The salt fields on the western coast of Pike Island stretched beneath a leaden sky, like festering wounds in the earth. Murky seawater was channeled into crude evaporation ponds, where the scorching sun and relentless sea winds slowly drew out salt crystals—gray-white streaked with yellow-brown, coarse as sand. The air was thick with a briny, bitter stench, the unmistakable, lingering smell of rust mixed with seaweed that came from low-grade rough salt. The salt workers stooped over, their bare feet sinking into the scorching salt mud, their skin corroded by brine until it resembled cracked reefs. Every time they bent to shovel up the salt, their movements came with suppressed groans and the harsh clank of dragging chains. This rough salt, mixed with sea mud and bitter impurities, was packed cheaply into coarse burlap sacks and piled in damp warehouses, waiting to be exchanged for paltry amounts of iron ore or moldy grain. It was a lowly, bitter cycle that had endured for thousands of years in the salt fields of the Iron Islands.
But deep within the towering black-stone keep of Pyke, the air was cold and clean, carrying the scents of parchment, whale oil, and power. Euron Greyjoy stood before his father King Kolen's enormous chart table, his small figure especially composed in the flickering glow of the whale-oil lamps. He did not look out the window at the salt fields, symbols of poverty and hard labor. His gaze rested on two rough pottery bowls set side by side on the table.
One bowl held a sample of rough salt just brought in from the fields: gray-yellow, clumped, unevenly grained, and reeking of the sea and bitterness. The other held a small pinch of snow-white, crystalline powder, dry as fine sand and shimmering with an almost sacred light beneath the lamps.
King Kolen pinched up a little rough salt with his coarse fingers and licked it from his tongue. His brow immediately furrowed at the familiar, unpleasant bitterness and grittiness. Then he pinched up a little of the snow-white powder, hesitating ever so slightly. As its impeccably pure saltiness dissolved on his tongue, free of any impurities and carrying only the concentrated essence of the ocean, an astonishingly sharp light suddenly blazed in his storm-tested hawk eyes! He tasted it again and again, comparing the two as if appraising a priceless treasure.
"What... what kind of salt is this?" Kolen's voice was low, trembling with restrained excitement. He had never tasted salt so pure. Its quality even surpassed Dorne's "Sun Salt," renowned for its purity.
"Salt." Yulon's answer was so simple it was almost flat. But in the depths of his mismatched eyes, a flame burned—one that promised control over everything. "Sea salt from the Iron Islands, refined through the 'Platinum Sand Project.'"
"'Platinum Sand Project'?" Kolen's gaze was a hook, fixed firmly on his youngest son.
"Yes, Father." Yulon's voice was clear and calm. "The rough salt from the fields is worth little, like stones by the roadside. But through a specific process of washing, dissolving, and crystallizing—Lysa knows the method, and the recipe exists only here." He tapped his temple with a slender finger, then pointed at Lysa, who stood in the shadows like a ghost from the deep sea. "And in Lysa's mind. By removing all bitterness, impurities, and moisture, we can produce 'Platinum Sand,' white as snow and pure as ice."
He picked up the pottery bowl of refined salt and held it beneath the light, letting the crystalline grains gleam as they shifted. "Dorne's 'Sun Salt' is famous throughout the Seven Kingdoms for its purity, and it's worth a fortune. But our 'Platinum Sand' is even purer!" He paused, each word striking the table like a cold gold coin. "It's worth at least ten times as much as rough salt, perhaps more. The nobles, wealthy merchants, and maesters of the Seven Kingdoms—even the Red Keep's cooks, who pursue the finest flavors—will pay dearly for it."
Kolen's breathing grew heavy. He stared at the bowl of refined salt, which seemed to flow with silver light beneath the lamps, then abruptly looked up at the bleak, bitter salt fields beyond the window. The enormous contrast crashed against his long-held beliefs like a raging sea! Ten times! Ten times the value of rough salt! What would that mean? It meant that the barren salt fields of Pike Island would instantly become mines flowing with golden sand! It meant that the Iron Islands' most overlooked resource would become a lever for prying open the wealth of the Seven Kingdoms!
"This technique..." Kolen's voice carried a gravity and greed unlike anything before. "It must be treated like a holy relic of the Drowned God, belonging to House Greyjoy alone! To Pyke alone!"
"Of course, Father." Yulon's lips curved into a cold smile. "The secret of 'Platinum Sand' will be locked in an iron chest in Pyke's deepest cellar, and only you and I will hold the key. Lysa will handle the core preparations, with the most loyal Ironborn guards overseeing, separating, and isolating every step. Anyone involved—even the slaves doing the actual work—will be allowed to handle only one stage of the process. Like blind men feeling an elephant, they'll never see the whole picture."
He went to the window and pointed toward distant Saltcliffe, the domain of Earl Gimond Pottery. Saltcliffe also had vast salt fields and was one of the main sources of rough salt in the Iron Islands. "Earl Pottery's salt will remain bitter, gray-yellow rough salt. Pyke, meanwhile, will produce only 'Platinum Sand.'" His voice was like a poisoned dagger. "In the name of 'generosity,' we'll supply limited amounts of 'Platinum Sand' to the lords of the other islands, selectively and according to their loyalty. They'll be able to trade this snow-white salt for gold, grain, and silk from the mainland... Let them taste the benefits. Let them become dependent!"
Kolen instantly understood his youngest son's ruthless scheme. Refined salt would become an invisible chain!
"Those loyal to us, our steadfast allies," Yulon said, his finger sweeping through the air as if distributing wealth, "will receive a plentiful, steady supply of 'Platinum Sand,' and their storehouses will overflow with snow-white riches. But those who harbor treacherous intentions and pay lip service while acting against us..." His voice abruptly turned cold as a northern wind. "Their quotas will be cut, or stopped entirely. They'll be left with mountains of bitter rough salt, watching wealth slip through their fingers and their people grumble in poverty! They'll either submit completely to Pyke, or... sink into the bitterness of rough salt."
He turned around, his mismatched eyes gleaming with an eerie, cruel light beneath the whale-oil lamps, and looked straight at Kolen. "Father, salt is the foundation of Ironborn survival—and the lifeline through which we control the islands! Whoever controls the purity of salt controls the throat of every island! Let 'Platinum Sand' become our scepter of reward and punishment. Let the lords of the other islands understand that their wealth, their strength, even the peace of their lands, all depend on Pyke's whim! Salt Power is hegemony!"
King Kolen clenched his fist, his knuckles whitening with the effort. He looked at the boy before him, only five years old yet already deeply versed in the nature of power, and at the bowl of "Platinum Sand" gleaming beneath the lamps, a symbol of boundless wealth and absolute power. A searing flood of ambition, powerful enough to melt chains, swept away the last trace of doubt in his heart.
"Salt Power is hegemony!" Kolen murmured with his eyes closed. "Now, we should think carefully about how to make the best use of it..." Outside, the salt workers' chants drifted faintly from the fields, carrying the same age-old sorrow. Within the black-stone keep, a storm raised by snow-white refined salt—silent, yet powerful enough to overturn the balance of power in the Iron Islands—had already arrived. The bitter age of salt was nearing its end. A new era, paved with "Platinum Sand" and ruled absolutely by House Greyjoy, was quietly spreading on the sea wind. Salt Power is hegemony!
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