The Will of the Drowned God

The ancient Drowned God's temple in Pyke stood atop jagged black reefs.

The waves roared below, crashing with a thunderous boom, as if the Drowned God himself were beating war drums in the abyss.

The temple was dark as the deep sea. Only the whale-oil lamps burned in their stone niches, casting light on the twisted sea-monster reliefs along the walls until they seemed alive. The damp sea breeze carried grains of salt through gaps in the high windows, spiraling between the pillars with a mournful wail. The air was heavy with the rank stench of rotting seaweed, the acrid smell of burning whale fat, and a suffocating religious awe that had settled there over a thousand years.

In the deepest part of the temple stood Victarion Greyjoy, High Priest of the Drowned God and King Kolen's younger brother. He was like an ancient totem grown from a reef on the ocean floor. His gaunt body was wrapped in layer upon layer of dark brown seaweed robes, stiff with salt. His exposed skin resembled leather that had been soaking in seawater for a thousand years, mottled with gray-white salt stains and deep brown sunmarks. His withered hand gripped a whale-bone staff topped with a huge piece of mother-of-pearl. Shark teeth and drowned men's finger bones dangled from it, clacking hollowly in the gloom. In his sunken eye sockets, a pair of cloudy yet keen eyes, sharp as anchor hooks, pierced the dim light and settled on the two stone basins before him.

One basin held a sample of the coarse salt from Saltcliffe, a tribute that Gimond Pottery took pride in: grayish yellow, lumpy, and carrying a lingering bitterness and rusty, fishy stench.

The other basin held the "Platinum Sand" Yulon had brought—snow-white, crystalline, fine as the first frost of early winter. In the dim glow of the lamps, it seemed to radiate a pure, holy light of its own!

Victarion's withered fingers reached for the coarse salt with a tremor that was almost reverent. He pinched up a little and placed it between lips cracked like a parched seabed. His cloudy old eyes narrowed at once. The familiar, unpleasant grit and bitterness were as heavy and humble as the Ironborn's fate across a thousand years. Then his fingers turned toward the "Platinum Sand." His movements became extraordinarily slow and solemn. When its utterly pure saltiness bloomed silently on his tongue, free of any impurities and carrying only the ocean's most primal essence, a startling light blazed in his cloudy eyes—as if a sleeping leviathan had been roused!

"Salt..." Victarion's voice rasped like gravel scraping across a reef, trembling with disbelief. "The Drowned God's... blessing?!" He jerked his head up, fixing his cloudy yet knife-sharp gaze on Yulon, who stood quietly nearby. The five-year-old child's mismatched eyes looked especially eerie in the temple's ghostly light.

"Indeed, High Priest." Yulon's voice was clear and calm, yet strangely penetrating as it echoed through the vast temple. "Last night, the Drowned God came to me in a dream, walking upon the waves. The boundless deep blue of his robes billowed, and his finger pointed toward Pyke's salt fields. He said, 'A thousand years of bitterness is the dust of the old covenant. Today, I bestow pure white, to cleanse my children's labor and forge the glory of the Iron Islands.' This 'Platinum Sand' is the manifestation of his will, refined from ordinary coarse salt by my hand." His small palm brushed the rim of the basin holding the "Platinum Sand," as if caressing a holy relic.

Victarion's gaunt body began to tremble violently. Tears welled in his sunken eyes and ran down his salt-stained cheeks. "A blessing... This is the Drowned God's blessing upon the Iron Islands!" He lifted his whale-bone staff, and the mother-of-pearl caught the ghostly light, casting a mysterious gleam. The shark teeth and finger bones clattered wildly! "The old salt is like tears of blood; the new salt is like frost and snow! The Drowned God has revealed his will! The pure white sand is his gift to the faithful! The Greyjoy bloodline is the vessel he has chosen!" His voice grew shrill with fervor, like the lament of a seabird, yet it carried the undeniable force of a divine oracle.

The news swept through every corner of the Iron Islands overnight, like a salt-laden sea breeze. The snow-white, pure "Platinum Sand," personally declared by the High Priest to be a "gift from the Drowned God," became the holy relic every lord dreamed of possessing!

The volcano on Great Wyk seemed ready to erupt ahead of time. Earl Dunstan Drumm rushed to Pyke aboard his fastest longship, smelling strongly of ale and sweat, like a maddened sea lion. His huge palm slammed down on the black stone table in King Kolen's council chamber, making the cups jump. "Kolen! My brother! The Drowned God's gift must be shared! Give me the secret of the 'Platinum Sand'! House Drum's salt fields must offer the purest tribute to the Drowned God!"

