Willas

He read the report carefully, then pulled a piece of parchment towards him and jotted off a note to look into the production figures from the South-West area of the Reach in more detail. The projected harvest figures from there were… odd. At least a third higher than they should have been. A lot more land seemed to be under production than was usual. People seemed to be clearing more fields for planting, sowing more seed than normal – doing all the things that might be expected ahead of a bad winter.

It frightened him in a way. What did the smallfolk know that he didn't? Why weren't more nobles complaining? Was it this 'Call' that his father denied so much, simply because he refused to believe that Ned Stark could have any kind of power over the Reach?

Father had written to the Citadel at Oldtown, hoping to hear that magic had not returned. Willas had also written to the Citadel. The Maesters had sent back the same short, almost bitter, answer – 'The glass candles are alight. Magic has returned'.

Father thought that this was some kind of move in the Game of Thrones. He did not. This was not a part of the Game, this was a lightning bolt from a cloudless sky. This was a sign that there were other powers at work.

He sighed. Father was not the only person who denied the facts as he saw them. Loras had returned from King's Landing – and he was not in a good mood. He was convinced that at some point the King would have to set aside his wife Cersei. Why exactly he thought that he had not yet explained to Willas. Who had his own sources and knew the terrible secret that Loras was, erm, extremely close to Renly Baratheon.

Father seemed to be abnormally pleased with himself at the moment, as he probably thought that this plan involving Renly somehow getting Margaery married to the King was one of the few things that he seemed to be in control over at the moment. His own plan. No-one else's of course. Typical of Father.

He sighed and rubbed his forehead for a moment. Willas had let it quietly be known that he was dealing with administrative matters for the Reach. He had let others know even more quietly that he had heard the Call. Word had gone out about his discovery of the statue of Garth Greenhand. Word was spreading. And people were listening more to him than to Father.

He had to be careful. Father had to keep his dignity. But there was something happening here that was more important than anything he had ever done before.

The clack of a cane proclaimed the arrival of Grandmother. She sat opposite him with a slight grunt and then fixed him with a gimlet eye. "Your Father looks like he's planning something," she snorted. "And I finally know what. He wants Margaery to be Queen. Because young foolish Renly Baratheon thinks that he can persuade his brother to abandon the wife he hates – and who just happens to be Tywin Lannister's daughter – for one that he might possibly like better. Foolishness."

Willas put his quill down and raised an eyebrow. "Grandmother, the very fact that you know about that shouldn't surprise me. The dangers associated with it are terrifying. The threat from the Lannisters if they find out that Father is plotting to get the King a new wife…"

Grandmother snorted. "Good, you're not a fool. Unlike your father. Oh stop that eyebrow business, you know that I'm correct. How I birthed such a blockhead still eludes me. We both know the risks in this. And it is foolish to think that anything good can possibly come from it."

"I doubt that Tywin Lannister knows about it," Willas muttered. "If he did… well, he would have probably had an apoplexy by now from pure rage. The very thought alone would have made him incandescent." He shook his head. "I will talk to Father. Loras too. Now is not the time to get involved in such an affair. There is too much to do. And besides, I would see Margaery happy. I doubt that the King would make her so. He has been in a slough of despond since Lyanna Stark died."

Grandmother looked at him carefully and then nodded. "Good luck with that," she said shrewdly. "Your Father will disagree. But then of course he's a nincompoop. And I agree with what you think about Robert Baratheon. In the meantime, word is spreading."

"Word of what?"

"Word of your discovery. Word of your being healed. Word of this Call to the North."

Ah. The Call, again. He sighed a little. "The blood of the First Men is strong in many places."

"In both of us," she said crisply. "My nephew Paxter has written to me. This Call rang loud in The Arbor. Ships have been sailing North with supplies for the Wall. And more fields are being planted than I have ever heard of before. You are right to concentrate on this."

He nodded and was about to speak further when there was a knock on the door. He looked over to see a servant standing there. "What is it Corryn?"

"Beg pardon for disturbing you Lord Willas, but Lord Randyll Tarly is here and wishes to speak to you. He and his son."

He blinked at this and then looked at Grandmother, who also looked surprised. "Randyll Tarly? Here? Very well, show him in."

