The Drowned God's Decree

The ancient Drowned God temple of Pike stood tall on the jagged black reefs.

Waves roared below, crashing with thunderous booms, as if the Drowned God himself were beating war drums in the abyss.

The temple was as dark as the deep sea, with only whale oil lamps flickering in stone niches, casting the twisted sea monster reliefs on the walls as if they were alive. Salty sea winds, carrying grains of salt, snaked through the gaps in the high windows, whistling and swirling among the stone pillars. The air was thick with the stench of rotting seaweed, the burnt smell of whale fat, and a suffocating religious pressure that had settled for millennia.

In the deepest part of the temple, the Drowned God's High Priest, Vickon Greyjoy—the younger brother of King Kolen—stood like an ancient totem grown from the sea reefs. His emaciated body was wrapped in layers upon layers of deep brown seaweed robes soaked in salt brine. His exposed skin was like leather, steeped in seawater for a thousand years, covered in pale gray salt stains and dark brown sun marks. A whalebone staff, topped with a large mother-of-pearl inlay, was clutched in his withered hand. Shark teeth and drowned man finger bones hung from the staff, clacking together with hollow clicks in the dim light. His deep-set eye sockets held a pair of cloudy yet sharp eyes, like anchor hooks, piercing through the dim light to rest upon two stone basins placed side-by-side before him.

In one basin was a sample of coarse salt from Saltcliffe, the pride of Gismund Pottery—grayish-yellow, lumpy, exuding a lingering bitterness and the metallic tang of rust.

In the other basin lay the "Platinum Sand" brought by Yulon—snow-white, crystalline, and as fine as the hoarfrost of early winter. Under the dim light of the lamps, it seemed to emit a pure and holy radiance!

Vickon's withered fingers, with an almost reverent tremor, slowly reached for the coarse salt. His fingertips picked up a small pinch and brought it to his cracked lips, dry as a seabed. His cloudy old eyes narrowed instantly; it was the familiar, unpleasant roughness and bitterness, like the fate of the Ironborn for centuries, heavy and humble. Then, his fingers turned to the "Platinum Sand." His movements became incredibly slow, incredibly solemn. As the ultimate pure saltiness bloomed silently on his tongue, unmarred by any impurities, only the most fundamental essence of the ocean, his cloudy eyes suddenly erupted with a terrifying brilliance! It was as if a slumbering deep-sea leviathan had been awakened!

"Salt..." Vickon's voice was as hoarse as gravel grinding on reefs, filled with unbelievable vibration, "The Drowned God's... gift?!" He suddenly raised his head, his cloudy yet sharp eyes like knives fixed on Yulon, who stood quietly beside him. This five-year-old child's mismatched eyes seemed particularly eerie in the temple's dim light.

"Indeed, High Priest," Yulon's voice was clear and calm, yet possessed a strange penetrating power, echoing in the vast temple. "Last night, the Drowned God came to me in a dream. The hem of his robe surged with boundless deep blue, and his finger pointed towards Pike's salt pans. He said: 'A thousand years of bitterness are the dust of the old covenant. Today, I bestow pure white to cleanse the toil of my people and forge the glory of the Iron Islands.' This 'Platinum Sand' is the manifestation of His will, refined from common coarse salt by my hand." He gently stroked the edge of the basin holding the "Platinum Sand" with his small hand, his movements like those tending a sacred relic.

Vickon's emaciated body trembled violently. Cloudy tears actually seeped from his deep-set eye sockets, tracing paths down his salt-stained cheeks. "Grace... this is the Drowned God's grace upon the Iron Islands!" He suddenly raised his whalebone staff, the mother-of-pearl refracting mysterious halos in the dim light, the shark teeth and finger bones clattering wildly! "Old salt is like tears of blood, new salt is like frost and snow! The Drowned God has descended His decree! The pure white sand is His gift to the devout! The bloodline of Greyjoy is the vessel He has chosen!" His voice, sharpened by excitement, was like the mournful cry of a seabird, yet carried the irrefutable power of divine oracle.

News spread like a salt-laden sea breeze to every corner of the Iron Islands overnight. The snow-white, pure "Platinum Sand," personally certified by the High Priest as a "gift from the Drowned God," became a sacred object coveted by all Lords!

The volcano of Great Wyk seemed to erupt prematurely. Count Dunsitan Drum, like a maddened walrus reeking of strong ale and sweat, took his fastest longship to Pike. He slammed his palm, broad as a shovel, onto the black stone table in King Kolen's council hall, making the wine cups jump. "Kolen! My brother! The Drowned God's gift must be shared! Give me the secret to 'Platinum Sand'! House Drum's salt pans must offer the purest tribute to the Drowned God!"

