Valyrian

The air on the top floor of the library tower in Pike was thick with dust, the scent of mildew, and the lingering tang of sea salt. A sliver of daylight, grudgingly admitted through narrow arrow-slit windows, barely illuminated the yellowed parchment piled on the oak desk before Yulon. The rustle of a quill scratching across parchment was the dominant sound, occasionally broken by the faint clink of an inkpot or the distant roar of the sea.

Lysa sat opposite Yulon, quiet as a small salt carving. Spread before her were three heavy tomes: the Drowned God Scrolls, the Ironborn History, and the Iron Islands Law. Her grey-blue eyes moved between the pages and Yulon's wildly scribbled script, fulfilling the "supervisor" duty King Kolen had assigned her—ensuring not a single word was missed or carelessly written.

Yulon was copying a doomsday prophecy from the Drowned God Scrolls concerning the "Great Drowning." The ink bled across the page, a chaotic blur mirroring the turmoil in his mind, stirred by the dark doctrines within the book. He suddenly stopped, his gaze shifting from a smudge on the paper to Lysa's serene face.

"Lysa," his voice broke the silence, laced with a deliberate casualness, "you said you knew seven languages." Yulon had always been curious about the serving girl, but the crowded, noisy ship had offered no opportunity for proper conversation and probing. Now, there was only the two of them.

Lysa looked up, meeting his gaze, and nodded gently. "Yes, Lord Euron."

"High Valyrian," Yulon tapped his fingers unconsciously on the table, a soft clicking sound. "That phrase you spoke on deck… Valar dohaeris. What does it mean?" He mimicked her pronunciation, not quite accurate, but capturing the strange rhythm.

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

"Serve?" Yulon's lips curved into a playful smile. "Serve whom? The Drowned God? The Seven Gods? Or some… Dragon King?" He deliberately emphasized the last two words, with a hint of subtle provocation.

Lysa's expression remained unmoved. "It is a common greeting among the Braavosi, also used to express humility. Its true meaning 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, with a soft Pentoshi accent.

"A higher purpose…" Yulon murmured, his gaze sweeping over the Drowned God Scrolls, which spoke of abyssal whispers and apocalyptic destruction. "The Drowned God says he reveals wisdom in the bubbles of the drowned. Do you think the Drowned God whispers in Valyrian?" His question held an almost blasphemous curiosity.

Lysa paused for a moment, seemingly choosing her words carefully. "The Drowned God's whispers… perhaps they transcend any mortal language, Lord Euron. But Valyrian… it is the legacy of Old Valyria, the language of dragons and magic, a vessel for much ancient Knowledge and secrets. It itself may hold the key to approaching certain 'higher purposes'." Her answer was both cautious and profound.

A glint flashed in Yulon's eyes; this was precisely what he wanted to hear. "Teach me," he commanded directly, his tone leaving no room for argument, yet a pure thirst for Knowledge burned deep within him, a rare sight.

Lysa did not immediately agree or refuse, merely watching him. "Copying is King Kolen's order, Lord Euron. Time is short."

"Time?" Yulon scoffed, gesturing to the piled books and manuscripts. "We have a whole month, locked in this dusty tower full of mad ramblings. Copying is punishment, learning…" He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. "…is a diversion, a key. Teach me a few words, just as… a break when the ink is too thick." He picked up the inkpot, shaking it gently.

Lysa's gaze lingered on his face for a few seconds, as if assessing his resolve and the deeper meaning behind his request. Finally, she nodded softly. "As you wish. But only during breaks from copying, and only after completing the day's quota."

Yulon had just finished copying a prayer from the Drowned God Scrolls about the rites of water burial ("What is your name? Where do you go? What do you seek?"), put down his quill, and stretched his aching wrist.

"Valyrian for 'name'?" he asked immediately.

"Hen," Lysa said clearly.

"Hen…" Yulon repeated, feeling the short, strong syllable on his tongue. "And 'Drowned God'? How do you people of Pentos or Braavos refer to 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 Abyss' is Dārys Lenton."

"Ānogar Zōbrī… Dārys Lenton…" Yulon mimicked with great interest. These syllables were more complex and mysterious than the rough Ironborn tongue, as if imbued with power. "Sounds… more weighty than 'Drowned God'," he commented, his eyes gleaming with an unusual light.