As he stood to greet their guests he saw at once that the surprises did not end there. As Randyll Tarly strode in and bowed, his bald head gleaming a little, Willas could see a wide figure behind him. Oh. It was Samwell Tarly, with an odd long canvas bag, as long as from his shoulder to his feet. He'd heard a rumour that the boy was on the point of 'volunteering' to take The Black at the insistence of his father. Then he looked again as he gestured at them to sit. Randyll Tarly looked… well, unlike his usual decisive self. Instead he looked uneasy and uncomfortable. As for Samwell Tarly, well he looked as if he hadn't slept in a week and there might even have been a hint of cheekbone somewhere on his face. He looked as if he hadn't eaten in a week as well. But there was something else. A gleam of triumph. Odd.

"Lord Tarly," he began. "How can I help you?"

Much to his surprise this question was met by a strained silence. Randyll Tarly was a man who called a spade a bloody shovel, but for what looked like the first time in his life he looked as if he was speechless. The big man sat there, clenching and unclenching his hands, as his face worked in an effort to get a word out.

It was Samwell Tarly who finally broke the silence. "It's this Call, you see Lord Willas."

Randyll Tarly looked at his son with what looked like a combination of annoyance and relief. It was a look that made him seem slightly demented. "Yes," he finally said. "The Call. It was loud at Horn Hill. Very loud." And both Tarlys were pale as he said those words, with Samwell nodding hard. "And then… then the dreams started."

Willas swapped glances with his Grandmother. The two Tarlys had now gone even paler, if such a thing was possible. "Dreams?" he prompted after a moment.

"Aye. Dreams. Dreams of the aftermath of the Field of Fire. Dreams of the death of the nephew of Mern IX, burnt horribly there." Both men were now a little green, Samwell Tarly more so than his father. "He died days after the battle."

After a moment Randyll Tarly rallied a little. "Lord Willas… House Tarly is an old one. Horn Hill dates back to the days of the First Men. But we have long been sworn to Highgarden." He looked at Willas and straightened a little in his seat. "Before the Tyrells we were sworn to the Gardener Kings. We were… we were their First Marshals. There was a reason for that, or so Sam here tells me."

The younger Tarly had been twitching with excitement and at his father's invitation he leant forwards. "Tarly is old name, Lord Willas! It dates back to the language of the First Men and it's… well, it's two words put together. Originally Tarly meant SpearKeeper!"

This meant nothing at all to Willas – but not to Grandmother, who sat up with a jerk. "SpearKeeper? The Tarly's held the Great Spear of the Gardeners?"

"Aye." Both Tarlys spoke at once. And then Randyll Tarly cleared his throat whilst looking very uncomfortable. "It… it was said that the spear was always held in the keeping of the eldest son of House Tarly. Always."

She stared at them both. "That spear was destroyed at the Field of Fire though."

Another silence. "The dreams said not," Randyll Tarly finally said. "And… and the stories that my Grandfather once told me. Tales I thought to be ridiculous. Legends. The babbling of an old man. But…"

"The dreams kept coming," Samwell Tarly broke in. "And they were… vivid."

"My son, here… he dreamt them more vividly than others. More so than his brother. More so than… than I did. Or his mother." Randyll Tarly's ears had gone an odd red colour and he seemed to have trouble with a number of the words. "So… he was allowed into the library to… look in the books."

There was something in the air that was odd. Willas looked at the two men. "Allowed in the library?"

Lord Tarly's ears turned a shade deeper red. "The boy spent too long there as it was. Before. Not enough time training." His son glared at him for an instant before looking back at the bag again and smirking a little.

"I went through the books," the younger Tarly said. "All of them. Dating back to the earliest years of the Tarlys, to see how far back we were Keepers of the Spear. And then to the Field of Fire. The records – the hidden records – said that the spear was saved by the nephew of Mern IX. He took terrible burns for it, but he saved it. And then, on his deathbed, he summoned Rickard Tarly to him, our ancestor. He was the one who had brought the spear to the Gardener King."

"Why did the Gardener Kings not have it all the time?" Willas asked, fascinated.

The Tarlys looked at each other. "It was made by Brann the Builder, they say," Samwell Tarly continued. "For Garth Greenhand, or his sons at least. The books said that it could be used to rally men, like the Fist of Winter and to dispense justice. It was more than ceremonial, it had power. They… I think that they were cautious about it."

"The Fist of Winter?"

