Euron leaned back in the cold stone chair, closing his eyes. The whispers of the Drowned God and the roars of Ironborn ancestors faded from his mind, replaced by the strange syllables of High Valyrian—Hen (Name), Ānogar Zōbrī (God of Salt Water), Dārys (Stone/Lord), Sȳndor (Blood), Valyrio Tegōn (Blade of Valyria), Rūklon daorun hen henkirī (Knowledge is the foundation of power), Ryptra (Law), Avy kepā (Oath is sand).
These words intertwined with the doomsday prophecies of the Scrolls, the bloody cycles of the History, and the cold logic of the Laws, forming a brand new, unsettling cognitive map.
The Drowned God was the cold abyssal framework. History was the cyclical trajectory of power. And law... was a lever written by men, meant to be pried open. High Valyrian was the mysterious key to interpret—and perhaps reconstruct—it all.
He opened his eyes, his gaze landing on Lysa. She was quietly closing the heavy tome of Laws, her movements gentle yet carrying a sense of finality.
"Valar dohaeris, Lysa." Euron suddenly spoke in slightly raw High Valyrian, breaking the silence.
Lysa paused, lifting those grey-blue eyes that seemed to see through souls, and looked at him quietly.
The corners of Euron's mouth lifted slowly into a cold, meaningful arc. His dark blue eyes were like the sea before a storm—deep and unfathomable. "Valar dohaeris... All men must serve. But serve whom? In what manner?..." He deliberately slowed his speech, locking his sharp gaze onto Lysa. "...Is there a word in Valyrian that answers this question?"
Lysa didn't answer.
She just watched him, like a deep ocean—calm on the surface, but surging with undercurrents below. There was no fear in her eyes, no panic, only a near-solid stillness. Yet, beneath that stillness, Euron caught a faint ripple. It wasn't hesitation; it was... a highly alert assessment. She was like a poisoned dagger hidden under velvet—seemingly harmless, but instinctively tensing her edge.
Fluent in seven languages. Precise and elegant phrasing far beyond a commoner. The restrained nobility in her walk, which hadn't vanished even among terrified captives. Her inexplicable calmness in the face of torture and Ironborn brutality. And... that fine gold dagger set with a dull sapphire he had glimpsed her hiding during the chaos—that was no ordinary handmaid's trinket. It was ancient, unique, likely a token of status or heritage.
Euron's sharp mind strung these pearls of clues together instantly. This "Lysa," who claimed to be a Pentoshi girl born of a Braavosi mother and Lyseni merchant father... her identity was definitely not as simple as she claimed!
"Hahaha!" Euron suddenly burst into low, hearty laughter, shattering the frozen silence of the tower. The sound echoed off the stone walls, wild and unrestrained, the laugh of one who sees and controls everything. He stood up abruptly, casting an oppressive shadow in the small space. But his gaze on Lysa wasn't one of scrutiny or suspicion, but a strange... almost burning excitement.
"Everyone has secrets, Lysa!" Euron's voice was full of power, no longer just a boy's clear tone, but carrying an undeniable penetration, as if declaring a truth. "You hide the mystery of your birth, you hide your dagger, perhaps even your... past. That is good!" He took a step forward, looming over her, yet without threat—rather, like admiring a rare treasure. "Fear? Suspicion? Those are emotions for the weak! Patents for salt thralls and greenland sheep!"
He spread his arms, wild and confident, as if embracing the world. "I, Euron Greyjoy, am destined for great things! My ship will sail to waters even the Drowned God has never touched! My throne will not be built from this pile of black rocks on Pyke!" His burning gaze locked onto Lysa's eyes, which finally showed real turbulence at his words. "What use do I have for a handmaid who only cries and obeys? 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 transforming into pure, almost greedy appreciation and ambition. "Your secret? Let it remain your armor, your blade! As long as it serves me, serves the great goal we are sailing toward!" His tone was absolute, carrying a tolerance and confidence far beyond his years—almost imperial. "Your past belongs to the shadows? Let it stay there! I want your present and your future—your clever brain, your tongue of seven languages, your hand that holds the dagger! Offer them to me, Lysa! Serve me! And what I can give you is far more than just 'survival'! I will give you a place, a position that will make whatever identity you're hiding pale in comparison! In my story, you will no longer be a nameless captive, but... an indispensable chapter!"
