Bathed in the brilliance of the morning sun, Prince Gaimon strolled out of the Prime Minister's Tower with an unshakable smile on his face. The bright light glinted on the white stones of the courtyard, and a faint spring breeze brushed his hair. Humming an unfamiliar tune, he looked like a man whose fortunes had just turned for the better—and indeed, they had.
The previous night's royal banquet had changed everything. With King Jaehaerys's personal approval, Gaimon's dream of developing his own territory had received the crown's blessing. Yet, being a cautious man, Gaimon hadn't let excitement cloud his judgment. At dawn, he sought out the Hand of the King, the wise Septon Barth, to formalize the matter. Together, they drafted the royal charter that now rested in Gaimon's hands.
He lifted the parchment slightly, sunlight catching the wax seal of the Seven Kingdoms. A faint grin crept across his face once again.
To anyone else, it was merely ink and vellum.
To Gaimon, it was a mine of endless gold.
With this single document, his right to operate saltworks and trade freely in his territory was secured by royal decree. It meant taxes could be levied, goods transported, and foreign merchants received—all under his authority. The parchment didn't just legalize his ambition; it sanctified it. His confidence surged. The vision of building a city greater than King's Landing—once a distant dream—now seemed attainable.
A New Source of Wealth
After discovering the salt flats near the Wendwater, Gaimon realized their value almost immediately. Salt was no mere condiment—it was life itself. Soldiers needed it, sailors traded it, and nobles prized the purest kind for their feasts. Whoever controlled salt controlled gold.
He was determined to act fast.
Up to now, the growth of his territory had depended largely on immigrants from King's Landing—peasants and craftsmen drawn by the promise of royal protection. But that flow was slow, far too slow for the scale of his vision. If he wanted to construct the saltworks swiftly, he needed labor, and lots of it.
Thus, Gaimon sought help from his elder brother, Prince Aemon, a respected figure in court and a man with influence over the royal treasury. With Aemon's assistance, Gaimon successfully borrowed three thousand gold dragons from the crown—enough to ignite his project.
The terms were fair by royal standards:
A three-year repayment plan, with ten percent annual interest—three hundred dragons per year—amounting to three thousand nine hundred in total. To most, that rate would have been usurious. But because Gaimon was of royal blood, the terms were lenient. He had to make it count.
With gold in hand, every coin felt heavy with purpose. Idle money, after all, was wasted opportunity. And Gaimon had no intention of wasting a single coin.
The Merchants from the East
The first step was securing manpower.
Gaimon discreetly reached out to several merchants from the Eastern Continent—hard-faced men who trafficked in spices, silks, and less savory commodities. When they gathered before him in a private chamber of a King's Landing inn, Gaimon got straight to the point.
"I need laborers," he said plainly. "As many as you can find. I won't ask where they come from, so long as they are strong, healthy, and capable of hard work."
The merchants exchanged glances. They had long heard rumors of Prince Gaimon's new lands near the Wendwater. Until now, he had been known as an idealistic royal—one who hired free immigrants rather than purchasing slaves, as the Faith of the Seven had outlawed slavery in Westeros generations ago. To them, it seemed he had finally surrendered to practicality.
So when Gaimon's words confirmed their assumptions, they became animated.
One bowed deeply. "Your Highness, you honor us with your trust. We shall bring only the finest workers the East can offer—strong, obedient, and loyal."
Gaimon smiled faintly, though the expression didn't reach his eyes. "I'll judge their quality myself when they arrive."
He knew their kind too well—men who could lie smoother than silk, promising the world for an extra coin. Still, he also knew how to deal with them. As long as he maintained control of the payments and verified each delivery personally, none would dare cheat him outright.
These merchants all had property and trade networks within King's Landing. None could risk royal displeasure or Gaimon's wrath. After paying a modest deposit, Gaimon dismissed them with orders to deliver the slaves—or "indentured workers," as the contracts euphemistically called them—as soon as possible.
Introducing "Snow Salt"
Once the discussions on labor were concluded, Gaimon gestured toward a long wooden table covered with fine white grains. "Before you go," he said, "I'd like you to see something."
The merchants approached curiously. On the table lay small piles of salt—some coarse, some dazzlingly white, fine as frost. One of them scooped up a pinch and let it run through his fingers, astonished at its purity. Another tasted it and blinked. The flavor was clean, sharp, without the bitterness common in crude sea salt.
"Your Highness," one finally exclaimed, "where did you buy this? I've never seen salt this pure in Westeros!"
Gaimon chuckled softly. "You can't buy it anywhere. This salt was made—in my territory. I call it 'Snow Salt.'"