"A mace. Owned by the Starks. Long lost, the books said. Once I read them that is." His eyes slid over to his father, whose ears had turned red again. "Anyway, Mern's nephew gave the spear to Rickard Tarly. Told him to hide it. Said that he'd had a dream." His eyebrows went up and down again. "He'd tried to warn his uncle. He didn't listen. And he told the then Lord Tarly to keep the spear until it was needed again."

Lord Tarly nodded. "The records were very clear about that." And then he stood and turned to his son and nodded firmly. Samwell stood as well and opened the canvas bag – and pulled out a short stabbing spear, about four feet long and with an odd wide blade with peculiar black things embedded in holes in the latter. He hefted it for a moment and then placed it on the desk in front of Willas. "There," he said hoarsely. "The spear of the Gardener Kings."

Willas stared at it with more than a hint of utter bafflement. This was… utterly unexpected. "Where was it again?" he finally said.

"Hidden in the Armoury at Horn Hill," Randyll Tarly said gruffly. Then, after Samwell cleared his throat meaningfully, he clarified: "There was a secret room built into the Armoury. My son noticed that the inside of one end of it was, erm, shorter than the building measured on the outside. We discovered a hidden door. Lock needed a lot of oil… but one of my grandfather's keys worked in it. He once told me that it was important. He once told me that the book with the tale that we found in it about the spear was important. I… I paid him no mind. It was just a book. Just a key." His ears were bright red again, as was the back of his neck and he refused to look at his son. Finally he said in a strained and hollow voice: "I was wrong."

Another silence and this one let him inspect the spear. It didn't look anything like most spears that he had ever known. It was all made from some kind of metal, with leather wrappings down the last third of it. It had runes of some sort written down the side that was facing him. And the blade… the black things looked like stones – but some kind of stone that was black in some places, almost red in others and like streaked and murky glass in others still.

Grandmother seemed to have gone into some kind of shock. "The… the Hightowers, the Florents and the Redwynes gave up looking for this after the Field of Fire. They all thought it was gone, melted by the dragon fire. Whoever held it was supposed to be the rightful ruler of the Reach."

"Begging your pardon Lady Oleanna, that's why it was hidden," Samwell Tarly said grimly. "It would have been fought over. And the time had not yet come for it to return to Highgarden."

"But that time is now?" Grandmother asked caustically. "Why?"

"The Call," Randyll Tarly grunted. "The Call has gone out. The Others have returned. The Stark In Winterfell needs our help. We are needed. House Tarly will send help to the Wall. But first this had to be brought here. Mern's nephew left a message. The spear has to go to the man within whom the blood of Garth Greenhand rings true. The man who will find the Gardener's Rest in Highgarden and restore the spring there. The man whose leg was broken and then remade. The man who saw the Field of Fire through Mern's eyes." Randyll Tarly looked at him carefully. "That would be you. Not your father."

Willas stood slowly and then reached out and picked it up. It was heavy – heavy in an odd way, as if he was holding something heavy with time as well as weight. He could see its use now. Used with a shield… yes, this could be something to stab at any enemy. This was something from an earlier age. A more violent age. Something seemed to shift under his feet a little and he looked about the room quickly before returning his gaze to the spear.

Grandmother was staring at him, or rather at his eyes, for a moment, before shaking her head. "A trick of the light," she muttered. "Does it have a name?"

"Aye," Randyll Tarly said. "It does. Otherbane."

Kevan

The door to Tywin's solar was closed as he walked down the corridor, but as he approached it the door opened and a Septon came out. Oh. It was that idiot again. Then he looked more closely. The Septon was pale and shaking and looked as if he was about to vomit as he walked down the corridor. Seeing Kevan's glance at him he gave a ghastly smile and then fled.

He found Tywin at his desk, a look of deep concentration on his face. As Kevan sat Tywin finally looked up. "Astonishing, isn't it? The power of faith. Or should that be faith in power? Septons!" He spat the last word bitterly and then steepled his hands. "Idiots, the lot of them. Worse – dangerous idiots."

Kevan raised an eyebrow. "Dangerous? For what reason?"

His brother sighed and then tossed a message across the desk at him. "One of the last messages sent by Jon Arryn, before he was attacked. It warns of a worrying event in the Great Sept of Baelor. Of mutterings amongst the Septons and Septas. And of rumours of the resurgence of the Faith Militant." This time the last words were said in a tone of unremitting bitterness that made the previous tone seem almost happy.

