The Mysterious Handmaiden

Euron leaned against the back of the cold stone chair and closed his eyes. His mind was no longer filled only with the Drowned God's whispers or the roars of his Ironborn ancestors. The strange syllables of Valyrian—Hen (name), Ānogar Zōbrī (God of Saltwater), Dārys (Stone/Lord), Sȳndor (blood), Valyrio Tegōn (Valyrian blade), Rūklon daorun hen henkirī (knowledge is the root of power), Ryptra (law), Avy kepā (Oaths like sand)—intertwined with the apocalyptic prophecies of the Drowned God Scrolls, the cycles of violence in Ironborn History, and the cold logic of Iron Islands Law, forming a new and unsettling map of understanding.

The Drowned God was a cold framework of the abyss, history the recurring cycles of power, and law... was written by people, a lever that could be pried loose. Valyrian, meanwhile, was the mysterious key to interpreting all of this—and perhaps even reshaping it.

He opened his eyes and looked at Lysa. She was quietly closing the heavy tome of Iron Islands Law, her movements gentle yet carrying a sense of finality.

"Valar dohaeris, Lysa." Euron suddenly spoke in still halting High Valyrian, breaking the silence.

Lysa paused, then raised her gray-blue eyes, which seemed able to see through people, and looked at him in silence.

The corners of Euron's mouth slowly lifted into a cold, meaningful curve. His deep blue eyes were like the sea before a storm, unfathomable and inscrutable. "Valar dohaeris... All mortals must serve. But whom should they serve? And how?..." He deliberately slowed his speech, his sharp gaze fixed on Lysa. "...Is there a word in Valyrian that can answer that?"

Lysa did not answer.

She merely looked at him in silence, like a fathomless sea, its surface still while currents surged below. There was no fear or panic in her gray-blue eyes, only a near-frozen calm. Beneath that calm, however, Euron caught an almost imperceptible ripple—not hesitation, but something more like... an assessment made under intense vigilance. She was like a poisoned dagger hidden beneath luxurious velvet: seemingly harmless, yet instinctively keeping her edge honed.

She spoke seven languages with ease, choosing her words with a precision and elegance far beyond anything expected of a commoner. The restrained air of nobility in her every movement had not entirely faded, even among terrified captives. Faced with the Ironborn's crude ways and the torture of flaying and severed fingers, she had remained bewilderingly composed. And then there was... the golden dagger she had cleverly concealed, its dull blue sapphire inlay glimpsed by Euron in the chaos. It was no ordinary weapon for a handmaiden to carry for self-defense. Its ancient, unusual design made it seem more like a token of identity or a symbol of inheritance.

Like scattered pearls, all the clues were swiftly strung together by Euron's exceptionally keen mind. This little girl, Lysa, who claimed to be from Pentos, with a Braavosi merchant for a father and a Lysene merchant for a mother... her identity was certainly not as simple as she had made it sound!

"Hahahaha!" Euron suddenly burst into deep, hearty laughter, shattering the near-frozen silence in the tower. His laughter echoed off the stone walls, wild and unrestrained, as though he saw and controlled everything. He sprang to his feet, his tall frame casting an oppressive shadow in the cramped space. Yet he looked at Lysa not with scrutiny or suspicion, but with a strange, almost feverish excitement.

"Everyone has secrets, Lysa!" Euron's voice rang with power. It was no longer the clear voice of a boy, but carried an undeniable force, as though he were proclaiming a truth. "You hide the mystery of your origins, your dagger, perhaps even your... past. Good!" He took a step closer, but there was not the slightest hint of menace in it; instead, he seemed to be admiring a rare treasure. "Fear? Suspicion? Those are emotions for the weak! The lot of salt slaves and land-dwelling sheep!"

He spread his arms, wild and confident, as though he meant to embrace the whole world. "I, Euron Greyjoy, am destined for great things! My ships will sail seas the Drowned God has never set foot upon! My throne won't be built from a heap of black stones on Pike Island!" His eyes burned as they fixed on Lysa's, which had finally stirred at his words. "What use do I have for a handmaiden who does nothing but weep and obey? I need a key! Someone who can open ancient doors, decipher lost scrolls, and understand the whispers of dragons!"

Euron looked down at Lysa. His cold, meaningful smile became pure, almost greedy admiration and ambition. "Your secrets? Let them remain your armor and your blade! As long as they serve me, and the great purpose we are about to sail toward!" His tone was decisive, carrying a magnanimity and confidence nearly imperial in its reach, far beyond his years. "Does your past belong to the shadows? Then let it stay there! I want your present and your future—your clever mind, your tongue that speaks seven languages, your hand on a dagger! Give them to me, Lysa! Serve me! And I can offer you far more than simply staying alive! I'll give you a place, one that will make even your hidden identity pale in comparison! In my story, you will no longer be an unnamed captive, but... an indispensable chapter!"