Gismund Pottery of Saltcliffe followed close behind. His sinister eyes, like a moray eel in a reef crevice, now burned with naked greed. He stroked the sparse stubble on his chin, his voice like a viper slithering over wet sand. "Lord Kolen, House Pottery has served the Drowned God for generations. This gifted 'Platinum Sand' naturally has the right to bask in its radiance. The secret formula should be guarded by all devout islands."

Baelon Blacktyde of Blacktyde Isle trembled with excitement, clutching the Drowned God wood carving at his chest. His voice, choked with a near-tearful fervor, cried out, "This is a miracle! King Kolen! High Priest Vickon's proclamation is the voice of the Drowned God! 'Platinum Sand' is a blessing bestowed by the Drowned God upon all the Iron Islands through the young son Yulon! It should not belong only to Pike; it should bathe the salt pans of every island, so that all Ironborn may feel the Drowned God's glory! This is His will! You cannot prevent the spread of His divine message!" He nearly prostrated himself, as if begging for divine favor.

Faced with the surging tide of demands, even near-coercion, Kolen Greyjoy sat enthroned upon his black reef seat of power, unmoving like a black reef weathered by millennia of wind and waves. His face was devoid of any expression, only a deep, abyss-like calm.

"Lords," Kolen's deep voice resonated, easily overpowering the clamor in the hall, like an anchor sinking into a turbulent sea, "I understand your desire for the Drowned God's gift. But you seem to have forgotten what the Drowned God said in the oracle delivered by High Priest Vickon?" His sharp gaze swept over every eager face.

"'By my hand'," Kolen repeated slowly and clearly, his gaze finally settling on Yulon, who stood quietly beside him. "'It was the Drowned God who chose Yulon, my second son of Greyjoy, as the sole vessel for the manifestation of this 'Platinum Sand' in the mortal realm! He did not carve the secret formula onto the reefs, nor did He whisper it to every priest, but chose Pike, and a five-year-old child! Do you not understand the profound meaning behind this?'"

He leaned forward slightly, the pressure of the Sea Stone King emanating like a tangible force. "The secret formula is a sacred trust bestowed by the Drowned God upon Pike, upon House Greyjoy! It is the core mystery of His will! It is like the Drowned God's holy name, not to be lightly revealed, not to be blasphemed! To forcibly demand the secret formula is to question the Drowned God's arrangement, to blaspheme His divine will!"

This resolute refusal, cloaked in divine will, extinguished Dunsitan's fury and Gismund's calculations like a cold wave. Even Baelon opened his mouth, but under Kolen's undeniable gaze and the authority of the oracle, he meekly lowered his fervent head.

Kolen watched the lords in the hall, now subdued, knowing the time was right. He slowly leaned back in his chair, his voice softening, but with a deeper control. "However, the Drowned God's benevolence is vast as the sea. Though the secret method for His 'Platinum Sand' cannot be lightly passed on, the pure gift itself should benefit all His devout followers." He presented the plan he had long prepared.

"From this day forward," Kolen's voice was like law etched in stone, "Pike will establish 'Gift Quotas' based on each island's devotion to the Drowned God, loyalty to the Sea Stone Seat, and past contributions to the common welfare of the Iron Islands." His gaze swept over them, each word heavy as a thousand pounds. "The devout, allies as steadfast as rock, will receive a sufficient, stable supply of 'Platinum Sand.' You may use this gift from the Drowned God to trade for gold, grain, and iron, to strengthen your islands and glorify the Drowned God's name!"

His gaze suddenly turned cold, like the biting wind from the North. "As for those with wavering faith and rebellious hearts... their quotas will be reduced, even cut off! They will be left with the bitter old salt, to languish in poverty and ignorance, watching the blessings slip through their fingers! Let their people question their lords: Why has the Drowned God's gift bypassed their island?"

Kolen's voice boomed like thunder in the council hall. "This is not a trade; it is a test and a blessing from the Drowned God, through the hand of Pike, to all the people of the Iron Islands! To accept the quota is to accept the Drowned God's will, to accept the rule of the Sea Stone Seat! Who is worthy to partake of this pure white sand shall be decided by the Drowned God and Pike together!"

Silence fell upon the hall. Only the distant roar of the waves could be heard from outside the windows, like the Drowned God's low chuckle. Dunsitan's purplish-red face twitched, Gismund's sinister eyes flickered with unwilling calculation, and Baelon once again clutched the Drowned God wood carving, as if grateful for the distribution of divine favor.

Salt Power, this most basic right to life, was cleverly cloaked by Kolen in the guise of divine grace and firmly bound to the scale of loyalty. The snow-white "Platinum Sand" was henceforth not merely wealth, but a Sword of Damocles hanging over the heads of all island lords, witnessed by the Drowned God, and controlled by House Greyjoy! The taste of salt would determine whether their authority was as solid as rock or as crumbling as sand.