The name lingered in the air. It fit perfectly: snow-white, crystalline, and luminous under the light.
He continued, "At present, the scale of production is small. The refining process is delicate and time-consuming. But once the saltworks are expanded, you'll be able to purchase directly from me."
The merchants' eyes gleamed. They knew at once what this meant. In a market flooded with gray, impure salt, 'Snow Salt' would be a luxury fit for nobles and merchants alike. If they were first to corner its supply, they could set the price at will. For profit-hungry traders, it was an irresistible prospect.
They leaned forward eagerly. "Your Highness, how much can you produce? What will it cost us? Name your price!"
The Salt Monopoly
Gaimon paused in thought, calculating the figures he had memorized from his steward's reports.
"At present," he said, "my salt pans produce about ten thousand pounds of coarse salt and one thousand pounds of Snow Salt per month. With additional labor, we can double that. But salt production depends on weather—clear skies and wind for evaporation. During the rainy months, output may fall sharply or stop entirely. Conservatively, my annual goal is half a million pounds of coarse salt and ten thousand pounds of Snow Salt."
He then explained the market structure.
"Currently, on the continent, prices stand as follows:
Coarse sea salt sells for around fifty copper stars per pound—enough to feed a common family for weeks.
Fine salt fetches one hundred twenty copper stars—the cost of an iron sword.
The highest-grade refined salt reaches one thousand six hundred copper stars per pound—the value of a warhorse."
The merchants murmured among themselves; the figures matched their experience. Gaimon continued, voice calm and measured:
"To ensure you all profit, I will sell coarse and fine salt at one-fifth of the market price. As for Snow Salt, it shall match the market rate of refined salt."
The room went silent except for the faint creak of boots on wood as they shifted, mentally tallying the profits.
At first glance, it sounded generous—perhaps too generous. But these were shrewd men. They knew the spread between the producer's price and the market sale could range anywhere from five to ten times. Even with the discount, they could still earn fortunes if they controlled the initial shipments.
And yet, bargaining was in their blood.
One merchant cleared his throat and put on a wounded expression. "Your Highness, the market price includes transportation, tariffs, and countless fees. Our profit margin, in truth, is far smaller than it seems. Might you lower your asking price, even slightly?"
Gaimon met their gaze, his expression firm. "No. The price stands. It already guarantees you profit. If you find it unacceptable, you're free not to buy. But remember—when the first shipment of Snow Salt reaches the capital, and nobles come begging for it, I cannot promise the price will remain what it is today."
The silence that followed was heavy. The merchants exchanged uneasy glances. They could read confidence when they saw it. Gaimon was no desperate prince begging for buyers—he was a man who knew the value of his creation. A product unique in all Westeros needed no haggling.
Finally, one merchant laughed softly. "Very well, Your Highness. We'll take our share."
The others nodded in reluctant agreement. Within moments, quills scratched across parchment as contracts were drawn up. They divided the next three months' output of both coarse salt and Snow Salt among themselves. Payment terms were simple: they would bring the promised laborers to Gaimon's territory and, upon delivery, pay the balance for the salt at the current agreed prices.
A Prince's Vision
When the deals were sealed, Gaimon dismissed them with polite bows. As the door shut behind the last merchant, he stood alone before the window, gazing toward the east where sunlight shimmered on the horizon.
What had begun as an idle experiment—evaporating seawater in clay pans—had now grown into an enterprise that could change the economy of the crownlands. Salt might not glitter like gold, but it could buy it.
He imagined the future: rows of white salt flats glistening beneath the sun; caravans of wagons laden with Snow Salt bound for noble halls; a city rising on the banks of the Wendwater, humming with trade and life.
A city of his making.
For years, the great houses had fought over mines, lands, and titles. But Gaimon saw that true power lay not in swords, but in commerce—in creating something others could not. If he could control salt, the kingdom's lifeblood, he could shape its future far more effectively than through war.
As he rolled up the royal charter and tucked it safely into his cloak, a sense of purpose filled him. His saltworks would soon need more workers, engineers, guards, and builders. Roads must be paved, granaries built, ships commissioned. Everything would grow outward from this one venture.
And it all began with a handful of salt.
Outside, the city bustled unaware of the quiet revolution taking root. The bells of the Great Sept of Baelor chimed in the distance, and Gaimon, with a satisfied smile, descended the steps of the tower.
The merchants would soon sail east, the gold would soon flow, and before long, wagons laden with shining Snow Salt would depart from his new domain—each grain of white crystal a testament
to his ambition.
The price of salt, he mused, was far more than copper or gold.
It was the price of power itself.
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