Valyrian

The air on the top floor of Pyke's library tower hung thick with dust, the smell of mold, and the lingering scent of sea salt. Narrow arrow-slit windows grudgingly let in a sliver of daylight, barely illuminating the yellowed parchment piled on the oak table and the rough sheets of paper before Yulon. The scratch of quill against paper was the room's dominant sound, occasionally interrupted by the soft clink of an inkpot or the roar of waves in the distance.

Lysa sat quietly across from Yulon, as small and still as a salt sculpture. Three hefty tomes lay open before her: the Drowned God Scrolls, Ironborn History, and Iron Islands Law. Her gray-blue eyes moved between the pages and Yulon's wild, unruly handwriting as she carried out the duty King Kolen had assigned her as overseer: making sure every word was copied exactly, with no slacking.

Yulon was copying the apocalyptic prophecy of the "Great Drowning" from the Drowned God Scrolls. The ink on his page had bled into a chaotic blot, like his thoughts, stirred by the book's dark doctrines. Suddenly, he stopped writing and shifted his gaze from the stain on the page to Lysa's calm face.

"Lysa," he said, breaking the silence with deliberate nonchalance. "You said you spoke seven languages." Yulon had always been curious about the girl, but aboard the ship there had been too many ears around to talk with her and sound her out. Now, however, the two of them were alone.

Lysa raised her head, met his eyes, and nodded gently. "Yes, Lord Euron."

"High Valyrian." Yulon's fingers tapped unconsciously on the table, making a soft knocking sound. "That phrase you said on deck... 'Valar dohaeris.' What does it mean?" He imitated her pronunciation. It wasn't quite right, but he had captured its strange rhythm.

"'All mortals must serve,'" Lysa replied clearly, her voice like a breeze brushing the sea.

"Serve?" Yulon's lips curled into an amused smile. "Serve whom? The Drowned God? The Seven? Or some... dragonlord?" He emphasized the last two words, with a hint of provocation that was difficult to detect.

Lysa's expression didn't waver. "It's a common greeting among the Braavosi, and is also used to express humility. Its original meaning is that all mortals are destined to serve some... higher purpose or being. Whom they serve depends on the speaker's beliefs and allegiances." Her Common Tongue was fluent and precise, colored by the soft accent of Pentos.

"A higher purpose..." Yulon murmured, his gaze passing over the words in the Drowned God Scrolls about the whispers of the abyss and the destruction of the world. "The Drowned God says He reveals wisdom in the bubbles of the drowned. Tell me, does the Drowned God whisper in Valyrian?" His question carried an almost blasphemous curiosity.

Lysa fell silent for a moment, as if weighing her words. "The Drowned God's whispers... may lie beyond any mortal language, Lord Euron. But Valyrian... it's the legacy of the ancient Valyrian Freehold, the language of dragons and magic, and a vessel for much ancient knowledge and many secrets. Perhaps it holds within itself the key to approaching certain 'higher purposes.'" Her answer was cautious, yet full of meaning.

A gleam flashed in Yulon's eyes. That was exactly what he wanted to hear. "Teach me," he commanded directly. His tone brooked no argument, but deep in his eyes burned a pure thirst for knowledge, something extremely rare in him.

Lysa neither agreed nor refused at once. She simply watched him in silence. "Copying is King Kolen's order, Lord Euron. Time is short."

"Time?" Yulon scoffed, pointing at the piles of books and copies. "We have a whole month, locked away in this tower full of dust and mad ravings. Copying is punishment. Learning..." He leaned forward slightly and lowered his voice. "...is a diversion. A key. Teach me a few words, and call it... a break while the ink is too thick." He picked up the inkpot and gave it a gentle shake.

Lysa studied his face for a few seconds, seeming to judge his resolve and the deeper meaning behind his request. At last, she nodded slightly. "As you wish. But only during breaks from copying, and only after you finish your daily quota."

Yulon had just finished copying a passage from the Drowned God Scrolls about the prayers of a sea burial ("What is your name? Where do you return? What do you seek?"). He put down his quill and shook out his aching wrist.

"Valyrian for 'name'?" he asked at once.

"Hen," Lysa said clearly. It was pronounced like "hen," but with an even tone.

"Hen..." Yulon repeated, feeling the short, forceful syllable on his tongue. "Then what about the Drowned God? What do you Pentoshi or Braavosi call Him?"

"The Drowned God of the Iron Islands has no specific divine name in Valyrian," Lysa replied. "But He can be described. 'God of Saltwater' is Ānogar Zōbrī; 'Lord of the Deep' is Dārys Lenton."

