Willas

The desk always had papers on it now. The new map of the Reach on the wall was a larger one than before. It had to be. There was too much to do, too much to organise. He knew what the message had been now. 'The Garden' was The Reach. There could be no other explanation. How could he make it bloom again though? Wasn't it already in bloom? The number of plots being sowed with wheat or barley or indeed anything edible at all wept growing, but how much was down to him? Barely any, surely. That said, he kept organising, working out places to store the produce that would be grown, new places to make the jars that would be used for some things or the barrels for others. So much to do. So much to organise.

He looked over at the spear by the desk. Otherbane was unlike any weapon he'd ever seen before. The metal was odd for a start. He'd shown it to a swordsmith, who had peered at it – and then scrutinised it as hard as he had ever seen anyone look at anything in his life.

"Skymetal," had been the eventual, stunned response. "It's skymetal. And these stones… like glass. Obsidian I think, Lord Willas. Yes. Obsidian."

He'd done his research since. Skymetal was something that the First Men had used for some of their most precious relics, relics long since gone. Or were they? Robert Baratheon wielded a great sword made of something similar these days. And travellers from the North spoke of how Ned Stark bore a great mace these days. An ancient mace. The name whispered was that of the Fist of Winter.

He was still researching the runes. They were difficult to determine, as their meaning could be ambiguous. "To hold the line, stone by stone, as the garden blooms behind." What exactly did that mean? What line? The Wall perhaps? Should he travel there eventually? Surely he had to if the Others had returned. Perhaps the Reach had feed the forces on the Wall. That made sense too.

The problem was that he was not formally in charge of The Reach. Oh, he had support from Grandmother, but Father was still head of House Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach, and Warden of the South. But, he had to admit, his father was still an idiot. Amiable but an idiot.

He looked back at the papers in front of him. And then he heard the boots in the corridor. They stopped walking at his door and he looked up. Loras was standing there. "Father wants to see you. At once."

He stared at his younger brother, who had a look of sullen confusion on his face. Ah. It had come. That moment of confrontation with Father. He stood abruptly, placed the letters he'd received from Oberyn and the Citadel in his pocket, grabbed Otherbane and placed it in the carrying sheath that he had had made, slung it over his shoulder and then strode out, at such a pace that a startled Loras had to scurry to catch up with him.

As they passed down the corridor he looked out. Grandmother was embroidering something whilst sitting next to Margaery. As they passed Grandmother looked up as if by instinct, caught sight of him and then narrowed her eyes, before handing over her embroidery to Margaery and then stood and reached for her cane. Good.

Father was pontificating to a Maester in his study, which did not surprise him. He was discussing how he had always known about the statue of Garth Greenhand or something like that. As soon as he saw his sons he straightened up a little and dismissed the maester with a gesture.

"You summoned me Father," Willas said in a level voice. "Here I am."

Father flushed slightly and then stood up. "Willas. I think that it is long since past time that we talked about your increasing… meddling in the matters of the governance of The Reach."

Willas widened his stance slightly and then stared into his father's eyes. "Meddling. I would hardly call it that myself. I would rather say that I have become more aware of how The Reach is being run. And I in turn would caution you against meddling in things that you know nothing about. This plot with Renly Baratheon to replace the Queen with Margaery... It is folly Father. It is as stupid idea as I have ever heard. And it must stop."

His words seemed to stun Father for a moment, who first went pale – and then red with fury. "Stupid? Boy, do you have the faintest idea what you are talking about?"

"I do." He spat the words out with a cold certainty that seemed to puncture Father's bluster. "It is folly Father, as I said. Yes, the King's marriage is an unhappy one. But there is little reason to suppose that he'd suddenly send Cersei off to the Silent Sisters and then marry Margaery! My sister looks nothing like Lyanna Stark, even Robert Baratheon would regard is as a piece of political insanity, and do you really think that Tywin Lannister would sit back and let such a thing happen? Do you really think that Father?"