His words were like thunder exploding in Lysa's heart. It wasn't just amnesty or utilization; it was recognition! Recognition of her value, her hidden power, and even... the legitimacy of her secret existence. This boldness—this mindset of viewing secrets as resources rather than threats—completely transcended Lysa's understanding of Ironborn, and even most nobles. This was no longer the silent boy, but a potential king revealing his fangs, possessing terrifying ambition and startling tolerance.
Conqueror's Haki was exerting its maximum effect!
Lysa's pupils contracted slightly. The mask of calm cracked for the first time. Shock, confusion, a thrill of being seen through, and... an indescribable excitement ignited by this grand, dangerous vision churned deep in her grey-blue eyes. She looked at the boy radiating startling pressure and allure, realizing for the first time that she might be stepping into the center of a vortex far deeper and more dangerous than becoming a salt wife or slave. And at the center of that vortex were Euron Greyjoy's wildfire-burning eyes.
The expected fear did not take over. Instead, a dizziness of being dragged into a grand game, and... a secret, dangerous flame of excitement sparked by the phrase "indispensable chapter."
Ghiscari: "Mortal languages, mortal questions, ultimately have mortal answers."
High Valyrian: "'All men must serve,' I know. Whom to serve, and in what manner... lies with the servant, and also with the King."
Dothraki: "I have seen many storms, and many Khaleesis. If the storm wishes to destroy the Khaleesi, if the storm wishes to destroy the Dothraki, the storm must first destroy me!"
Finally, she looked at Euron again, switching back to the Common Tongue. Her voice returned to its previous softness, but held unquestionable strength:
"Lord Euron, your question has no single word answer in Valyrian. Because the answer... must be written, not found." She paused slightly, wisdom and a hint of imperceptible challenge flashing in her eyes. "You seek a key; perhaps I am one. But the value of a key lies not only in the doors it opens, but in... whether the keyholder has the strength to face whatever lies behind them—be it lost treasure, or an abyss that swallows everything."
Lysa didn't finish. She simply curtsied slightly—a gesture concise yet filled with ancient grace, like a scholar bowing to a potential patron, not a handmaid to a master. "...When that time comes, the answer to 'serve' will be as clear as a reef after the tide recedes. Until then, Lysa... is willing to be your 'key' to deciphering Valyrian, and... another pair of eyes for you to observe the world."
Her reply ended. No pledge of loyalty, no exposure of secrets, yet a clear boundary was drawn: She saw Euron's ambition and potential, willing to shelter under his wing temporarily and provide her value (languages, observation). But she tied her "service" tightly to Euron's own growth in power and his ability to provide true "sanctuary." She implied she was an observer, an evaluator, not a simple dependent. She accepted the "future possibility" Euron painted, not his current status or orders. Simultaneously, the warning about the "abyss behind the door" was both a reminder to Euron and a re-emphasis of her own value—the doors this "key" could open might lead to unexpected dangers.
This response, woven from four languages, full of wisdom, metaphor, and self-dignity, carried weight far beyond a simple "yes" or "no." It froze the air in the tower, leaving only the clash of gazes—one side burning ambition and control, the other profound wisdom and conditional cooperation. The roar of the waves became the grand background music to this silent gamble.
Euron slowly began to clap. The applause echoed crisply off the stone walls, carrying undisguised appreciation and admiration.
"A storm of languages the Drowned God has never heard!" Euron's voice rang out. "The ancient tones of Ghiscar, the contract of Valyria, the fierce winds of the Dothraki... and the sharp wisdom of the Common Tongue! Lysa, Lysa... you are more brilliant than I imagined!"
"You say the answer needs to be 'written'? Exactly my thought! History is a confession written by the weak, while the future... will be rewritten by the strong with iron and fire! You say power needs a 'foundation'?" He pointed sharply at the pile of copied texts and the Valyrian words in the margins. "Knowledge? This is just the start! I want the lever that moves the world! And you say... sanctuary?" Euron's gaze turned sharp as a knife, piercing straight into Lysa. "'The storm must first destroy me'? No! You are wrong! The true storm does not destroy the allies it acknowledges! It sweeps them up, empowers them, and lets them dance on the crest of the waves!"
"The answer to 'serve'? It will emerge clearly, drop by drop, during our voyage—with every conquered sea, every deciphered secret, every mastered power... Not like a reef revealed by receding tides, but like a new continent... that we raise from the abyss with our own hands!"
"You will be the witness! Lysa!"
He didn't wait for her answer, as if her cooperation were already a fact. He turned and walked toward the oak table piled with books, his posture calm and full of power, like a man who had just concluded a crucial negotiation and was certain he had won the most valuable chip.