Edit: Oops, I forgot this opening part. Apologies!

Varys

He sat there and forced his fingers to be still as he read the message. He prided himself on his ability to be calm and still and he needed to be so now more than ever. It was just that… he couldn't quite bring himself to believe it. Illyrio Mopatis, a man who had forgotten more about fighting due to his time as a bravo than Varys could ever possess… was dead. Killed by an insane Viserys Targaryen. Or rather attacked by Viserys Targaryen before they both fell into a fire.

A shudder ripped through him. How had this happened? What had driven the boy over the edge so quickly? It had taken Duskendale to start Aerys' descent into madness. What had driven Viserys mad? His nickname of the Beggar King? His poverty? The dragon egg that Illyrio had given him and which he had started to regret?

He stood abruptly and then took the message over to the nearest candle and burnt it. As the parchment crackled and burnt he stared into the flames for a long moment. Fire. Such a destructive thing. But it had its uses. His career had been partly founded on it. Few knew this, but Aerys Targaryen hadn't just brought him to Westeros to spy for him. There had been another reason. Summerhall. Aerys hadn't believed that the tragedy had been an accident.

And unless he very much missed his guess, Aerys had been right. It had been hard to ascertain the facts. Too much time had passed to get to the exact truth, the exact culprits. Too many questions. Why was it that the dragons had diminished in size? Why had the line of dragons failed? Why had the dragonlore failed the Targaryens? That much he did not know. So, then, why choose Summerhall as the place to rebirth dragons? Why not Dragonstone? The latter had a volcano, warm tunnels and all the accoutrements needed to breed dragons. What did Summerhall have?

It had been totally under the control of the Royal Family. It should have been a safe, controlled, environment. It should have been perfect. Instead it had turned into an inferno that had claimed a King, a Prince and the lives of umpteen others. And why? He suspected the Maesters. Why? Because they were not keen on magic or on dragons. They were an affront to their tidy world of books and facts. He understood that and he had some sympathy for it. Magic was too unpredictable, too wild, with costs that few understood. He knew however. Knew all too well.

He'd brought his findings to Aerys, only to have more tasks thrown at him. Who was plotting against the King? Who wanted Aerys dead? What was Tywin Lannister doing? Why was his son, Rhaegar, learning how to fight all of a sudden? Paranoia had burnt bright in the breast of the King. And beyond the paranoia lay madness. Increasingly severe madness.

The more he thought about the more he'd wondered about if his own actions had contributed to it. Aerys had thought many things, mostly about disloyalty all around him. Every lord had been under suspicion. Even Tywin Lannister. A thousand little things that ordinarily meant nothing had combined until Tywin Lannister had no longer been trusted. And then, after Aerys had humiliated Tywin with Rhaegar's marriage to Elia Martell instead of Cersei Lannister and Jaime Lannister's enrolment in the Kingsguard, the King's oldest friend had been utterly alienated and had resigned and returned to Casterly Rock in a high dudgeon.

That had only increased Aerys's paranoia. Everyone was now plotting against him. Varys had had only one real major success after this point – the discovery that some kind of plot against the King might be discussed between a number of Lords Paramount and Rhaegar at the great tourney at Harrenhall. Even then that 'success' had been a mixed one. All attending the tourney had been horrified at his appearance – long, unkempt hair, long nails, eyes like red coals in the snow. And even after that Aerys still sank even deeper into paranoia and madness. Which had led to the crowning madness of what had happened to Rickard and Brandon Stark. He'd known, right there and then, that disaster would follow. As one burnt to death and the other choked on his own blood he'd known that the Targaryen's were, eventually, doomed.

That brought back more bad memories. Aerys had always been odd about wildfire. After the deaths of the Starks… well, he'd become even more obsessed by it, if such a thing was possible. Watching him as people burnt to death in front of him, as he giggled and then pawed at his sister-wife… well, it had been the nastiest, riskiest period of his life. He'd been running on the edge of a knife the entire time. Knowing that one misstep would – not could – kill him.