"Ah," Kevan said after a moment. "Not your favourite group at all."

"Not even in the slightest." He leant back in his chair with what looked like a visible effort of will to appear to be calm. "If there's one thing that all my years as Hand of the King taught me, it's that you always look for the slightest sign of the Faith Militant. Everywhere. Because they never truly went away, Baelor's Law not withstanding. Various High Septons have always tried to have the law repealed. They cited umpteen events, umpteen attacks on the clergy of the Faith. Some were even real. I always said no. As has every other Hand before and since my time.

"They said that it was a question of protecting the Faithful. They lied. It was always about power. There's always been a balance of power between Kings and nobles in Westeros. Delicate at times, no matter what part of the Kingdom as a whole, but a balance. The Faith Militant was an effort by the Faith to insert themselves into that balance, to become a greater player in this greater game of thrones. High Septons who could call upon knights and others to use the threat of violence… well, at the very least no King would ever be able to control the Great Sept again, still less the Starry Sept. At most… can you imagine it? A King forced to take the High Septon seriously? Oh don't look at me like that. The last few High Septons have been idiots. I should know, I knew them, or at least knew of them. You should have seen the ones I used to get appointed when I was Hand. Some of them genuinely thought that they been appointed by their peers!"

Kevan blinked a little. "And the Septon who just left?"

"An idiot. But one capable of listening to facts, namely that any recurrence of the Faith Militant in the Westerlands, no matter what the cause, would meet with my… extreme displeasure."

And this made Kevan wince a little. "Extreme displeasure? How… final would that be?"

"Oh, the usual. If anyone raises a force of arms on my lands without my permission, that would be cause for their heads to be on spikes soon after. All their heads. Starting with any foolish Septon who might have thought about giving permission for such a group. Oh and the executioner would have a blunt sword."

"Subtle," Kevan pointed out drily as he finally started to read the message. "Did it have the desired effect?"

His brother scratched at an eyebrow. "Posasibly," he conceded after a long moment. "I'll see what his words are worth, if anything. A firm hand and a few object lessons should suffice, for the Westerlands at least. No, it's the Riverlands I'm worried about. More rumours about fighting near God's Eye. If the unrest starts to spread closer to us and if it gets anywhere near Golden Tooth I'll consider more… stern actions."

Kevan wasn't entirely paying attention, because he was staring at the message. "The statues of the Seven at the Great Sept have changed? How?"

"A pretty riddle is it not? I wonder how it was done. Some clever Septon. It seems to have fooled Jon Arryn for the time being."

"And Stannis Baratheon?"

"Ah. That. Yes, that's the part with worries me. Stannis Baratheon is a dour and humourless man, but if there is one thing that he is not, then that's credulous. Or religious. If he was taken in by this mummery…"

"What if it's not mummery? What if it was the Seven delivering a warning?"

"Why now, after so long a silence?"

"The Call."

A long silence fell, as Tywin sank a little deeper into his chair and glowered at the farthest wall. "The Call. That still puzzles me. I did not hear it, but I felt… something. Something that took me – took us both – to that room. Others heard a voice. A call to aid the Stark in Winterfell. That is something that I cannot explain."

He shifted his chair a little closer to the desk and looked at his older brother. "Tywin, something is happening. The smallfolk are whispering. They speak of a Long Winter coming. Crops are being planted in places where they haven't been in some time. Firewood is being chopped, when it is still Summer."

"I know," Tywin said. "My own people have told me as such. They also say that help should be sent to the Wall. And then there is talk of the blood of the First Men." He hesitated and then threw another message across the table. "From Tyrion in Winterfell."

Kevan peered at it and then looked up, confused. "Did he write this whilst drunk? It makes no sense!"

The faintest part of the beginning of a smile came and went in a heartbeat on Tywin's face. "He left out the vowels from the more unimportant words in an effort to get the most words in. Clever of him. You just have to think about it."

He looked back at the message and then started to read it out, stumbling occasionally. "Lrd Stark – Lord Stark, obviously – um, prepares? yes, prepares for war at the Wall. Sent out the Call. Claims that the… Others are coming. Wldlngs… Wildlings, yes, fleeing South. Night's Watch needs, erm, support. Old Gods have spoken to him. Stark has a direwolf…" He looked up at this. "Old Gods? What nonsense is this? Of course Ned Stark has a direwolf, it's on his damn banner."