He could see Loras start to open his mouth and he turned on him in a flash. "Not a word, brother! Not a damn word! Your conviction that this madness contains even an ounce of sense is foolish beyond words. And Renly Baratheon is a fool if he thinks that this is possible. So – be silent."

Loras shut his mouth with a snap, apparently stunned into silence. Father on the other hand was starting to swell with rage – or possibly bluster – again. "Willas, we are talking about the highest gambits possible in the Game of Thrones, a game of the highest stakes! Stakes beyond your imagination! We have a chance to place a Tyrell at the side of the Iron Throne, to have Tyrell blood tied to the kingship and-"

"No!" He bellowed the word, leaning forwards and making Father lean back in shock. "No. No chance. It is folly. Even if Cersei is torn down at Queen, her children are still there. Joffrey may be young but he is a sadistic little shit and do you really think that he will look kindly on Margaery if she replaces his mother? And then there are still Mycella and Tommen! For Tyrell blood to sit on the Iron Throne you'd have to have the King disinherit his three legitimate children for any so far unborn children that he'd have with Margaery! Do you see that happening? Do you?"

"He's right, Mace, and you know it," said a voice from the door as Grandmother strode in, her cane clacking, before sitting without ceremony. "Oh and your attempts at getting that young man to distract me from this meeting were as fruitless as it is possible to get. Imbecile."

Father had turned a little pale at the arrival of Grandmother. Nevertheless he still rallied. "Mother, this is a private meeting, about-"

"About things that are far, far, above your head. Oh, you really are a blockhead. I admit it – I gave birth to an idiot. Mace, listen to Willas. He's more intelligent than you and he's right about one important thing."

He nodded and then looked at Father. "The Game of Thrones is in abeyance. It is no longer relevant as things now stand."

If Father had been shocked before then this stunned him. "In abeyance? Willas – what are you talking about? The Game of Thrones has always been played and anyone who thinks otherwise is naïve! I didn't think that my own son would be foolish to believe otherwise and-"

"The Call rendered it moot. The Call rendered everything else moot. Father, Winter is coming."

Loras snorted to one side, whilst Father just stared at him. "And now you aren't just foolish but you sound like a Stark! Winter… why are you talking about Winter when it's still Summer?"

He pulled out the letters and threw them onto the desk in front of him. "Oberyn Martell and one Arch-Maester Garin from the Citadel have both written to me. They told me the same tale – talked about the same facts. There's a Long Winter coming, Father. And we need to prepare for it, or The Reach will suffer."

More staring from Father and Loras – and a resulting sigh of despair from Grandmother at such a reaction. "A long Winter?"

"Yes, Father. Apparently the Citadel is currently in the middle of a huge argument about it. Nevertheless they do agree that the stars have changed. Father, this Summer has lasted for many years now. A Winter of equal length could be coming Father. The Reach must prepare for it."

Father kept staring at him. It was Loras who next spoke. "The Call? You speak of this Call that the smallfolk babble about? That mummery?!"

"Loras, dear," Grandmother said wearily. "Please stop talking. You can go away and polish your armour or something."

His brother glared as much as he dared at Grandmother, who returned the glare with one that reduced him to a small child.

"Mummery?" Willas said coldly. "The Call affected me, Loras. It was heard across Westeros, let alone The Reach. It wasn't just heard by the Smallfolk, nobles heard it too. The Redwynes have been sending supplies to the Wall. The Florents are as well. Even the Hightowers, ardent followers of the Seven that they are, have been talking about sending men and supplies to the Wall. They're certainly growing more food than they normally would. Even the Tarlys heard the Call"

He clenched his fists and then leant forward over the desk. "Father, something is happening. Something old and powerful. Something that everyone with the blood of the First Men has heard, or been affected by. People are growing more food, cutting more wood for Winter, preparing more containers for storage. Everyone doing so has heard the words. The Others are coming. The Stark calls for aid. We are needed. Even Robert Baratheon has felt the Call. He wields Stormbreaker again, the ancient sword of the Durrandons."