It had grown worse after the news came of disaster at the Trident. Rhaegar dead, his army scattered, the rebels advancing rapidly, no friendly forces anywhere near, lord after lord turning their coat, the court filled with whispers and long silences… Aerys had killed messengers bearing bad news and traitors. At one point he'd even screamed to burn the ravens, until Pycelle had somehow persuaded him that the birds were loyal. That had been a surreal conversation to overhear.

And then it had all come to an end. Tywin Lannister's betrayal, the deaths of those members of the Royal Family in the Red Keep. He often wondered about the final details of that. There had been rumours of some kind of plot that Aerys had been working on, something that had involved wildfire. The reports about the causes of the resignation and death of Lord Qarlton Chelsted were… highly suspicious. He had tried to find out more, but Aerys had always made it perfectly clear that Varys should never – ever – spy on him. Not if he wanted to live.

Looking back, he wished that he had had his current flock of little birds in place back then. He'd been young and callow back then. Well, younger.

He'd known what had driven Aerys's obsession with wildfire though. It ran in the family. Aerion Targaryen had died screaming after drinking a cup of the substance, thinking that it would transform him into a dragon. He had always wondered if Aerys had thought the same thing. Dragons. It always came back to dragons.

And now, almost to make a mockery of it all, Summerhall, the desperate desire of kings long dead for dragons, the petty whims of her father, the Rebellion, and so on, Daenerys Targaryen was now the mother to three dragons.

He winced a little and then paced about the room. The problem was that he had no idea what to do at the moment, not really. He had crafted a plan with Illyrio and Connington, with the connivance of the Martells, a plan that had a reasonable chance of success. Robert Baratheon had been a terrible king so far. Grief had hollowed him out and he'd tried to fill the void with wine, food and women. It hadn't worked. The boy Aegon would make a better king. He was controllable, well-educated and free of the taint of Targaryen madness.

Or he would have. Suddenly the gameboard was changed, the pieces moving in different ways from those that had before. Perhaps this was an old form of the board, an ancient one? Had the First Men had a Game of Thrones? Of course they had, it was as old at time itself. But there must have been times when it was placed into abeyance perhaps. Times like now. The Call had changed everything. The eyes of many men with the blood of the First Men were not on King's Landing, but rather on Winterfell. And the Wall. He could see it all so clearly now.

It had taken time. He'd had to clear his mind of more than a few layers of disbelief, more than a few illusions that he had cherished about the world and the way that he had thought that it worked. So many people had changed their ways. So many things had been found. Stormbreaker had not been the first, he knew that. Ned Stark held something as well. And there had been rumours about the Tarlys.

And then there were the other things. The Blackfish had been seen heading towards the God's Eye. Something odd was happening there. Fighting was one thing, but there were also reports of men and women dressed in green, with antlered hoods. The Green Men were stirring for the first time in centuries. Something was happening at Raventree Hall, something to do with the supposedly dead heart tree there. Something old was stirring, something ancient even by the standards of Essos. He knew that. Anyone who didn't was an idiot.

The Queen was just such an idiot. Of all the players in the Game she was the least likely to recognise that the Game had changed. That King Robert was changing before her very eyes. The Demon of the Trident was sloughing off years of fat and inertia, a man with a purpose once more. Why did have to be her as a player in the Game? She was a sad shadow of her father. He was a challenge. She was not. She thought she was clever and she wasn't. She thought she was subtle and cunning. She was, in reality, as subtle as a brick. And any cunning she had was that of a desperate rat. That said, even desperate rats could kill.

At least Baelish was gone from the Game. He had always known that he was a threat, but the true nature of that threat had only become apparent after his death. The list of people he had bribed, the number of men and women suborned… he had suspected that the list had been long but had been quietly stunned at just how long. And for what? What had Baelish been striving for? Even now he didn't understand it.

He pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment. The King would be sailing for the North in an hour. King's Landing was all astir. What to do? Stay or go to Pentos? Daenerys Stormborn was now a major player in the Game. The rules were different in Westeros, but in Essos there were certain… certainties. The Magisters would treat her well, with great hospitality – and then they would start asking questions about her intentions. Would she be willing to use her dragons – once they were grown of course – on Braavos? Oh, yes, they'd sell their souls to her for the chance to use those dragons on their hated enemy. And on anyone else. Perhaps Volantis after Braavos?

