The air in the upper floor of Pyke's library tower was thick with dust, mildew, and the lingering tang of sea salt.
Narrow arrow-slit windows grudgingly allowed a sliver of daylight to fall upon stacks of yellowed parchment on the oak table and the coarse copying sheets before Euron.
The only sounds were the rustle of a quill scratching across paper, occasionally interrupted by the faint clink of an ink bottle or the distant roar of the waves below.
Lysa sat quietly opposite him, small and still, like a salt-worn sculpture.
Three heavy tomes lay open before her: the Drowned God Scroll, the History of the Ironborn, and the Laws of the Iron Islands. Her grey-blue eyes moved between the pages and Euron's wild, unrestrained handwriting.
Euron was copying passages from the Drowned God Scroll. The ink smeared into chaotic blots, much like his thoughts, stirred by the dark doctrines hinted at in the book.
He paused, gaze drifting from the ink to Lysa's serene face.
"Lysa," he said casually, "you once told me you knew seven languages."
He had always been curious about this handmaiden, but on the crowded ship there had been no opportunity for conversation. Now, in the solitude of the tower, only the two of them remained.
Lysa met his gaze and inclined her head slightly. "Yes, Lord Euron."
"High Valyrian," Euron drummed his fingers on the table, producing a faint tapping, "that phrase you spoke on deck… 'Valar Dohaeris.' What does it mean?"
He mimicked her pronunciation, imperfectly, yet capturing its peculiar rhythm.
"'All men must serve,'" Lysa replied, her voice as calm as a breeze over the sea.
"Serve?" Euron's lips curved into a teasing, almost mischievous smile. "Serve whom? The Drowned God? The Seven? Or… some dragonlord?"
He put just enough edge on dragonlord to make it a gentle jab.
Lysa remained unflinching. "It is a common greeting among the people of Braavos, also used to express humility. Its original meaning refers to all mortals being destined to serve some higher purpose. The object of service depends on the speaker's faith and stance."
"Higher purpose…" Euron repeated softly, eyes scanning the Drowned God Scroll, where whispers of the abyss and omens of doom were recorded. "Do you think the Drowned God whispers in High Valyrian?"
Lysa paused, weighing her words. "The whispers of the Drowned God may well transcend any mortal tongue, Lord Euron. But High Valyrian—the speech of the dragonlords—carries an older power. Spells, chronicles, half-buried rites… many of the world's deepest secrets are bound within its words."
A glint of sparked in Euron's eyes—precisely what he had hoped to hear.
"Teach me." His command left no room for refusal, his thirst for knowledge burning fiercely.
Lysa hesitated, then replied quietly: "Copying is Lord Quellon's command, Lord Euron. Time is pressing."
"Time?" Euron scoffed, gesturing to the towering stacks of books. "We have a month, cooped up in this dusty tower full of mad ramblings. Copying is punishment; learning… learning is the key."
He leaned forward, voice lowered, "Teach me a few words. Just a brief respite; the ink grows thick, and the wrist tires."
Lysa studied his face for a long moment, evaluating the determination—and the deeper intent—behind his request. Finally, she nodded. "As you wish. But only during copying breaks, and the day's quota must be completed."
Euron had just finished transcribing a prayer for the drowning ritual from the Drowned God Scroll—"Let the waves claim the unworthy, let the faithful rise to the deep"—and shook his stiff wrist.
"High Valyrian—how do you say 'name'?" he asked.
"Hen," Lysa replied clearly.
"Hen…" Euron repeated, savoring the short, powerful syllable. "And the Drowned God? How do the people of Pentos or Braavos refer to Him?"
"The Drowned God of the Iron Islands has no specific High Valyrian name," Lysa answered. "But one can describe Him: 'God of Saltwater' is Ānogar Zōbrī; 'Lord of the Deep' is Dārys Lenton."
"Ānogar Zōbrī… Dārys Lenton…" Euron mimicked the syllables, intrigued. "It sounds… grander than 'the Drowned God.'"
Lysa tapped a crude illustration of Pyke in the History of the Ironborn. "'Stone' in High Valyrian is dārys, sharing roots with 'lord.' It carries a sense of permanence, dominion, stability."
Euron's eyes shifted to the jagged black towers outside. "Dārys… the stone of dominion… The Drowned God is Lord of the Deep… Pyke is stone of dominion… interesting."
He scrawled Dārys and Rōvāzma in the margin of his copy. The words carried weight now.
When copying a page recounting a bloody family feud, Euron paused. Words like axe, drowned, and betrayal leapt from the parchment.
"'Blood'?" he asked.
"Sȳndrā," Lysa replied.
"'Sȳndrā…' Knife? Sword?"
"Tegon is any sharp implement; a sword is Vala. A Valyrian steel sword is Valyrio Vala, literally 'Valyrian blade.'"
Euron's eyes glinted. He remembered the lesser Valyrian daggers among his spoils. "Valyrio Vala… deadlier, more precious than our so-called dragonsteel."
"Knowledge is power," he asked. "How is that in High Valyrian?"
"Rūklon daor—Knowledge is strength," Lysa answered.
Euron repeated it slowly, syllable by syllable.
He returned to his pen, handwriting steadier, tracing words as if mapping a weapon.
When he transcribed laws on oath-breaking and promises to mainlanders, his eyes gleamed with insight.
"Law?" he asked.
"Ryptra."
"Chain?"
"Hēnkirī — root, bond, connection."
"Oath?"
"Avy."
"Sand?"
"Kepā."
Euron jotted them in the margin: Ryptra (law), Hēnkirī (bond/root), Avy (oath), Kepā (sand). He studied them and laughed low.
Lysa watched, her grey-blue eyes reflecting caution, curiosity, and respect for this dangerous intellect.
When the last stroke fell, Euron put down his quill, fingers blackened with ink. Lysa carefully checked his copies—they were complete, despite the wildness of his script.