The ancient temple of the Drowned God on Pyke stood atop jagged black reefs.
Below, the waves roared, crashing with thunderous noise like the Drowned God Himself beating war drums in the abyss.
Inside the temple, it was dim as the deep sea. Only whale oil lamps flickered in stone niches, casting dancing shadows on the walls that made the twisted kraken reliefs writhe like living things. The salty, damp sea wind wrapped in grit squeezed through the high window slits, circling and sobbing between the stone pillars. The air was thick with the stench of rotting kelp, the charred smell of burning blubber, and a suffocating religious pressure sedimented over a thousand years.
In the deepest part of the temple, High Priest Vickon Greyjoy—King Quellon's own brother—stood like an ancient totem growing out of the seabed reef. His withered body was wrapped in layers of salt-soaked, dark brown seaweed robes. His exposed skin looked like leather soaked in seawater for a millennium, covered in grey-white salt stains and dark brown sunspots. A whalebone staff topped with a massive mother-of-pearl shell was tightly gripped in his branch-like hand. Shark teeth and drowned men's finger bones hanging from the staff clattered hollowly in the gloom. From his deep-set sockets, a pair of cloudy but anchor-hook sharp eyes pierced the dim light, landing on two stone basins placed side by side before him.
In one basin lay the coarse salt tribute from Saltcliffe, the pride of Gymond Botley: grey-yellow, clumped, emitting a lingering bitterness and rusty stench.
In the other basin lay the "White Gold Sand" brought by Euron—snow-white, crystalline, fine as early winter frost. Under the dim light of the lamps, it seemed to radiate a pure and holy glow of its own!
Vickon's withered fingers, trembling with near-religious awe, slowly reached toward the coarse salt. He pinched a small amount and placed it between lips as cracked as a dry seabed. His cloudy old eyes squinted instantly—it was the familiar, unpleasant roughness and bitterness, like the fate of the Ironborn for thousands of years, heavy and humble. Then, his fingers turned to the "White Gold Sand." His movements became incredibly slow and solemn. When that ultimate pure saltiness blossomed silently on his tongue, without any impurity interference, only the ocean's most primal essence, a terrifying light suddenly exploded in his cloudy eyes! As if a slumbering deep-sea leviathan had been awakened!
"Salt..." Vickon's voice was raspy as sand grinding on a reef, trembling with disbelief. "The Drowned God's... grace?!" He snapped his head up, his gaze locking dead onto Euron standing quietly nearby. The five-year-old child's mismatched eyes looked particularly demonic in the temple's gloom.
"Exactly, High Priest." Euron's voice was clear and calm, yet carried a strange penetration echoing in the empty temple. "Last night, the Drowned God entered my dream riding the waves. His robes billowed with infinite deep blue, His finger pointed to the salt pans of Pyke. He said: 'A thousand years of bitterness is the dust of the old covenant. Today, I grant the pure white to wash the toil of my people and forge the glory of the Iron Islands.' This 'White Gold Sand' is the manifestation of His will, tempered from the mundane roughness through my hands." His small hand stroked the rim of the basin holding the "White Gold Sand," a motion like caressing a holy relic.
Vickon's withered body trembled violently. Cloudy old tears actually seeped from his deep sockets, tracking down his salt-stained cheeks. "Grace... This is the Drowned God's grace to the Iron Islands!" He raised the whalebone staff abruptly; the mother-of-pearl refracted mysterious halos in the gloom, shark teeth and finger bones clashing madly! "Old salt like blood and tears, new salt like frost and snow! The Drowned God has sent down His decree! The pure white sand is His gift to the devout! The blood of Greyjoy is the vessel He has chosen!" His voice was shrill with excitement, like a seabird's cry, yet carried irrefutable oracular power.
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The news swept through every corner of the Iron Islands overnight like the salty sea wind. The snow-white, pure "White Gold Sand," personally certified by the High Priest as "The Drowned God's Grace," became the holy object every lord dreamed of!
The volcano on Great Wyk seemed to erupt early. Lord Dunstan Drumm, like a mad walrus reeking of ale and sweat, sailed his fastest longship to Pyke. His fan-like hand slammed onto the black stone table in King Quellon's Council Chamber, making goblets jump. "Quellon! My brother! The Drowned God's grace must be shared! Give me the secret of 'White Gold Sand'! House Drumm's salt pans must offer the purest tribute to the Drowned God!"
