White Gold Sand' be the scepter of our grace and might, making the lords of other islands understand—their wealth, their strength, even the peace of their domains, all hang on a thought from Pyke! Salt Power is Hegemony!"
King Quellon clenched his fist abruptly, knuckles turning white. Looking at this son who was only five but already understood the essence of power, looking at the "White Gold Sand" shining in the light symbolizing endless wealth and absolute authority, a torrent of ambition hot enough to melt iron chains washed away the last trace of doubt in his heart.
"Salt Power is Hegemony!" Quellon closed his eyes, murmuring: "Now, we should think carefully about how to best use it..."
Outside the window, the chants of salt pan slaves drifted in faintly, carrying the changeless sorrow of a thousand years. But inside the black stone tower, a silent storm raised by snow-white refined salt, enough to overturn the power structure of the Iron Islands, had arrived. The era of bitter salt was ending. A brand new era paved with "White Gold Sand," ruled absolutely by House Greyjoy, was quietly spreading with the sea wind.
Salt Power is Hegemony!