Malyo, the sleeper agent Euron intended to plant in the Free Cities, was handed over entirely to Dagmer for the follow-up operations.
Dagmer, appointed by Lord Quellon as Euron's guard, wasn't just there for protection. Quellon wanted to give Euron free rein, and Dagmer's skills and connections were the perfect tools. After twenty days of life and death aboard the Drinker, Euron understood Dagmer well. He looked rude, impulsive, and dull, but was actually shrewd, capable, and meticulous beneath the rough exterior.
Euron's mind was full of schemes, but he had to prioritize based on importance and difficulty. The only project currently viable—low investment cost, low trial-and-error cost, high probability of success, and massive returns—was Salt!
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The deepest stone cellar beneath Pyke was damp as the womb of the Drowned God. Salt frost seeping from the rock walls shimmered with a ghostly pale light under the flickering torches. Every breath carried a cold, salty tang; every drop of water falling echoed hollowly in the dead silence. Here, isolated from the wails of salt thralls and the eternal roar of the surf, only the silence of stone and a brewing, subversive quiet remained.
Euron Greyjoy stood in the center of the cellar, his dark grey cloak blending with the shadows. Under the hood, his mismatched pupils burned with a focus and control beyond his years in the dim light. He was no longer a bystander but the core of this secret ritual, the source and helmsman of a flood of knowledge. Dagmer had found this quiet spot and prepared everything Euron needed. Lysa had shed her deep-sea silence, transforming into a precise vessel and an extension of his will. Her emerald eyes followed Euron's every subtle command like a believer looking up to divine proverbs. His uncle, Aeron Greyjoy (the future Damphair, currently a young priest), who had performed Euron's drowning ritual, had been invited from the Drowned God's temple as a witness, silently observing every move.
On the rough wooden table sat common, crude vessels of the Iron Islands: heavy clay vats, polished wooden buckets, a thick iron cauldron, fine rattan filter funnels, and smooth whalebone rods. Beside them lay a pile of raw salt fresh from the pans—a mix of grey, yellow, and brown, smelling of seaweed, rust, and bitterness.
"Step One: Dissolution." Euron's clear child voice cut through the silence of the cellar with unquestionable command. He pointed a slender finger at a wooden bucket filled with clear rainwater, then at the pile of filthy raw salt. "Take a measure, pour into the water. Let it settle, like a reef sinking into the abyss. Let the mud, gravel, shells... all the filth of the earth, sink to the bottom on its own."
Lysa obeyed with mechanical precision. The raw salt granules hissed like dying things as they hit the water. She stood by, eyes locked on the surface like a hawk. The murkiness gradually stratified, the upper liquid taking on a sickly yellowish hue. Euron nodded slightly. "Filter! Take only the clear liquid on top. The sediment at the bottom is useless, discard it like worn shoes." The rattan funnel swept over the surface, filtering the relatively clear brine into a clean clay vat. The filthy residue was abandoned in a waste bucket in the corner, symbolizing a discarded past.
"Step Two: Devouring." Euron's gaze turned to a sealed clay jar in the corner. He walked over and lifted the lid, revealing black, brittle chunks of charcoal—activated charcoal made from sea oak smoldered in a special kiln according to his instructions. "Crush it to powder." Lysa immediately took the charcoal and ground it in a stone mortar until it was fine as black jade dust. Euron pinched a bit of dust, inspecting its texture in the firelight, and nodded with satisfaction. "Sprinkle it into the brine. Stir." He picked up the whalebone rod, demonstrating a slow, powerful circular motion. "Let the bones of this charcoal devour! Devour the 'Spirits of Bitterness' dissolved in the water, devour the 'Iron Souls' that bring the rusty smell, devour all filth that shames the salt!" His words sounded like a spell, though it was simply activated carbon adsorption. He wanted to give it a mystical name in this god-fearing world.
Lysa took the rod and began to stir. In the vortex of charcoal powder, the murky brine miraculously lost its yellow tint, becoming increasingly clear! Euron watched, his mismatched eyes like precision instruments monitoring every nuance of color change. "Enough." He raised a hand to stop her. "When the water is as clear as snow in a cold pool, the filth is gone. Filter again! This time, remove the charcoal powder and the spirits of filth it has imprisoned!"
The rattan funnel worked again. The filtered brine was nearly colorless, pure as mountain meltwater. The black carbon residue and the bitter souls it trapped were completely removed.
