The morning sun blazed over King's Landing as Gaemon stepped out of the Tower of the Hand, humming an old Earth tune under his breath. A huge, satisfied grin split his face.
Yesterday's feast had ended with his father's nod. This morning he'd gone straight to Septon Barth and walked out with the royal charter in his hands—a single sheet of fine vellum that felt heavier than gold.
He glanced down at the parchment and laughed softly to himself.
This isn't parchment. This is an endless gold mine.
With the charter secured, every doubt about building something greater than King's Landing itself melted away. The dream felt real now—close enough to taste.
But dreams needed speed. Relying only on free settlers from the capital was suddenly too slow.
He had already borrowed three thousand gold dragons from the royal treasury—thanks to a quiet word with his eldest brother Aemon. Repayment in three years, plus three hundred dragons interest each year. Ten percent a year looked steep, yet it was the friendliest rate any prince could hope for. Anyone else would have been laughed out of the Master of Coin's solar.
Money that sat still was money wasted, so Gaemon wasted none of it.
He tracked down four wealthy merchants newly arrived from the eastern continent and made them an offer they couldn't refuse: buy him as many strong, healthy slaves as they could ship—origin irrelevant. The more, the better.
The merchants had heard rumors about the prince carving a domain out of the Wendwater wilderness, but until now Gaemon had only recruited free folk. They'd assumed the Westerosi ban on slavery had stopped him from using thralls. Now that he was openly ordering them, the men nearly tripped over their own tongues promising the finest stock Westeros had ever seen.
Gaemon didn't believe a word of their flattery, but he'd inspect every collar and chain when the ships docked. A fat deposit sealed the deal; the rest would be paid on delivery.
With the slave contracts signed, he pulled out one of the glass jars of refined salt and set it on the table between them.
"Take a look at this first."
The merchants exchanged puzzled glances, then leaned in. One pinched a few glittering crystals, tasted them, and his eyes flew wide.
"Your Grace," the boldest blurted, "where did you buy this? I want some for myself!"
Gaemon's smile sharpened.
"I didn't buy it. I made it. We call it Snow Salt. Pure white, no bitterness, no grit. In a few months you'll be able to buy it directly from my lands. Production is still small—the process is complicated and the weather has to cooperate—but I'm scaling fast."
The merchants' faces lit up like lanterns. They traded salt across half the known world; they knew exactly how rare and valuable something this clean would be. Nobles and rich merchants would empty their purses for it. The man who controlled the supply could name his price.
They leaned forward, almost vibrating with greed.
"Your Grace, how will you sell it? What's the price? How much can we take?"
Gaemon let them stew for a heartbeat, then laid out the numbers.
"Right now my works can produce ten thousand pounds of coarse salt and one thousand pounds of Snow Salt each month. Once I have more hands, I can double that. But sun-drying only works well from the third to the sixth moon—after that the rains kill output. So for the first year my targets are roughly five hundred thousand pounds of coarse, ten thousand of Snow Salt."
He paused, letting them do the mental arithmetic.
"Current market: coarse sea salt sells for fifty copper pennies a pound. Fine salt—one hundred twenty. The very best refined salt can reach sixteen hundred. I'll sell you my coarse and fine at one-fifth the market price. Snow Salt I'll sell at the same rate as the finest refined salt on the street."
The merchants fell silent, eyes darting as they calculated margins.
One finally cleared his throat, voice dripping honey. "Your Grace, fifty copper pennies on the street includes every tax and middleman. Our real profit is thin. Could you perhaps—"
"No," Gaemon cut in, calm but iron-hard. "That price already guarantees you healthy coin. If it doesn't suit you, walk away. But when you come back—and you will—the price may not be the same."
He leaned back, perfectly relaxed.
Snow Salt has no competition. Good product sells itself.
The merchants exchanged quick glances, then nodded. Within minutes they had divided every ounce of salt Gaemon could promise for the next three months.
When their slave ships finally reached the Wendwater, the balance would be settled in salt—at today's price.
Gaemon watched them leave with the satisfied smile of a man who had just lit the fuse on a very large fortune.
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