The air in the topmost chamber of Pyke's library tower was a stagnant mix of dust, mold, and the inescapable scent of brine. Narrow arrow slits grudgingly admitted slivers of daylight, barely illuminating the piles of yellowed parchment on the heavy oak table and the rough copy paper in front of Euron. The scratching of quill on paper was the dominant melody here, interrupted only by the occasional clink of an inkwell or the distant roar of the surf.
Lysa sat opposite Euron, still as a small salt carving. Spread open before her were three heavy tomes: Scrolls of the Drowned God, History of the Ironborn, and Laws of the Iron Islands. Her grey-blue eyes moved between the printed pages and Euron's wild, sprawling handwriting, fulfilling the "overseer" duty Lord Quellon had assigned her—ensuring every word was correct, with no shortcuts.
Euron was copying a passage from the Scrolls of the Drowned God regarding the apocalyptic prophecy of the "Great Drowning." The ink blurred into a chaotic blot, much like his thoughts, which were stirred by the dark doctrines of the text. He suddenly stopped writing, his gaze shifting from the ink stain to Lysa's serene face.
"Lysa," his voice broke the silence, carrying a tone of deliberate casualness. "You said you speak seven languages." Euron had been curious about this handmaid, but the crowded ship offered no chance for proper probing. Now, it was just the two of them.
Lysa looked up, meeting his gaze, and nodded gently. "Yes, Lord Euron."
"High Valyrian," Euron's fingers tapped the table unconsciously, a soft rhythmic sound. "That phrase you said on deck... 'Valar dohaeris'. What does it mean?" He mimicked her pronunciation. It wasn't perfect, but he caught the strange, rolling rhythm of it.
"'All men must serve,'" Lysa answered clearly, her voice like a breeze over the sea.
"Serve?" Euron's lips curled into a playful smirk. "Serve whom? The Drowned God? The Seven? or some... Dragonlord?" He emphasized the last word, lacing it with a hint of imperceptible provocation.
Lysa's expression didn't ripple. "It is a common greeting among the Braavosi, also used to express humility. Its intent is that all mortals are destined to serve some... higher purpose or being. The object of service depends on the speaker's faith and stance." Her Common Tongue was fluent and precise, carrying the soft lilt of Pentos.
"Higher purpose..." Euron repeated softly, his eyes scanning the text about abyssal whispers and doomsday destruction in the Scrolls. "The Drowned God says He reveals wisdom in the bubbles of the drowning. Tell me, does the Drowned God whisper in High Valyrian?" His question carried a curiosity that bordered on blasphemy.
Lysa was silent for a moment, seemingly weighing her words. "The whispers of the Drowned God... may transcend any mortal language, Lord Euron. But Valyrian... it is the legacy of the Freehold, the language of dragons and magic, a vessel for ancient knowledge and secrets. Itself, perhaps, holds keys that approach certain 'higher purposes.'" Her answer was cautious yet profound.
A gleam passed through Euron's eyes. This was exactly what he wanted to hear. "Teach me." He ordered directly. The tone allowed no refusal, and deep in his eyes burned a pure hunger for knowledge rarely seen in an Ironborn.
Lysa didn't agree or refuse immediately. She just looked at him quietly. "Copying the texts is Lord Quellon's order, Lord Euron. Time is tight."
"Time?" Euron scoffed, pointing at the stack of books and scrolls. "We have a whole month locked in this tower full of dust and mad ravings. Copying is punishment. Learning..." He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice, "...is a pastime. A key. Teach me a few words. Consider it... a break while the ink thickens." He picked up the inkwell and swirled it gently.
Lysa's gaze lingered on his face for a few seconds, assessing his resolve and the meaning behind the request. Finally, she nodded slightly. "As you wish. But only during breaks, and the daily quota must be finished."
Euron had just finished copying a prayer from the Scrolls regarding water burial ("What is thy name? Whither dost thou go? What dost thou seek?"). He put down the quill and shook his sore wrist.
"High Valyrian. How do you say 'Name'?" he asked immediately.
"Hen (pronounced like 'hen', but with a flat tone)." Lysa said clearly.
"Hen..." Euron repeated, tasting the short, forceful syllable. "What about 'Drowned God'? How do you Pentoshi or Braavosi call Him?"
"The Drowned God of the Iron Islands has no specific deity name in Valyrian," Lysa answered. "But He can be described. 'God of Salt Water' is Ānogar Zōbrī. 'Lord of the Abyss' is Dārys Lenton."