Gimond Pottery of Saltcliffe followed close behind. His eel-like eyes, usually as dark as a crevice in a reef, now burned with undisguised greed. He stroked the sparse stubble on his chin, his voice sliding like a serpent over wet sand. "Lord Kolen, House Botley has served the Drowned God for generations. We, too, deserve to bask in the radiance of this 'Platinum Sand' blessing. The secret should be guarded by all the faithful islands together."

Baelon Blacktyde of Blacktyde Isle was even more excited, trembling all over as he clutched the Drowned God wood carving against his chest. His voice quivered with fervor, almost breaking into tears. "It's a miracle! King Kolen! The High Priest Victarion's proclamation is the voice of the Drowned God! The 'Platinum Sand' is a blessing the Drowned God bestowed upon the entire Iron Islands through his young son, Yulon! It shouldn't belong to Pyke alone. It should reach the salt fields of every island, so that all the Ironborn may feel the glory of the Drowned God! This is his will! You cannot hinder its spread!" He nearly prostrated himself, as if begging for divine grace.

Faced with the surging demands, which came close to becoming coercion, Kolen Greyjoy sat on his reef throne, the symbol of his power, as immovable as a black reef weathering a thousand years of storms. His face showed no expression, only a deep calm like the ocean's depths.

"My lords," Kolen said in a low voice, easily drowning out the commotion in the hall, like an anchor sinking into a churning sea. "I understand your desire for the Drowned God's blessing. But it seems you've forgotten what the Drowned God said in the oracle delivered by High Priest Victarion." His sharp gaze swept over each eager face.

"'By my hand.'" Kolen repeated the words slowly and clearly, his gaze finally settling on Yulon, who stood quietly to one side. "The Drowned God chose Yulon—my second son, of House Greyjoy—as the sole vessel through which this 'Platinum Sand' may be manifested in the mortal world! He did not carve the secret into a reef, nor send it in a dream to every priest. He chose Pyke, and a five-year-old child! Can you still not understand what this means?"

He leaned forward slightly, and the Sea Stone King's pressure spread through the chamber like a tangible force. "The secret is a sacred trust granted by the Drowned God to Pyke and House Greyjoy! It is the core mystery of his will! It is like the Drowned God's holy name—never to be spoken lightly, never to be profaned! To demand the secret by force is to question the Drowned God's design, to profane his will!"

His unequivocal refusal, made in the name of divine will, crashed over them like an icy wave, instantly quenching Dunstan's temper and Gimond's schemes. Even Baelon opened his mouth, but under Kolen's unanswerable gaze and the authority of the oracle, he finally lowered his fervent head with a murmur.

Kolen looked at the lords cowed into silence and knew the time had come. He slowly leaned back in his chair. His voice softened, though it carried an even deeper command. "The Drowned God's grace is as vast as the sea. Though the secret method behind his 'Platinum Sand' cannot be shared lightly, the pure blessing itself should benefit all who faithfully serve him." He presented the plan he had prepared in advance.

"From this day forth," Kolen declared, his words like laws carved into a reef, "Pyke will establish 'blessing 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 passed over them, each word weighing heavily. "The devout, and allies as steadfast as bedrock, will receive a plentiful and steady supply of 'Platinum Sand.' You may use the Drowned God's blessing to obtain gold, grain, and iron, strengthen your islands, and glorify his name!"

His gaze suddenly turned cold, like a bitter wind blowing down from the North. "But those whose faith is weak and whose hearts harbor dissent... their quotas will be cut, or even ended altogether! They will be left with their bitter old salt, sinking into poverty and ignorance as they watch the blessing slip through their fingers! Let their people ask their lords: why has the Drowned God's blessing passed over their islands alone?!"

Kolen's voice crashed through the council chamber like thunder. "This is no bargain. This is a trial and a blessing from the Drowned God to all the people of the Iron Islands, delivered through Pyke! To accept a quota is to accept the Drowned God's will and the rule of the Sea Stone Seat! The Drowned God and Pyke together will decide who deserves to enjoy this pure white sand!"

The chamber fell silent. Only the roar of the waves drifted in from outside, like the Drowned God's low laughter. The muscles in Dunstan's purplish-red face twitched. Gimond's dark eyes flickered with resentment and reluctant calculation. Baelon clutched the Drowned God wood carving even tighter, as if giving thanks for the distribution of divine grace.

The power over salt, the most fundamental power over life, had been cleverly cloaked in divine grace and firmly tied to the measure of loyalty. From then on, the snow-white "Platinum Sand" was no longer merely wealth. It had become the Sword of Damocles hanging over every island lord, witnessed by the Drowned God and wielded by House Greyjoy! The taste of salt would decide whether their authority remained as solid as a reef or crumbled like sand.