Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

The ancient Drowned Church of Pike Town stands atop the rugged black reef.

The waves roared below, crashing with thunderous booms, as if the very god of drowning was beating his war drums in the abyss.

The sanctuary was as dark as the deep sea, with only the eternal flame of whale oil flickering in the stone niches, illuminating the twisted sea monster reliefs on the walls as if they were alive. A salty sea breeze, carrying grains of salt, seeped in through the cracks in the high windows, swirling and howling among the stone pillars. The air was filled with the stench of rotting seaweed, the acrid smell of burning whale blubber, and a suffocating religious oppression that had settled over millennia.

Deep within the sanctuary, High Priest Vikley Greyjoy, the younger brother of King Coron, stood like an ancient totem growing from the seabed. His emaciated body was shrouded in layers of dark brown seaweed robes soaked in salt, his exposed skin like leather steeped in seawater for millennia, covered with grayish-white salt stains and dark brown tan lines. A whalebone staff, its tip inlaid with a huge mother-of-pearl, was gripped tightly in his withered hand. The shark teeth hanging from the staff collided with the drowned man's finger bones in the darkness, producing a hollow "click." In his deep-set eye sockets, a pair of cloudy yet sharp, anchor-like eyes pierced through the dim light, landing on two stone basins placed side by side before him.

In a stone basin was a sample of coarse salt, a tribute from Salt Dome Island that Gilmond Portley was very proud of: grayish-yellow, clumpy, and exuding a lingering bitter and rusty smell.

In another stone basin was the "white gold sand" brought by Euron—snow-white, crystal clear, and as fine as the frost of early winter. Under the dim light of the ever-burning lamp, it seemed to be emitting a pure and holy glow!

Viktor's withered fingers, trembling almost reverently, slowly reached for the coarse salt. He pinched a small amount between his fingertips and placed it between his lips, cracked like a seabed. His cloudy old eyes narrowed instantly, reflecting the familiar, unpleasant roughness and bitterness, like the heavy, humble fate of the Ironborn for millennia. Then, his fingers moved to the "white gold sand." His movements became incredibly slow and solemn. As the purest saltiness silently bloomed on his tongue, undisturbed by any impurities, revealing only the most primal essence of the ocean, a terrifying glint suddenly flashed in his cloudy eyes! It was as if a slumbering deep-sea monster had been awakened!

"Salt..." Vikley's voice was hoarse, like gravel scraping against rocks, filled with disbelief and trembling, "The...gift of the Drowning God?!" He suddenly looked up, his cloudy yet sharp gaze fixed on Euron, who stood silently to the side. The five-year-old child's heterochromatic eyes appeared particularly eerie in the dim light of the sanctuary.

"Indeed, High Priest." Euron's voice was clear and calm, yet carried a strange penetrating power, echoing in the empty sanctuary. "Last night, the Drowned God entered my dream on the waves. His robes billowed with boundless deep blue, and his fingers pointed to the salt flats of Pike. He said: 'The bitterness of a thousand years is the dust of the Old Testament. Today, I bestow pure white to cleanse the toil of my people and forge the glory of the Iron Islands.' This 'White Gold Sand' is the manifestation of His will, refined from the coarseness of mortals through my hands." His small palms caressed the rim of the stone basin containing the "White Gold Sand," the movement as if caressing a sacred object.

Vikley's emaciated body trembled violently, and murky tears seeped from his sunken eyes, streaming down his salt-stained cheeks. "Grace...this is the grace of the Drowned God upon the Iron Islands!" He abruptly raised his whalebone staff, the mother-of-pearl reflecting a mysterious halo in the eerie light, shark teeth clashing wildly against his finger bones! "Old salt like blood and tears, new salt like frost and snow! The Drowned God has bestowed His will! Pure white sand is His gift to the devout! The blood of Greyjoy is His chosen vessel!" His voice was shrill with emotion, like the lament of a seabird, yet carrying an undeniable divine power.

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The news, like a salty sea breeze, swept through every corner of the Iron Islands overnight. The snow-white, pure "White Gold Sand," personally certified by the High Priest as a "gift from the gods," became a sacred object coveted by all lords!

The volcano on Great Wake Island seemed to have erupted prematurely. Earl Dunstan Zogru, like a raging walrus, reeking of strong ale and sweat, stormed into Pike City in his fastest longship. He slammed his large, fan-like hand heavily on the black stone table in King Coron's council chamber, making the goblets rattle: "Coron! My brother! The Drowning God's bounty must be shared! Give me the secret formula for 'White Gold Sand'! The Zogru family's saltworks must offer the Drowning God their purest tribute!"