"There are tales about that sword," Grandmother said darkly. "The fact that he holds it is an omen. Willas is right – something is coming. Something old and powerful."

"The Tarlys… they came to Highgarden days ago. They saw you and not me. What did they want? What were you meddling in?" Father looked confused.

It was time. He unslung Otherbane and placed it on the desk. "This. They brought this."

"The spear you've been carrying about? What is it? I meant to ask you but I've barely seen you for days."

"It's Otherbane."

A startled silence fell. Father slowly turned white as he sank into the chair, Loras just stared at the spear and Grandmother just nodded as if satisfied by what Willas was doing and then leant back in her own chair.

"Otherbane?" Father finally gabbled. "The weapon of the Gardener Kings? The weapon that was supposed to have been destroyed at the Field of Fire? One of the oldest relics of The Reach?"

"Yes Father. The Tarlys brought it to me. It was hidden at Horn Hill by their ancestors after the battle, after the nephew of Mern the Ninth gave it to the then Tarly. It had to be hidden."

"Hidden?" Loras asked. He was eyeing the spear with what looked like undisguised greed. "Why was it hidden?"

"There was a prophecy," Grandmother said coldly. "It said that 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'. That would be your brother Loras. So stop staring at Otherbane like a rabbit looking at a carrot."

Father stood slowly. "It should be me who wields this spear. I am the head of House Tyrell. I am the heir to the Gardner Kings. You should have brought this to me as soon as the Tarlys gave it to you, Willas! This is my birthright!" He roared the last words as his face flushed with fury. "The Hightowers and the Florents sought this spear! This spear would cement the status of our family as the Lords of the Reach! To cement our control over Highgarden! Why did you not let me know at once about this!?"

"Because of prophecy! Because of the Call! The Tarlys came to me! Did you hear the words that Grandmother mentioned? I found the statue! I made the spring flow again! I saw what the last Gardener King saw at the Field of Fire! I was all but there! This is not about you Father! This is about The Reach!"

"This should be mine!" And with that Father lunged forwards and laid a hand on Otherbane – and then suddenly he roared with agony as he recoiled back into his chair so hard that it rocked backwards and almost tipped. He was clutching at his hand – and then he opened it and looked down. There was a livid red line across it and for a moment Willas thought that he could see a whiff of smoke in the air over his hand.

Everyone stared at him – and then at his hand. And then at Otherbane. After a long moment Willas reached out and picked up the weapon carefully. Nothing. He balanced it on his palms for a moment and then clenched his hands around the haft of it. Nothing again. He shrugged and then re-slung Otherbane on his shoulder.

"Mace," said Grandmother in an almost gentle voice. "There are strange legends about Otherbane. One says that it can only have one owner at a time. I think that Otherbane should remain with Willas. And I also think that you need to go hunting. Hunting a lot, I think. In fact it might be best if you stayed at your favourite hunting lodge and hunt there."

Father gaped at Grandmother and then at Willas. And then he seemed to almost deflate in his chair. Willas looked at his father with a sense of sadness. A light seemed to be almost fading out of his eyes. Father sat there for a long moment, clutching at his hand – and then he stood up and walked out of the room slowly. He looked… tired.

Grandmother watched him go and then turned to Willas. "The Reach is in your hands now my boy. I'm proud of you. Now – try not to get us all killed."

Ned

Tyrion Lannister was surprising him. He'd thought that the little man would have trouble on the trip, that he'd lag at times. Ned knew what it was like to push the pace on a trip. The ride to the so-called Tower of Joy still preyed on his mind at times. He remembered that ride all too well, as hope had warred with fear the entire time. But so far Tyrion Lannister had kept up with them very well indeed, partly because of his custom-made saddle. He had to say that he was impressed.

