Chapter 12 Drowned Man（6）
1576 Words
Chapter 12 Drowned Man（6）
When the captive interlude ended and the warship, christened the Marauder, set sail once more, the boy from White Gull Village, Hal, had transformed into a scribe under the Greyjoy banner. Though his Common Tongue was scribbled with wild flourishes and his literacy not yet a river of endless knowledge, he sufficed in his role, earning a nod of approval from the elderly scribe who assessed him.
It seemed incredulous at first glance, but in truth, scholars were a rarity in the Iron Islands—a place where the ability to read and write was the mark of an intellectual.
The Iron Islands, with their barren lands and savage customs, had always relied on reaving. Though their axes and swords were sharp, their grasp on books and numbers was severely blunted.
Here, the common folk were illiterate, and the lords and ladies were no better. In the entire history of the isles, there were few kings who could read.
This cultural desolation persisted for centuries, unimproved even after the Iron Islands bent the knee to the Targaryen dynasty.
It wasn't until the era of Corryn Greyjoy, the time of Lann's own, that the Iron Islands saw the introduction of the maesters, and this state of affairs began to change.
Of course, lacking culture did not mean they had no need for it. While the common ironborn might think those who could read were sorcerers of some arcane sort, the ironborn lords and even kings found this "special technical talent" indispensable.
But their method of acquiring such skills was through plunder, just as they did when lacking any other resource.
Yet, in the mainland of Westeros, those who could read and write were only slightly more numerous than in the Iron Islands.
Thus, the scholar was a "scarce resource" here, rarer than gold.
This made it easy to see why Lann could turn the tables.
However, despite his new role, trust was not easily granted, and he was watched closely as he worked.
Lann didn't mind; his aim was simply to ensure better treatment on the journey ahead, with no other expectations.
...
Under the clear sky, the Marauder, her hull somewhat bloated, sailed leisurely across the ocean.
The oil lamp hanging from the deck above swayed with the ship's progress. Below deck, in a cabin, a grey-robed elder with white hair sat opposite Lann, watching him pen a letter.
It wasn't until Lann made the final stroke that the elder finally withdrew his gaze, satisfied. "You have the talent to become a maester, but you were born in the Iron Islands."
Lann offered a shy smile at the man but said nothing more.
His ability to see auras was peculiar; initially, he'd seen the fat master-at-arms relieve himself without wiping, witnessed a potential betrayal by the castle's head, and recently, through his aura-sight, he'd seen a kraken seated calmly on a throne, signifying the other's character and some future event.
So, he'd spoken boldly, and the outcome had been a sigh of relief.
But even though he'd passed the test, explanations were necessary.
Thus, when questioned about his literacy, he claimed it was due to a maester who'd suffered a shipwreck in his village during his childhood.
No one doubted his words, at least not yet.
"Have the soldiers' wages been tallied?" the elder asked.
He had been a maester from Oldtown, assigned to serve a castle in Westeros, only to be captured and brought to the remote Iron Islands.
Lann replied, "Tallied and ready. I'll deliver them to the purser shortly."
"What about the tome Lord Viken requested? Any parts you couldn't decipher?"
"Most is clear, but this word puzzles me." He pulled out a stack of parchment from the table before him, pointing to a line.
Under the dim light, the elder leaned close, studying it for a long while before explaining, "The word means 'excrement.' The sentence tells of dragon dung so hot that a Valyrian slave was doused by it and cooked alive..."
He began to interpret each word and phrase, with Lann listening quietly.
After their king was burned by a dragon, the entire Iron Islands were abuzz with talk of dragons, and Captain Viken Greyjoy of the Marauder was particularly keen on any knowledge related to them.
He collected books and scrolls containing dragon lore through various means, then had the elder read them to him.
But the scholar, his eyes failing, struggled with the texts, working slowly and inefficiently—until Lann came along.
For the past two days of the voyage, every afternoon Lann had to read to him from the books, word by word, making him seem like the ship's favorite for a time.
But he knew better; he was still a traitor not yet trusted.