Gilmond Portley of Salt Hill Island followed closely behind, his eyes, as sinister as an eel hiding in a rock crevice, now burning with naked greed. He stroked his sparse stubble, his voice like a venomous snake slithering across damp sand: "Lord Coron, the Portley family has served the Drowned God for generations, and this blessed 'White Gold Sand' naturally deserves to bask in its glory. The secret formula should be guarded by all the devout islands."

Belon Blacktes of Black Tide Island trembled with excitement, clutching the wooden sculpture of the Drowned God to his chest. His voice was fervent, almost tearful: "This is a miracle! King Coron! High Priest Vikley's declaration is the voice of the Drowned God! 'White Gold Sands' is a blessing bestowed upon the entire Iron Islands by the Drowned God through his young son Euron! It should not belong only to Pike City; it should bathe the salt flats of every island, so that all Ironborn may feel the glory of the Drowned God! This is His will! You cannot hinder the spread of divine will!" He almost prostrated himself on the ground, as if begging for divine grace.

Faced with the overwhelming demands and even the near-coercion, Corren Greyjoy sat serenely on his rocky throne, a symbol of power, like a black reef that had withstood countless storms. His face was expressionless, radiating a deep, abyssal calm.

"Gentlemen," Corren's deep voice rang out, easily drowning out the noise in the hall, like an anchor sinking into a turbulent sea, "I understand your longing for the Drowning God's grace. But you seem to have forgotten what the Drowning God said in the oracle delivered by High Priest Vikley?" His sharp gaze swept over every eager face.

"Through my hand," Corren repeated slowly and clearly, his gaze finally settling on Euron, who stood quietly to the side. "It was the Drowned God who chose Euron, chose my second son, Greyjoy, as the sole manifestation of this 'White Gold Sand' on earth! He didn't carve the formula on the reef, nor did He appear in every priest's dream; He chose Pyke, chose a five-year-old child! Don't you understand the profound meaning behind this?"

He leaned forward slightly, the Seastone King's oppressive aura spreading out as if it were tangible: "The secret formula is a sacred trust bestowed upon Pyke City and the Greyjoy family by the Drowned God! It is the core mystery of His will! Like the sacred name of the Drowned God, it cannot be lightly revealed, nor can it be profaned! To forcibly demand the secret formula is to question the Drowned God's arrangements, and is to blaspheme against His will!"

This resolute rejection, ostensibly in the name of divine will, was like a cold wave, instantly extinguishing Dunstan's rage and Gilmond's scheming. Even Belon opened his mouth, but ultimately, under the unquestionable gaze of Corinth and the majesty of the oracle, he lowered his fanatical head with a stammer.

Koren looked at the stunned lords in the hall and knew the time had come. He slowly leaned back in his chair, his voice softening but carrying a deeper sense of control: "However, the grace of the Drowned God is as vast as the sea. His 'Platinum Sands,' though its secret method cannot be easily passed on, its pure gift itself should benefit all those who devoutly serve Him." He presented the plan he had prepared long ago.

"From this day forward," Corren's voice, like law etched into the reef, "Pike City will establish 'Gift Quotas' based on each island's devotion to the Drowned God, their loyalty to the Seastone, and their past contributions to the common good of the Iron Islands." His gaze swept over the crowd, each word carrying immense weight. "The devout, the steadfast allies, will receive an ample and stable supply of 'Platinum Sands.' You can use this gift from the Drowned God to exchange for gold, food, and iron, to strengthen your islands and glorify the name of the Drowned God!"

His gaze suddenly turned cold, like the biting wind blowing from the North: "And those whose faith is wavering, whose hearts harbor disloyalties... their quotas will be reduced, even cut off! They will be left only with the bitter old salt, wallowing in poverty and ignorance, watching grace slip through their fingers! Let their people question their lord: Why has the grace of the drowning god bypassed their islands alone?!"

Koren's voice boomed like thunder in the council chamber, "This is not a transaction, but a test and blessing from the Drowned God through Pike City for all the people of the Iron Islands! To accept the quota is to accept the will of the Drowned God and the rule of the Seastone! Who is worthy to enjoy this pure white sand will be decided jointly by the Drowned God and Pike City!"

The hall was deathly silent. Only the roar of the waves could be faintly heard from outside the window, like the low laughter of the Drowning God. Dunstan's purplish-brown face twitched, Gilmond's sinister eyes flashed with a resentful yet forced calculation, while Belon excitedly gripped the wooden carving of the Drowning God again, as if grateful for the divine favor.

The right to salt, this most fundamental right to life, was cleverly cloaked in the guise of divine grace by Coron and firmly bound to the yardstick of loyalty. The snow-white "Platinum Sands" were no longer merely wealth, but a Damocles' sword hanging over the heads of all island lords, witnessed by the Drowning God and controlled by the Greyjoy family! The taste of salt would determine whether their power was as solid as a reef or crumbled like sand.