"Ānogar Zōbrī... Dārys Lenton..." Euron mimicked with interest. The syllables were more complex and mysterious than the rough grunt of the Ironborn tongue, as if they held power. "Sounds... heavier than 'Drowned God,'" he evaluated, a strange light in his eyes.
Lysa opened History of the Ironborn and pointed to a crude illustration of Pyke's black stone castle. "'Stone' in Valyrian is Dārys. It shares the same root as 'Lord'. It means solid, eternal, ruling."
Euron's gaze swept over the jagged illustration of Pyke, then to the black towers visible through the arrow slit. "Dārys..." he murmured thoughtfully. "Ruling stone... The Drowned God is the Lord of the Abyss, Pyke is the Ruling Stone... interesting." He picked up the quill and scribbled "Dārys" and "Lenton" in the margins of his copy paper.
When he reached a passage in the History describing a bloody family feud, Euron stopped again. The page was filled with words like "axe," "drowning," and "betrayal."
"'Blood,'" he looked at Lysa. "Valyrian."
"Sȳndor." Lysa answered.
"Sȳndor..." Euron said, feeling the word carry the metallic tang of rust. "What about 'Knife'? Or 'Sword'?"
"Tegōn refers to sharp tools generally. 'Sword' is Vala," Lysa added. "Valyrian steel swords are called Valyrio Tegōn—'Blade of Valyria'."
Euron's eyes sharpened instantly. He remembered the secondary Valyrian steel daggers among the loot. "Valyrio Tegōn..." he repeated, tracing the air with his finger as if feeling the legendary edge. "Sounds deadlier, more precious than 'Dragonsteel' the Ironborn say." He paused, a calculating glint in his eye. "Lysa, 'Knowledge is Power'... how do you say that in High Valyrian?"
Lysa paused slightly, seemingly surprised by the question, but answered fluently: "Rūklon daorun hen henkirī—'Knowledge is the foundation of power'."
"Rūklon daorun hen henkirī..." Euron repeated slowly, word by word, as if carving the syllables into his marrow. He stared at Lysa, his smile deepening, colder now. "Well said. Let's continue copying." He picked up the pen again, but the words he wrote seemed to carry new weight and sharpness.
When Euron copied the section in Laws of the Iron Islands about the grave sin of oath-breaking, and the cold footnote that promises to greenlanders could be changed, his eyes flashed. He slammed the pen down, splattering ink.
"'Law'," he asked urgently. "Valyrian!"
"Ryptra." Lysa answered.
"'Chain'?"
"Hēnkirī—same word as 'foundation' in 'foundation of power'."
"'Oath'?"
"Avy."
"'Sand'?"
"Kepā."
Euron quickly scribbled these words in the margin: Ryptra (Law), Hēnkirī (Chain/Foundation), Avy (Oath), Kepā (Sand).
He stared at the words, then at the footnote in the book, and suddenly burst into low, delighted laughter that sounded jarring in the silent tower. "Ryptra henkirī (Law is a chain)... but Avy kepā (Oath is sand)... especially oaths to greenlanders!" He pointed at the text, his eyes shining with the excitement of finding a loophole in the rules. "Lysa, do you see? The book says in cold text that promises to greenlanders can slip through fingers like sand! And Valyrian... it proves it with sound! Avy kepā! Oath is sand! How... fitting!"
Lysa looked at the excited Euron, then at the Valyrian words in the margin. A complex emotion seemed to pass through her deep grey-blue eyes—alertness? Worry? Or perhaps an understanding of this dangerous wisdom? She spoke softly: "Writing is solidified sound, Lord Euron. But sound... is fluid. The meaning of an oath sometimes lies in the speaker, sometimes in the listener, and sometimes... only in the wind."
Euron's laughter ceased. He looked deeply at Lysa, as if truly seeing the little girl he had plucked from the captives for the first time. "Fluid sound..." He chewed on the phrase. "Well said, Lysa. Very well said." He said no more, picking up his pen to finish the remaining laws. But his writing was steadier now, as if he were drafting not words, but the blueprints of a weapon he was about to master. The cold smile of one who sees through everything—and intends to use everything—remained on his lips.
When the last stroke fell, Euron put down the quill, his fingers stained black with ink and rough paper. Lysa carefully checked his three copies, wild in handwriting but unexpectedly complete and error-free.
Only the eternal roar of the waves remained in the tower, flooding in through the narrow window like the distant sigh of the Drowned God, or the lingering breath of ancient Valyrian dragons.