"You missed out a word."

"'lv'? What? 'Stark has a… a…"

"A live direwolf. Keep reading."

"A live direwolf, that has given birth to pups. Stark children have direwolves now? Boltons, Umbers and Reeds at Winterfell. Appeal to King Robert discussed. Help to Wall coming from all over Realm. Stark worried about Ironborn. Ironfleet building. Balon Greyjoy dangerous. Beware possible raids, coast of Westerlands. Ask Maesters about the Crook in the stars. Erm, he's underlined this next bit. 'Winter is coming.'" He put it down. "Most… peculiar."

Tywin drummed his fingers on the desk for a moment. "Some of the more important Lords of the North in Winterfell? Starks always say that Winter is coming. They're always right about it. That's how they've kept the North safe through Winters that would freeze even the best-prepared Lannister to the bone. That said… I don't know what to do now. In reaction to that message that is."

There was an odd look to his brother, a look of anger and bafflement. The last time that Kevan had seen anything close to that look was the day that he'd heard that Jaime had been appointed to the Kingsguard. "You… don't know what to do?"

"No!" Tywin spat almost savagely, before seeming to catch himself and then reassemble his calm. "Tyrion says that Stark is preparing for war. Of its own that would confuse me – a war against who? The Riverlands? That would pit him against his dying Goodfather and his wastrel Goodbrother. The Vale perhaps? No, Ned Stark would cut off his own hand rather than attack Jon Arryn's home. The Iron Islands? Perhaps, there's no love lost between him and Balon Greyjoy, and apparently the Ironfleet is being rebuilt, which is a bad sign. But Stark holds the Greyjoy heir in Winterfell and Robert Baratheon would adore another war against the Ironborn that he despises so much, so why prepare on his own?

"But Tyrion says that Stark is preparing for a war North of the Wall. That means against perhaps the Wildlings. Except that Tyrion says that they are 'fleeing South'. Why would Wildlings flee? The Others, of legend? Legend." He pinched the bridge of his nose for a long moment.

"There are many points to consider here, brother. If I call the banners to help support the Starks then people will ask: why, for what reason? If I say 'because of the Others' then they will stare at me as if I am mad. Those that refuse the Call that is. They will say that the Others are a legend of the North. That Tywin Lannister is afraid of ghosts and tales that men tell to frighten small children."

Kevan looked at his brother. "And what of those who heard this Call and who say that you are reacting to a real threat?"

Tywin stared at the other wall again. "How many who heard that call are still convinced that they heard it at all? Can I risk taking such a gamble? All my life I have striven to make House Lannister a force to be reckoned with again, a force to be feared. I am not our Father and I have always done my best to tell people that. I am not Father, with his weaknesses, his fancies and his theories. But if I say that I believe in this 'Call', if say that I believe that something is North of the Wall and coming for us, without any other proof… what then? What will people say? Will they follow, or will they laugh at me?"

Ah. Kevan nodded slowly as he thought it all through. "You need more then?"

"I need more. Tyrion's letter is a start. He… he has earned a little of my respect."

"He is a better man than you think, brother. But then I have told you that many times."

Tywin snorted. "At present he's the best of a bad lot. Jaime spends all his time thinking up clever things to say. I wanted him at my side instead of in that damned white cape, but he still remains in the Kingsguard, guarding a whoring sot of a man, although the last reports from King's Landing do say that Robert Baratheon is changing a bit. Cersei? She remains an idiot. Her last letter told me – told me, as if I was hers to command! – that I should press to be the new Hand of the King. Despite that the fact that Stannis Baratheon already holds that position. My daughter… she thinks she's clever and she's not. She thinks she's cunning and she's not. No, she's a vindictive little idiot with little idea about the real world.

"Which leaves… the dwarf. Who drinks too much and sees too many whores. And you would have him as Lord of Casterly Rock?"

"I would have you trust him more, give him duties and responsibilities and then assess him on his own worth! Of course he drinks and whores. He has too much time on his hands. Is he doing that in Winterfell at the moment, or is he sending you valuable intelligence?"

A dangerous silence fell as Tywin glared at him, before taking back the message and then glaring at that instead. "We shall see. In the meantime we can look at one thing at least – go to Lannisport and inspect our defences. If Balon Greyjoy is thinking anything particularly stupid then I want to cut his manhood off before his fleets get anywhere even near the Westerlands."