He was also impressed by Robb's stamina. His son was riding with a grim determination and the manner of a veteran – so much so that both the GreatJon and Roose Bolton had mentioned that his boy not only rode like a man used to war, but that he also knew what to do whenever they made camp, such as order a privy to be dug well away from camp where it would not pollute a watercourse.

He'd answered that he'd taught the boy all that he knew, whereupon the GreatJon had just nodded and Roose Bolton had given him a flat look that showed a hint of unease, by Roose Bolton standards anyway.

Tonight they were staying at an old abandoned holdfast, about a mile from the road. If he remembered correctly it had belonged to House Redstark once, many years ago. The lost houses nagged at him at times, the knowledge that the North wasn't as strong as it had been once was a weight around his neck at times. The North wasn't stronger than it had been in his grandfather's time, not as strong as he would have liked it to be. He'd worked hard to try to build up the North. But it never seemed to be enough.

The war that was approaching made things worse in a way. The North needed the South to hold the Wall. That said, the last time the Others had threatened the Wall the Kings of the North had been able to call on the First Men of the South for aid. He wasn't sure, but something like that was happening now, thanks to the Call. The Mountain Clans of the Vale might just be the beginning of it. He still wasn't sure what that message from Bronze Yohn Royce meant, and no raven had yet returned from Runestone. Odd, that.

Frostfyre was off hunting somewhere and he smiled slightly as he imagined the horror of whatever animals she would meet on that hunt. Robb, Jon and Theon were carefully feeding their own direwolf puppies in the corner of the intact part of the building that they'd reserved for themselves. It was good that they were close again. He had an odd feeling that they'd need each other. Theon seemed to be a different boy – no, man – from what he had been before. He seemed to think a lot more, certainly. As for Jon… well, being made an official Stark had taken some of the faint air of bitterness away from him. There was something different there now, a certain measure of gravity. And Robb – well, he had to admit that he was proud of the man he had become. He had learnt some very bitter lessons in that other time. The fact that he had not fallen into anger or despair, but instead had worked to learn what he had done wrong… well, that was a good thing.

He paused as he pulled his bedroll out of its container. He had the oddest feeling of satisfaction and ebbing hunger to…. to the North of where he was. Odd. Was the link he was sensing with Frostfyre getting stronger? Perhaps. He shrugged, put his things away tidily on the ground by his bedroll and then walked off to get supper from the communal fire that some of the men had started.

Speaking of starting things the GreatJon and Tyrion Lannister both had wooden mugs of foaming ale in their hands and the GreatJon looked as if he was teaching the man from the Westerlands how to quaff. The man from the Last Hearth was the right man to teach people how to do so.

Supper itself was a haunch of deer that had been caught two days before and had been hanging from the saddle of a supply horse since then. It smelt delicious as it revolved slowly over the fire and his mouth watered. It had been over the fire since it had been kindled and as he watched two men pulled it off and sliced the first strips of meat off it. He waited until there was enough for the men in the room and then nodded as some was placed on his plate and given to him. It was as good as it smelt and he almost inhaled it, watching as the haunch went back over the fire to keep cooking for the others.

"How long to the Wall from here, Lord Stark?" Tyrion Lannister asked once he'd eaten his share and then quaffed mightily.

Ned didn't need to think about it that much. "Two days to the Long Lake. Faster to sail than ride up it, so another two days for that part. Then up the Kingsroad to Castle Black, possibly through Queenscrown to see how much needs to be done there. That last part will be the longest part. Ten or twelve days for that part, if we drive ourselves hard and are lucky in that no-one throws a shoe."

Tyrion Lannister stared at him. "I'd heard that it took a month at the very least to get there."

"Ned's leading us," GreatJon Umber grunted. "As I said – shit through a goose."

"That's a very unpleasant metaphor, Lord Umber. Inaccurate too. How fast does shit go through a goose?"

"I really couldn't tell you," the GreatJon replied with a grin. Then he looked at Ned. "The longest part of the whole thing will be persuading Rickard bloody Karstark that the Others have really returned. He's a stubborn bastard."