His words struck Lysa's heart like thunder. This was not merely pardon or exploitation—it was recognition! Recognition of her worth, of the power she kept hidden, and even... of the legitimacy of her secrets. This sort of presence, this way of treating secrets as resources rather than threats, went beyond anything Lysa had imagined of the Ironborn—or even most nobles. This was no longer the taciturn boy she had known, but a potential king, just beginning to reveal his brilliance, with terrifying ambition and astonishing magnanimity!

Conqueror's Haki was proving more useful than ever!

Lysa's pupils contracted slightly, and the mask of calm she had worn cracked for the first time. Shock, confusion, a flicker of being seen through, and... an indescribable stirring, kindled by this grand and dangerous vision, intertwined in the depths of her gray-blue eyes. Looking at the boy before her, radiating an astonishing pressure and allure, she realized for the first time that she might have stepped into the heart of a whirlpool far more profound and dangerous than becoming a Salt wife or slave. At its center were Euron Greyjoy's eyes, blazing with Wildfire. The fear or panic she had expected never took hold. Instead, she felt dizzy, as though she had been dragged into a grand game of strategy, and... a secret, dangerous spark of excitement flared within her at the thought of being "an indispensable chapter."

In Old Ghiscari: "The language of mortals, the questions of mortals—ultimately, they have answers for mortals."

In High Valyrian: "All mortals must serve. I know that. Whom they serve, and how... that lies with both the servant and the king."

In Dothraki: "I have seen many storms, and many Khaleesis. If a storm seeks to destroy a Khaleesi, if a storm seeks to destroy the Dothraki, then the storm must destroy me first!"

Finally, she looked at Euron again and returned to the Common Tongue. Her voice was once more gentle, but it held an undeniable strength:

"Lord Euron, there is no single word in Valyrian that can answer your question. Because the answer... must be written, not found." She paused slightly, her gray-blue eyes glinting with wisdom and a faint, unmistakable challenge. "You seek a key. I may be one. But a key's value lies not only in what doors it can open, but also in whether... the one holding it has the strength to face whatever might lie beyond those doors—whether lost treasure or an abyss that devours all."

Lysa left her words unfinished and gave a slight bow, a simple gesture imbued with an ancient grace, as though a scholar were greeting a potential patron rather than a handmaiden lowering her head to her master. "...Then the answer to 'serve' will naturally become as clear as reefs revealed by the receding tide. Until then, Lysa... is willing to be your 'key' to interpreting Valyrian, and... another pair of eyes through which you may observe the world."

Her reply was over. She had promised no loyalty and revealed no secrets, yet she had clearly drawn her boundaries: she saw Euron's ambition and potential, and was willing to shelter beneath his wings for the time being, offering him her abilities—her languages and powers of observation. But she had tightly bound her "service" to the growth of Euron's own power and his ability to offer genuine "protection." She implied that she was an observer and evaluator, not a simple follower. What she accepted was the "possibility of the future" Euron had painted, not his present status or orders. And her warning about the "abyss beyond the doors" both cautioned Euron and reaffirmed her own value: the doors her "key" could open might lead to unexpected dangers.

This reply, woven from four languages and full of wisdom, metaphor, and self-respect, carried far more weight than a simple "yes" or "no." It seemed to freeze the air in the tower, leaving only the clash of their gazes—one burning with ambition and a desire for control, the other filled with profound wisdom and a willingness to cooperate on her own terms. The roar of the waves became the grandest backdrop to their silent contest.

Euron slowly began to clap. His applause rang clearly off the stone walls, filled with undisguised admiration and praise.

"A storm of words the Drowned God has never heard!" Euron exclaimed. "Old Ghiscari, a Valyrian contract, a Dothraki gale... and the sharp wisdom of the Common Tongue! Lysa, Lysa... you are more dazzling than I imagined!"

"You say the answer must be 'written'? That suits me perfectly! History is the confession of the weak, while the future... will be rewritten by the strong, with iron and fire! You say power needs a 'foundation'?" He suddenly pointed at the pile of transcribed books and the Valyrian words along their margins. "Knowledge? That's only the beginning! I want levers that can move the world! And you speak of... protection?" Euron's gaze grew as sharp as a blade as he stared straight at Lysa. "'If a storm seeks to destroy a Khaleesi, it must destroy me first'? No! You're wrong! A true storm doesn't destroy allies it recognizes! It sweeps them up, gives them power, and lets them dance atop the waves!"

"The answer to 'serve' will emerge clearly over the course of our voyage, little by little, with every sea conquered, every secret deciphered, every power claimed. Not like a reef revealed as the tide recedes, but like new lands that we ourselves... raise from the abyss!"

"You will be a witness, Lysa!"

He did not wait for Lysa's answer, as though her cooperation were already a foregone conclusion. He turned and walked toward the oak table heaped with books, calm and full of strength, as though he had just concluded an important negotiation and was certain he had won the most valuable prize.