Gymond Botley of Saltcliffe followed closely behind. In his eyes, sinister as a moray eel in a reef crevice, naked greed burned. He rubbed the sparse stubble on his chin, his voice sliding like a viper over wet sand. "Lord Quellon, House Botley has served the Drowned God for generations. Naturally, we are qualified to bathe in the light of this graced 'White Gold Sand.' The secret formula should be guarded by all devout islands together."
Baelor Blacktyde of Blacktyde was shaking all over with excitement. He clutched the driftwood carving of the Drowned God to his chest, his voice carrying a weeping fanaticism. "It's a miracle! King Quellon! High Priest Vickon's declaration is the voice of the Drowned God! 'White Gold Sand' is a blessing granted by the Drowned God to the entire Iron Islands through the hand of your young son Euron! It shouldn't belong only to Pyke; it should bathe the salt pans of every island, letting all Ironborn feel the Drowned God's glory! This is His will! You cannot block the spread of divine will!" He almost prostrated himself on the ground, as if begging for divine grace.
Facing the surging wave of demands and near-coercion, Quellon Greyjoy sat on his reef throne symbolizing power, immobile as a black reef that had weathered ten thousand years of storms. His face held no expression, only a profound calmness like the abyss.
"My lords," Quellon's low voice sounded, easily suppressing the noise in the hall like an anchor sinking into a clamorous sea. "I understand your thirst for the Drowned God's grace. But you seem to have forgotten, in the oracle transmitted by High Priest Vickon, what did the Drowned God say?" His sharp gaze swept every eager face.
"'Through my hands.'" Quellon repeated slowly and clearly, his gaze finally landing on Euron standing quietly aside. "It was the Drowned God who chose Euron, who chose the second son of Greyjoy, as the sole vessel of manifestation for this 'White Gold Sand' in the mortal world! He did not carve the secret on a reef, nor did He dream to every priest, but chose Pyke, chose a five-year-old child! Do you not yet understand the profound meaning in this?"
He leaned forward slightly, the pressure of the Seastone King spreading like a physical force. "The secret formula is a sacred trust granted by the Drowned God to Pyke, to House Greyjoy! It is the core mystery of His will! It is like the Drowned God's holy name—not to be lightly leaked, not to be profaned! Forcing a demand for the secret is questioning the Drowned God's arrangement, it is blasphemy against divine will!"
This categorical refusal in the name of divine will was like a cold wave, instantly extinguishing Dunstan's irritability and Gymond's calculation. Even Baelor opened his mouth, but under Quellon's unquestionable gaze and the majesty of the oracle, he finally lowered his fanatical head in silence.
Quellon watched the awed lords in the hall, knowing the time was right. He slowly leaned back, his voice softening a bit but carrying deeper control. "However, the Drowned God's grace is vast as the sea. His 'White Gold Sand,' though the secret method cannot be lightly passed, the pure grace itself should benefit all His devout servants." He threw out the plan prepared long ago.
"From this day forth," Quellon's voice was like law carved into stone, "Pyke will establish a 'Grace Quota' based on each island's devotion to the Drowned God, loyalty to the Seastone Chair, and past contributions to the common welfare of the Iron Islands." His gaze swept the crowd, every word heavy as a thousand pounds. "The devout, allies steadfast as rock, will receive ample, stable supplies of 'White Gold Sand.' You may use this grace of the Drowned God to exchange for gold, grain, iron, strengthening your islands, glorifying the Drowned God's name!"
His gaze turned suddenly cold, like the chill wind from the North. "And those whose faith is not firm, who harbor disjointed ambitions... their quotas will be cut, even severed! They can only guard bitter old salt, sinking in poverty and ignorance, watching grace slip through their fingers! Let their people question their lords: Why did the Drowned God's grace bypass their island alone?!"
Quellon's voice exploded in the Council Chamber like thunder. "This is not a trade. This is the Drowned God's test and blessing for all children of the Iron Islands through the hand of Pyke! Accepting the quota is accepting the Drowned God's will, accepting the rule of the Seastone Chair! Who is worthy to enjoy this pure white sand shall be judged jointly by the Drowned God and Pyke!"
Dead silence filled the hall. Only the roar of the waves came faintly from the window, like the Drowned God's low laughter. Muscles twitched on Dunstan's purple face; unwilling but forced submission flickered in Gymond's sinister eyes; Baelor clutched the driftwood carving again excitedly, as if grateful for the distribution of divine grace.
Salt power, the most basic right of life, was cleverly cloaked in divine grace by Quellon and firmly tied to the yardstick of loyalty. The snow-white "White Gold Sand" was no longer just 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 stable as a reef or crumbling like sand.