"He sent a raven pledging his support," Ned pointed out mildly. "He should know."

"Aye," came the reply. "But he's still a stubborn bastard who thinks that he knows better than everyone else and that his pride beats everyone else's."

"He'll listen," Roose Bolton said quietly. "He'll have to."

"I'll talk to him," Ned said, looking to one side as his son, nephew and ward appeared looking ravenous. "He'll listen."

Someone shouted a challenge outside and he turned to look at the door with a frown. After a moment a man at arms entered and then saluted him with a thump of a spear on a flagstone. "My Lord, a man of the Night's Watch is here, demanding to see you."

"Admit him," Ned called, before standing. To his delighted astonishment Benjen strode in, a saddlebag slung over his shoulder. "Ben!"

"Ned!" And his brother strode up and embraced him in a rib-cracking hug that Ned returned in full force. "Thank the Gods – good to see you again."

"And you." Ned stepped back and looked at his brother. He looked tired, a little thinner but happy at seeing him. Then he saw the look he was giving him. "Your mission?"

"I did it," Benjen said in a low, level voice. "I have what is needed. I have the proof you seek."

Ned felt his throat constrict for a moment in a combination of exultation and dread. "You have the hand of a wight. "The hand – and also the head of one. We found cages for them, created by the First Men. It's a long story – but I have what you asked for." He looked about the room and at the men who were only now starting to notice Benjen, Robb, Jon and Theon included. "Ned, this is worthy of an announcement. They all need to see this."

Ned nodded thoughtfully. "Aye." Then he took a deep breath. "My Lords! Men of the North! Men with the blood of the First Men! Gather around!"

There was a susurration as the men all stood up and approached. By the bulging cheeks of the two other Starks and one Greyjoy they had taken the chance to stuff their mouths with whatever meat had been on their plate. He hoped that they wouldn't be spewing it on the floor soon.

"This is my brother, Benjen Stark, First Ranger of the Night's Watch. He has a tale to tell, of a mission I gave him. And something to show you all. A reminder of what we will be fighting. Benjen."

His brother quirked an eyebrow at him, as he had of old, and then cleared his own throat. "Lord Stark sent me North, beyond the Wall. I sought a prey that none of us has seen for thousands of years. A wight."

Silence fell, the muttering vanishing completely. GreatJon Umber stood there, his mug of ale in his hand and as grim a look as he ever bore on his face. Tyrion Lannister squinted up at Benjen to one side of the GreatJon, his face tense. Howland Reed stood to one side, his face darkened with foreboding and as for Roose Bolton… he was pale even by his standards. Of the others in the room all looked curious – and wary. Oh, so wary.

"And I found them. I found wights. Six of them. Both long dead and recently dead – but dead men and women that still walked. And fought. My companion and I killed them all, or rather cut them to pieces. Behold." He reached into a saddlebag and pulled out a bag, peered carefully in and then extracted a cage. There was a head in that cage. That of a woman. And then suddenly the eyes flicked open and blue orbs stared at them all – before the mouth opened and closed with a hiss.

He did his best not to flinch and just about got away with it. Most of the others did flinch though – a groan of shock and horror rolled around the room, along with exhortations to the Old Gods to save them all. He nodded sombrely. "Look at it, all of you. That's what we'll be fighting. That and worse."

A white-faced Tyrion Lannister was staring up at the head in horrified fascination. "What is that cage made of?"

"I don't know," Benjen said with a frown. "I found it at a place called the Overlook, by the Fist of the First Men." He looked at Ned wryly. "It's a long story."

"Knowing you it would be, Ben," the GreatJon said in a voice of forced joviality. "I think we need to hear it."

"Aye," said Lords Bolton and Reed at almost the same time as Robb. "We do."

Benjen nodded and covered the cage back up again. "Then sit and listen. Oh – and is there some food?"

Ned swallowed. Ben might be used to severed heads of wights in cages, but he wasn't. Not just yet anyway.