The "Grain for Iron" trade hadn't lasted long before the Iron Islands were nearly overturned by a wave of cursing.
Not cursing the Iron Islands, nor Greyjoy, but the one sitting high on the Iron Throne—The Mad King.
When Aerys II Targaryen's edict to levy grain and raise taxes reached the Iron Islands, one clause particularly stung all islanders—the salt tax was tripled.
For most lords of Westeros, salt might merely be a seasoning on the table; but for the Iron Islands, bathed in salty wind year-round and surviving on ocean catches, salt was "White Gold" sustaining life.
It was the cornerstone for preserving food against long winters, the most solid trade good to exchange for gold and copper from the green lands.
Especially after "White Gold Sand" brought astounding wealth to the Iron Islands, salt became a crucial pillar supporting the archipelago's economy. For the Mad King to suddenly triple the salt tax was nakedly competing for wealth with his vassals, strangling their livelihood.
Euron Greyjoy could even foresee: if left unchecked, next time, the Mad King would likely demand the treasured secret formula for "White Gold Sand."
This absurd and cruel decree was not just plunder of the Iron Islands' finances but a direct strangulation of their lifeline. The greed and shortsightedness it displayed chilled even the most loyal lords to the bone.
Even Quellon Greyjoy, known for iron blood and endurance, finally tore off his mask of calm upon hearing the edict. He didn't roar but fell into a terrifying silence, fingers clutching the royal order bearing the Targaryen seal as if to crush it.
The next moment, he slammed the document onto the long table with a thunderous crash. He looked up, flames unseen for years burning in his eyes, voice low but surging like the undercurrent before a tsunami, shaking the hall:
"He wants to tax us for seawater and air—!"
Every syllable was like ice-quenched steel soaked in rage.
The news of the tripled salt tax swept through every corner of the Iron Islands like a sudden storm. It traveled on the damp sea wind to every wave-beaten bay, every stone-built castle, and every longship rocking on the grey sea.
In the lords' halls, island masters and captains gripped their goblets, knuckles white. Low curses echoed between stone walls as they denounced the Iron Throne's endless greed, calculating how much "gold and copper" this absurd decree would cost their treasuries.
In fishing villages, the news triggered more direct panic and anger. Men stood in icy water looking at the boats and nets they relied on; women looked at half-salted catches with despair in their eyes.
"They want to drain our blood!" An old fisherman spat towards King's Landing. His roar was drowned by the waves but spoke everyone's heart. Salt was half their income; taxing it unbearably was tantamount to taking their lives.
In taverns and docks, curses rose and fell like tides. Sailors and warriors greeted the King and his ancestors with the crudest Ironborn slang, slamming mugs onto tables. Dangerous restlessness permeated the air; a single spark could detonate all accumulated resentment.
Above this boiling tide of anger, at the apex where all curses converged, was the cold hall of Pyke. Quellon Greyjoy's voice, like clashing cold iron, clearly suppressed all noise, delivering the final verdict: "This is no king—this is a raving madman!"
This sentence wasn't an evaluation, but a judgment. It branded itself onto every Ironborn heart like a searing iron.
Instantly, the humiliation of being taxed, despised, and called "pirate scum" for years, combined with anger at the Mad King's absurd rule, roared up like ignited wildfire, burning in every pair of eyes.
While the Mad King's decree caused an uproar, Euron Greyjoy remained unusually calm.
Familiar with the trajectory of fate, he had long anticipated the Mad King's actions. In his eyes, no absurdity from Aerys was surprising. He stood alone on the seaside terrace of Pyke, letting the wind ruffle his dark robes, looking indifferent as if the angry tide sweeping the islands had nothing to do with him.
Amidst public indignation, the Iron Islands made an unexpected decision: No Reaction.
Grain-for-iron trade stopped because the brought-back grain was mostly exchanged. The Iron Islands didn't voice defiance but wouldn't hand over a single copper star to the "Mad King." If asked, trade hadn't started, so there was no tax to pay.
This wasn't submission, but calm contempt.
Euron saw Westeros' current predicament clearly: after the long winter, lords' treasuries were empty. Even if they had residual wealth, it was spent on life-saving grain. Who had spare capacity to buy Iron Islands salt? The true trade had long begun at sea.
Before the edict arrived, the Iron Islands' merchant fleet had set sail. Every ship was loaded with coarse salt and their treasured "White Gold Sand," destined not for Westeros ports, but for the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea—Braavos, uncontrolled by the Iron Throne.
Euron's lips curled into a cold smile.
The Mad King wanted to tax? Let him tax empty docks and sails long gone.
Just days after the tax edict, a second raven arrived at Pyke with a colder, more direct command: "Transport the grain to King's Landing."
Quellon Greyjoy unrolled the thin paper, scanned the few words, and smirked without warmth. He said nothing, only emitting a low, contemptuous snort, then flicked his wrist, tossing the edict bearing the three-headed dragon seal into the fireplace. The parchment curled, blackened, and was swallowed by red flames, turning to smoke.
He didn't take this royal command to heart. He knew similar levy orders had flown like desperate snowflakes to every lord's desk in the Seven Kingdoms. However, Westerosi nobles weren't fools; they had their own ravens and messengers, exchanging information and attitudes daily in an invisible network.
All feedback pointed to one answer: No grain. In this difficult time when spring famine followed severe winter, even if the King held a bag of Gold Dragons, lords would frown and weigh heavily before trading a ship of grain. Let alone such open robbery!
Survival was far more urgent than loyalty.
However, this time, the situation for the Iron Islands was entirely different.