Stay or go? Forgo the changed Game here for the Game that he was familiar with in Pentos? He had to make a decision, and soon. Stay…. or go?

Asha

There were three dead men at the entrance to the harbour at Ten Towers. All had been Drowned Men. All had been hanged. She stared at them as the Black Wind sailed past the point and then on to the Long Stone Quay. And then she sighed. Oh, she could feel it in the air now. War. Strife. She shook her head for a moment.

Dale was waiting for her at the quay, whittling on a piece of wood. Judging by the shape it appeared to be a… miniature tree? Odd. "He's at High Harlaw again," the man drawled as he jabbed his knife at one of the little shaggy horses that were tethered nearby. "Wants to see you. Has news."

Asha stared at him. "News?"

Dale nodded and then started carving again. "News." Then he looked up. "Men on the point are Damphair's men. Your nuncle caught them ranting about him. No-one was listening. Then they tried to draw steel. Bad idea."

She raised her eyebrows at that, before nodding and then mounting the horse and riding it up on the long winding road that led to High Harlaw. And as she rode she noted – again! – how much was happening around her. Men were sowing fields, whilst others cleared brush. The Iron Islands had long since lost their great trees, but there were still the odd sapling here and there. Farming was a hard task on the Iron Islands. Here on Harlaw they were making every effort at making it work. It worried her.

When she finally reached High Harlaw, her mind dark with worry, she found her nuncle Rodrik in a makeshift study, a table piled high with books next to him. He was talking to a woman with long black hair who must have been about ten years older than her. From the way that they smiled at each other Asha realised that the two were close. Very close. Odd. He'd never spoken about anyone other his late wife before. Who was she?

He caught sight of her and an odd look crossed his face, a combination of surprise, guilt and determination. "Asha, well-met," he called out. "I would like you to meet someone. This is Alyse."

"Lady Asha," Alyse said, her voice low and polite. "I have heard much about you."

"But I have heard little of you," Asha blurted, before blushing a little. "Nuncle?"

"Your pardon. Alyse and I have known each other for some years now. We had an… understanding." The was an odd expression to use, unless he meant that she had had a husband who was old or infirm or was in his dotage. He cleared his throat. "We were married two days ago."

She stared at them both. Her nuncle had never ever mentioned the possibility of him marrying again. Her face must have reflected everything she was thinking, because after a long moment he smiled ruefully. "I wanted to hide Alyse from your Father's attention. And Damphair. I wanted to keep her safe. Especially as she… well…"

"I heard the Call very loudly," Alyse said with a quiet strength. "And my family does not worship the Drowned God."

Ice trickled up and down her spine for a moment. "I am come from Old Wyk," she said hoarsely. "And the Stonebrows there. They deny the Drowned God as well. As do many others."

Nuncle Rodrik went still for a long moment as he and his new wife both stared at her. "The Stonebrows? What of them?"

She sat in the nearest chair and pulled the stone out of a pocket. "They asked if you were awake yet. They asked why you have not yet sent for the stone."

Alyse merely looked puzzled, but her nuncle went as white as a sheet. "The stone… I didn't know…" He caught their looks at him and abruptly stood, before pacing back and forth for a moment. Then he stopped and looked at them both. "When my grandfather lay dying he sent for me. He made very little sense, but what he did say has always stayed with me. He said that one day the Stonebrows would send word. That one day the stone would be returned and the Harlaws could see things clearly again. And then he died. I never knew what he meant and my father said that the words meant nothing but now…" His eyes turned to the stone. "Who gave you that?"

"Elys Stonebrow. My childhood nurse. She said… she said that it would help you to read the runes. That Harlaws were overly clever and that perhaps you were not told about the runes and the stone. But she gave it to me anyway. Said that it would answer your questions. Once you placed it at the start of the runes." She hefted it thoughtfully and then carefully handed it over to him.

Her uncle stared at it for a long moment and then he clenched it in his hand. "Very well. Let us see what this will do." As they all stood and walked across the room to the door that led to the corridor and the stairs he seemed to recollect something. "Oh – your brother has written to me. A number of most… interesting… letters."

Theon had written? "Interesting in what way?"