...
After finishing the tasks assigned by the elder, Lann gathered the stack of books and headed for the cabin door.
Halfway there, he encountered the long-haired Drowned Man chained to the mast on the deck. The man did not show anger upon seeing Lann but looked at him with pity.
"Boy, you have lost your way."
"I'm quite certain we're headed for Oak Island," Lann shrugged.
In truth, the ship was not making a beeline for Oak Island but had taken a roundabout route, stopping at another island along the way, but its final destination was indeed Oak Island.
Without further comment, Lann tightened his grip on the armful of parchment and climbed the wooden ladder nearby to the ship's stern.
On the edge of the deck, the tall captain, hands behind his back and gazing at the sea, heard footsteps and turned to look at him.
"Continue where we left off yesterday?"
"Yes," Lann replied.
He didn't think the captain had much curiosity about whether dragon dung could scald a man to death, but he believed that as a newly surrendered captive, it was best to speak little.
So he began to narrate carefully from the pages of the book.
Lann's voice was clear and measured, and usually, the raider captain was satisfied with this, even when faced with questions more tedious than dragon dung.
But today, his expression grew increasingly impatient, and finally, he stopped the boy from turning the page.
"Stop."
Lann paused, curious.
The captain gazed at the sea in silence for a moment before speaking. "Do you know why I make you read these books to me every day?"
"Lord Viken wishes to combat dragons," an obvious fact that Lann didn't shy from stating.
Viken Greyjoy nodded.
"With King Harren dead, the isles splintered into chaos, and fools rushed to claim their own crowns. They thought Harren's death was their opportunity, but arrogance blinded them."
He spoke, his gaze drifting towards Westeros across the sea, his tone complex. "Westeros is the dragon king's true target, but he will not abandon the Iron Islands. When the dragons come, these fools will pay the price. Kings before the dragon king?"
He shook his head, chuckled coldly, and finally looked at Lann.
"You're a clever one. Why serve the Drowned Man***, who will surely be burned alive? Faith? Or do you think this so-called son of the Drowned God can truly summon our god to fight the dragons?"
The Iron Islands indeed had many kings at present, with each island claiming its own ruler. Yet Old Wyk was an exception, with not a lord but a Drowned Man as their king—supported by all the Drowned Men, giving this priest-king significant influence.
"Indeed, it is the faith, my lord," Lann replied, thinking of a certain task, and added deliberately.
"The faith of the Iron Islands."
"What makes it different?" Greyjoy sensed something beneath his words.
"On the isles, all ironborn follow the Drowned God, and the Drowned Men are his voice. In a way, they represent the will of the people, which is why you wanted to execute the Drowned Man at sea."
The other nodded.
Seeing this, Lann continued, "So I believe that when the dragon's fire comes, the Drowned Men will don armor of popular support against the invaders. Thus, I joined them, not the kings who arm themselves with power and gold."
"Do you think Aegon cares what we ironborn say?" Greyjoy's gaze flickered.
"Why not?" Lann replied. "He is a conqueror; he wants to** this land."
"Dragonfire can help him conquer the Iron Islands."
"Dragonfire brings only scorched earth," Lann said. "Who would be so foolish as to turn their realm into a wasteland?"
"The Iron Islands live off reaving and have a fearsome name since ancient times. Perhaps he aims to eliminate future threats."
"A fearsome name?" Lann countered. "Fiercer than dragons?"
After a moment of silence, Viken Greyjoy suddenly laughed, then turned back to gaze at the sea.
"I don't believe your Drowned Man king is the son of a god. But sometimes I wonder, if he can summon schools of fish, perhaps he can indeed call forth the sea monsters he claims, real sea monsters. If so, even Aegon's dragonfire won't bend the ironborn. Yes, as long as there's a glimmer of hope..."
Lann had never heard of this before, but before he could ponder it, the other spoke again.
"According to our course, we'll reach the northern shore of Oak Island by tomorrow. Tonight, I'll speak with the Drowned Man. If it goes well, I'll set you free come morning."
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