Lysa opened the Ironborn History and pointed to a crude illustration of the Black Castle on Pike Island. "'Stone,' in Valyrian, is Dārys, the same root word as 'Lord'. It implies steadfastness, eternity, dominion."

Yulon's gaze swept over the craggy illustration of Pike Castle, then to the dark stone towers faintly visible outside the window. "Dārys…" he murmured thoughtfully. "Stone of dominion… The Drowned God is Lord of the Abyss, Pike Island is the stone of dominion… Interesting." He picked up his quill and, in the blank margin of his manuscript, scrawled "Dārys" and "Lenton" in his messy hand.

As he copied a passage from the Ironborn History describing a bloody family feud, Yulon paused again. The pages were filled with words like "axe," "drowning," and "betrayal."

"'Blood'," he looked at Lysa, "in Valyrian."

"Sȳndor," Lysa replied.

"Sȳndor…" Yulon chanted, feeling a rusty, fishy smell clinging to the word. "And 'axe'? Or 'sword'?"

"'Tegōn' refers to a sharp weapon generally," Lysa added, "'Vala' is 'sword'. A Valyrian steel sword is called Valyrio Tegōn, meaning 'Valyrian Blade'."

Yulon's eyes sharpened instantly; he thought of the few lesser Valyrian steel daggers among his spoils. "Valyrio Tegōn…" he repeated, his fingers tracing imaginary lines on the tabletop, as if feeling the legendary edge. "Sounds… more deadly, more precious than the 'dragonsteel' the Ironborn speak of." He paused, a calculating glint in his eyes. "Lysa, 'Knowledge is power'… how is that said in High Valyrian?"

Lysa hesitated slightly, seemingly caught off guard by the question, but quickly replied fluently: "Rūklon daorun hen henkirī—'Knowledge is the root of power'."

"Rūklon daorun hen henkirī…" Yulon slowly, deliberately, repeated each syllable as if etching it into his bones. He stared at Lysa, the smile on his lips deepening, and growing colder. "Well said. Continue copying." He picked up his quill again, but the words flowing from it seemed to carry new weight and sharpness.

When Yulon reached a cruel annotation in the Iron Islands Law regarding the grave offense of breaking an oath and the dispensability of promises made to land-dwellers, a sharp light flashed in his eyes. He abruptly put down his quill, splashing a few drops of ink.

"'Law'," he asked urgently, "in Valyrian!"

"Ryptra," Lysa answered.

"'Chain'?"

"Hēnkirī—the same word as the 'root' in 'root of power'."

"'Oath'?"

"Avy."

"'Sand'?"

"Kepā."

Yulon quickly jotted down these words in the margin of his manuscript: Ryptra (Law), Hēnkirī (Chain/Root), Avy (Oath), Kepā (Sand).

He stared at the words, then at the annotation in the book, and suddenly let out a low, delighted laugh that sounded jarringly out of place in the silent tower. "Ryptra henkirī… but Avy kepā… especially oaths to land-dwellers!" He pointed at the text, his eyes gleaming with the excitement of discovering loopholes in the rules. "Lysa, do you see? The book states in cold words that promises to land-dwellers can slip through your fingers like sand! And Valyrian… it proves it with sound! Avy kepā! Oaths like sand! How… fitting!"

Lysa looked at the excited Yulon, then at the Valyrian words he had written in the margin. A complex emotion flickered deep within her grey-blue eyes—was it caution? Worry? Or some understanding of this dangerous wisdom? She said softly, "Words are frozen sound, Lord Euron. And sound… flows. The meaning of an oath sometimes lies with the one who speaks it, sometimes with the one who hears it, and sometimes… it lies only with the wind."

Yulon's laughter ceased. He looked deeply at Lysa, as if truly seeing the young girl he had chosen from the captives for the first time. "Flowing sound…" he savored the words. "Well said, Lysa. Very well said." He said no more, picking up his quill again and resuming the copying of the remaining legal statutes. But his script was steadier now, as if he were sketching not words, but the blueprint of a weapon he was about to master. The smile on his lips remained, that cold smile of one who sees all and is ready to exploit all.

When the last stroke fell, Yulon put down his quill, his fingers stained black with ink and rough paper. Lysa carefully examined his three manuscripts, their script wild but surprisingly complete, confirming their accuracy.

Only the eternal roar of the sea remained in the tower, pouring in through the narrow window slits like the distant sigh of the Drowned God, or the lingering breath of ancient Valyrian dragons.