Nuncle Rodrik paused as he took a burning torch from a wall bracket. "Interesting as in what he asked. He asked about the Greyjoy rebellion. About your Father's motives and strategy. And he asked a very good question."

"What question?"

"If your father was an idiot or not. Not in those exact words of course, but from the way he phrased it I suspect that he's guessed the truth."

Asha pulled a face. She'd wondered at times just what kind of a life Theon had in Winterfell. He'd been a proud boy from what she remembered of him. Nicer than their older brothers, but still proud and oddly needy. What was he like now? She had no idea, but from the sound of things... "What else did he ask?"

"Questions about the history of the Iron Irelands. Questions about the Drowned God. Oh and something odd – if there were any legends about people dreaming about an island made of bones."

"An island made of bones?" She laughed. "Why would someone dream of anything like that?"

"I know not – and yet it's an oddly specific question is it not?"

She thought about as they passed down the stairs leading to the corridor and then slowly nodded. "Mayhaps," she said reluctantly. "But what did he mean?"

"I have written back to him to ask," her nuncle replied as they reached the corridor and strode towards the room where the light still feebly flickered. "Especially for more details about the Call. You see, your brother was there when Ned Stark sent it out. He was there, Asha. No mummery. He was there. And his letter on it was… sobering."

They trooped into the room and Asha stared at the flickering runes with disquiet. She suddenly had the oddest feeling that her life was about to change in ways that she did not understand. "I must read that letter," she said in a hoarse voice. "We need more information on what happened."

Nuncle Rodrik was peering at the wall where the runes started – and then he gave a surprised grunt. "There is a place for this," he muttered as he lifted the burning brand closer to the wall. Asha looked closely and could suddenly see a depression in the wall next to the first line. The Reader reached out his hand and – after juggling it around a few times hesitantly – finally slid the stone into the wall. Nothing happened for a long moment and just as she was starting to almost hope that this was all a mistake something flared within the stone, as if a part of the sun had been trapped in its heart and was now making a bid for freedom. Brighter and brighter it shone – and then suddenly the lines through the runes seemed to shimmer and fade and the runes themselves suddenly blazed with light, so much so that Asha and the others all raised their hands to their eyes for a long moment as the room seemed to almost shake with something that she couldn't describe.

When she opened her eyes again and peeked through her fingers she gasped. The light had diminished but it was still clear and she looked about the walls in astonishment. The runes could now be read. All of them.

Nuncle Rodrik and Alyse were already at the wall where the runes started, reading and muttering to each other as what certain runes meant and she watched them for a moment. Those two seemed a good match. They were both fascinated by the runes.

Then she frowned. The other two were silent now and as she watched they continued to read the runes but grew more and more pale by the moment. Now the looks were filled with shock and even perhaps horror. In fact Nuncle Rodrik was more than pale as he reached the end wall, he was grey and his hands shook as if he was about to have an apoplexy.

"Asha, bring wine and a cup at once!" The command came from Alyse, who was watching him worriedly and even though she was not used to taking orders from anyone, Asha ran when she heard that note of command, ran as if her life depended on it. Up the stairs she dashed, along the corridor and into the room where she had met the others. There was a jug of wine on the table, with a stopper in the top, along with a couple of rather battered goblets and she grabbed them all and returned, trying to hurry at the stairs but not to break her neck.

She found them both by the door, still pale and wan, but Nuncle Rodrik's hands had stopped shaking. That said, they both fell upon the wine with grim but thankful looks at her. Both swallowed a goblet of wine almost in an instant – and then they both stared at the runes again.

"I never dreamed…" Alyse muttered, only to be cut off by Nuncle Rodrik.

"No-one did. No-one could. This is as bad as I had feared. We must guard this room with our lives, because our lives depend on it. Damphair… if he knew what was said in these runes then he would kill anyone who read them, before burning this place down to the bedrock to destroy it."

"Aye," Alyse muttered shakily. "That he would. But what now?"

"Nuncle," Asha broke in. "What do they say? You acted like a man suffering from a palsy when you read them!"

There was a pause as the other looked at each other. And then her Nuncle directed a long and intense look at her that made her feel deeply uneasy. She'd seen that look on his face before, but directed at others. It was the look he gave people that he was measuring up.