"Step Three: Refining the Form with Fire." Euron pointed to the heavy, black cast-iron cauldron. "Pour it in." The filtered brine was poured into the cauldron. He walked to the fire pit and lit the fuel of dry seaweed and whale blubber. Blue flames rose like living things, licking the cold bottom of the cauldron. "Fire is the will of tempering. Fierce at first, to drive away the inertia of water vapor." The cauldron was calm initially, then fine bubbles rose from the bottom, growing denser, popping with a bip-bop sound. Steam filled the air, carrying a pure salty scent. "When it boils like an angry sea, turn gentle." Euron's voice sounded like chanting an ancient alchemical formula. When the steam rose and the liquid level dropped by a third, he took a long-handled wooden ladle, dipped a drop of the concentrated liquid, and let it fall onto a cold obsidian slate. The drop quickly solidified into tiny colorless crystals. "Look, the Soul of Salt begins to awaken!" A sharp light flashed in his eyes. "Now, the fire must be like a warm bed, not violent. Let the water retreat calmly like the tide, allowing the True Form of Salt to condense and grow leisurely in the mother liquor. Those 'Evil Spirits' that bring bitterness and moisture (magnesium chloride, etc.), they crave the water's embrace more, so let them stay in the water!" This was the essence of evaporative crystallization—controlling the heat determined the separation of purity and filth. Lysa focused intently, adjusting the fire precisely according to Euron's every look and gesture, maintaining a gentle boil. On the cauldron walls and the edge of the liquid, fine white crystals grew quietly like holy frost flowers.
"Step Four: Draining the Blood, Severing the Poison Root!" When the bottom of the cauldron was covered with a layer of snow-white grains, and the remaining mother liquor became viscous, scant, and an unsettling yellow-brown, Euron ordered decisively: "Extinguish the fire!" He pointed to a shallow willow basket lined with layers of fine linen filter cloth. "Scoop it out! In the cauldron, the snow-white is the Essence, the viscous yellow-brown is the 'Bitter Blood' (bittern). The cloth is the net; the Essence stays above, the 'Bitter Blood' drains below! This blood contains poison; if it touches the Salt Soul, it will gather dust and sever its root!" Solid-liquid separation was endowed with the resolute meaning of severing fate. Lysa used a special wooden shovel to carefully scoop the hot mixture into the filter basket. The scalding, sticky bittern hissed as it passed through the linen, flowing into the clay jar below, emitting a frowningly bitter smell. Left on the cloth was the wet but shining prototype of refined salt. Euron looked at the drained bittern as if looking at a severed snake head.
"Step Five: Sublimation, Sealing the Pure Soul." The moist refined salt was spread evenly in several wide, shallow clay trays. Euron led Lysa to a well-ventilated dry stone room next door. Inside was only a small brazier of smokeless charcoal radiating dry heat. "Wind and mild heat are the final sculpting. Turn it, like grooming feathers, ensuring every grain is dry, light, and independent!" He demonstrated the turning motion with a smooth whalebone slice, gentle and even. Lysa took over, turning the salt regularly. Time passed in the dry, hot wind; moisture was stripped away strand by strand. The salt grains gradually became loose, dry, and shimmering with a cold white light. Drying, this final step, was like clothing the pure soul in an eternal coat. When Lysa pinched a small pinch of salt, her fingertips feeling only pure saltiness without any impurities or stickiness, she looked at Euron. Euron reached out a small hand, pinched a little, and put it in his mouth. The ultimate pure saltiness exploded on the tip of his tongue, a perfect condensation of the sea's essence. He closed his eyes, as if tasting power itself. When he opened them again, the light in his mismatched pupils was enough to pierce the thickest darkness.
"Step Six: Sarcophagus Sealing, Imprisoning Authority." The completely dry, cold refined salt was scooped extremely carefully by Lysa with a special bone spoon into small, thick-walled clay jars. Euron stood by, supervising every movement. The jar mouths were covered with soft sheepskin soaked in beeswax, then sealed tightly with melted black sealing wax symbolizing House Greyjoy. Each sealed small jar was like a miniature tomb, imprisoning snow-white purity and subversive power.
Lysa presented the first sealed clay jar to Euron, kneeling on one knee, as if offering a holy relic.
"From this moment, its value is equal to its weight in Gold Dragons! Let's call it White Gold Sand!" Euron took the cold clay jar, his small fingers stroking the smooth body and the hard wax seal. He felt the power contained within, enough to change the fate of the Iron Islands.
Making it so solemn and grand was naturally to endow the "White Gold Sand" with a mysterious color. After all, most people in this world had faith; the more mysterious it was, the more it could create the illusion of divine possession. After the operation, Euron felt Lysa and Dagmer looked at him with eyes full of worship. If the system had a loyalty meter, Lysa's trust would be at least 80, and Dagmer's a full 100.
This wasn't salt. This was a scepter! A chain! The cornerstone of House Greyjoy's rule!
When the White Gold Sand was mass-produced, that would be the true beginning.