"Ānogar Zōbrī... Dārys Lenton..." Yulon repeated with interest. These syllables were more complex and mysterious than the rough language of the Ironborn, as if they held power. "They sound... weightier than 'Drowned God.'" He appraised the phrases, his eyes glinting with an odd light.

Lysa opened Ironborn History and pointed to a rough illustration of the black-stone castle on Pike Island. "'Stone' in Valyrian is Dārys, from the same root as 'lord.' It suggests solidity, eternity, and dominion."

Yulon's gaze swept over the jagged castle in the illustration, then turned to the black-stone towers faintly visible through the window. "Dārys..." he murmured thoughtfully. "The ruling stone... The Drowned God is Lord of the Deep, and Pike Island is the ruling stone... Interesting." He picked up his quill and scrawled "Dārys" and "Lenton" in the blank margin of his copy.

As he copied a passage in Ironborn History describing a bloody family feud, Yulon stopped again. The page was full of words like "axe-split," "drowned," and "betrayal."

"'Blood,'" he said, looking at Lysa. "In Valyrian."

"Sȳndor," Lysa replied.

"Sȳndor..." Yulon repeated, tasting the rusty tang of the word. "'Knife,' then? Or 'sword'?"

"Tegōn refers to weapons with sharp edges in general. 'Sword' is Vala," Lysa added. "A Valyrian steel sword is called Valyrio Tegōn, meaning 'Blade of Valyria.'"

Yulon's gaze instantly sharpened. He remembered the few inferior Valyrian steel daggers among the spoils. "Valyrio Tegōn..." he repeated, tracing an invisible line across the table with his finger, as though feeling the legendary edge. "It sounds... deadlier and more precious than the Ironborn's 'dragonsteel.'" He paused, his eyes glinting with calculation. "Lysa, how do you say 'knowledge is power' in High Valyrian?"

Lysa hesitated slightly, as if she hadn't expected the question, but soon answered fluently. "Rūklon daorun hen henkirī—'knowledge is the foundation of strength.'"

"Rūklon daorun hen henkirī..." Yulon repeated slowly, syllable by syllable, as if etching each one into his bones. He fixed his gaze on Lysa, the smile at the corner of his mouth growing deeper and colder. "Very well said. Keep copying." He picked up his quill again, but the words he wrote now seemed to carry a new weight and edge.

When Yulon reached the merciless note in Iron Islands Law about the grave crime of breaking an oath and how promises to mainlanders could be changed, his eyes flashed. He abruptly put down his quill, splattering a few drops of ink.

"'Law,'" he asked urgently. "In Valyrian!"

"Ryptra," Lysa replied.

"'Chain'?"

"Hēnkirī—it's the same word as 'foundation' in 'foundation of strength.'"

"'Oath'?"

"Avy."

"'Sand'?"

"Kepā."

Yulon hastily wrote the words in the margin of his copy: Ryptra (law), Hēnkirī (chain/foundation), Avy (oath), Kepā (sand).

He stared at the words, then glanced at the note in the book. Suddenly, he let out a low, delighted laugh that sounded jarringly out of place in the silent tower. "Ryptra henkirī—law is a chain... but Avy kepā—oaths like sand... especially oaths to mainlanders!" He pointed at the page, his eyes shining with excitement at having found a loophole in the rules. "Lysa, do you see? The book says in cold, plain words that promises to mainlanders can slip through your fingers like sand! And Valyrian... proves it with sound! Avy kepā! Oaths like sand! How... apt!"

Lysa looked at the excited Yulon, then at the Valyrian words he'd written in the margin. Deep in her gray-blue eyes, a complex emotion seemed to flicker—wariness, concern, or perhaps some understanding of this dangerous wisdom. She spoke softly. "Written words are frozen sounds, Lord Euron. And sounds... are fluid. The meaning of an oath sometimes lies with the one who speaks it, sometimes with the one who hears it, and sometimes... only with the wind."

Yulon's laughter faded. He looked deeply at Lysa, as if seeing for the first time the little girl he had chosen from among the captives. "Fluid sounds..." He savored the phrase. "Well said, Lysa. Very well said." He said nothing more, picked up his quill, and resumed copying the remaining laws. But his handwriting grew steadier, as if he were not copying words, but tracing the designs of a weapon he was about to master. The cold smile at the corner of his mouth never left, a smile that suggested he saw through everything and was ready to use it all.

When he set down the final stroke, Yulon put down his quill. Ink and rough paper had blackened his fingers. Lysa carefully checked the three copies, their writing wild yet unexpectedly complete, and confirmed that they were accurate.

All that remained in the tower was the eternal roar of the waves, pouring through the narrow window slits like the distant sigh of the Drowned God, and like the lingering breath of the dragons of Old Valyria.