"Are you sure you want to know?" He asked the question in a low and intent voice. "You will not be the same after I tell you what the runes say. You may never be the same ever again."

She looked at him and then at the runes and then again back at him. "Tell me."

He paused for a moment and then he nodded, before handing his knife over to Alyse. "Guard the door if you please. We must not be overheard." She nodded back choppily and then went over to the entrance.

Asha watched all of this with a deepening unease, before looking at her Nuncle as he walked back to the start of the runes and then gesturing at her to join him.

"These runes," he said in a low and intent voice, "Were carved by my ancestor. It says so, here." And his hand gestured at a section of runes. "The Harlaw, it says. It's… it's an older name than I ever dared consider. Runespeaker, or Runecarver is the translation I think. And it tells a terrible tale."

He took a deep and shuddering breath into his lungs for a moment and then let it out again. "The Old Gods are many. And there was once an additional one. But this one… was twisted. Became twisted. Was wrong. Became... obsessed with death in the fight against the Others, until he went, well… mad."

Nuncle Rodrik gestured at another part of the wall. "The Old Gods… they tried to bring him back, but it was too late. The madness took hold and would not let him go. Death and coldness and madness, the madness of chaos. That was all he came to care about. All he desired."

His hand went to another part of a different wall. "So they cast him out," he said in a voice like ashes. "Out into the darkness of the sea – and the abyss that lies below it, populated by cold and terrible things that we know not. The Old Gods rejected him and condemned him to death in that darkness. But how can you kill a god? They both succeeded and failed. Succeeded in driving him away but failed in killing him. It sent him into that final pit of madness and despair – all so close to death.

"Not that that worried his followers. And he did have followers. Dark souls amongst the First Men they were, bitter and twisted themselves. They fled the mainland to follow his spirit. Because, as they said, 'What is dead can never die, but-"

"But rises again harder and stronger." She whispered the words in total horror. She felt cold all of a sudden, cold and clammy and she heard the glugging noise as he filled a goblet with wine and thrust it into her unresisting hands.

"Drink." It was a command that she could not disobey and she gulped down every drop before coughing a little. Not a fine vintage, but it mattered not.

"Nuncle-" She started to say in a voice filled with despair, this time he overrode her.

"The runes are clear Asha. Very clear. That's why they must have been hidden. They tell of the fall of the Drowned God and the arrival of his followers in these islands. They came here and they slowly converted or subverted the First Men here. Until they controlled what became the Iron Islands. And could openly worship their mad god." The last words were said as if they pained him.

"The Old Way – the Ironborn way? It feeds him, or what's left of him. Death, destruction, rape, pain, mutilation… don't look at me like that Asha. You know what your uncle Euron was noted for before his banishment. From the reports I've heard of him he's still a monster."

He ran his hands over his face as if wiping something away. "Fargh. Well now. As I said, the room must be guarded. I will copy the tale that the runes tell." He paused. "There is something else. The runes say… well, they say that the end of the Drowned God will come when the Stark in Winterfell wields his fist against him. In one of Theon's letters… well, he wrote that Ned Stark had found something in Winterfell. The weapon of his ancestors. A mace. It has a name. The Fist of Winter."

She needed another mug of wine after this. If she had been horror-struck before she was now terrified. "What will happen?" She asked the question in a faint, low, voice.

"I will send word of this… discovery to various people. Lords that I trust absolutely, here on Harlaw. I think I must also send word to the Stonebrows, to say that the Harlaw is awake. And then… well, I think you know what I must do. Will you stand with me or against me?"

She looked at the runes again and then saw the look that her nuncle was giving her. There was concern in it, but also an implacable will. She knew that he would always do the right thing. No matter what it cost. But she also knew something else. Old Wyk had changed something in her and now this room had pushed her again.

It was still an agonising decision to make. Nuncle Rodrik would be fighting Damphair. She cared not what happened to Damphair, as he was a religious lunatic with blood all over his hands. But he was also a cunning beast. And he had the ear of Father. But then was Father any better, really? Was he wise in planning to attack the North in revenge for his defeat? Was he really an idiot? And what would happen with Theon?

She swallowed. And then she made her choice. "I stand with you."