Argh, sorry about the earlier version of this.

Willas

He had always liked Grandfather's solar. It was big and airy and had a lot of books in it and he had promised himself that when the time came to take over Father's solar he'd model it after Grandfather's one.

That time was now looming closer than he wanted to think about. In fact he would give anything to postpone that moment.

He rubbed his hands over his face and stared out of the window at where the Honeywine met the sea. Every hour at the moment was an additional gift. He clutched at those hours, embraced them. Father was not dead yet.

The Septon that he had rescued was dead. He had died within an hour of that... incident, that horrible encounter at the gate. The poor man's skull had been broken, along with much of his face, with the sound of his breathing being a horrible groaning gurgle, until the moment that it had ceased completely.

As for the Septon who had run, well he had been found in the lowest level of the Highhtower, gibbering with fear and caked with his own filth. He had been screaming something about the voices in his head and was now restrained, having been scrubbed from head to toe and then dosed into unconsciousness with a massive dose of the milk of the poppy.

And then there was the Septon of the Starry Sept. His... bones, if they could even still be called that, given that they were little more than slimy pieces of rotted filth, had been burned and then returned to the stunned senior priests of what had once been the most important Sept in Westeros.

But Father still lived. He was shrunken, palsied, attended by Maesters, but he still lived and Willas wanted to cling to that fact.

Feet scuffed at the doorway and then a pair of knuckles rapped at the door. He looked up tiredly to see Loras standing there. His brother was red-eyed and almost shaking with tiredness. "You need to come," Loras muttered. "Father is awake."

He stood at once, eagerly - but then he saw the look on the face of Loras. "What's wrong?"

Loras stood there, his face working with misery prevalent on his face. "They say... they say that Father is dying. That he does not have long left to live. It... it might be true. Father is desperate to see you. You... you should hurry."

For a long horrible moment he stood there - and then he grabbed Otherbane and he ran. Various guards watched him go and he cared not what they thought of his passage, but he knew that he had to get to the room where Father had been taken as fast as possible.

When he finally arrived he could tell at once that the situation was grave. Grandfather was standing at the doorway, talking in low and intent tones with Maester Olwin, the healer who had been sent over by the Citadel in a desperate effort to find out what was wrong with Father. When Grandfather saw him his face went taut. "Your father wants to see you," the Lord of the Hightower said gently as he walked up to them both. And then he looked at Willas and placed a hand on his shoulder. "You must be strong," he muttered. And then: "I'm proud of you my boy."

He nodded at Grandfather and then walked with trembling legs into the room, which was dominated by the bed that Father had been placed onto. He was staring up at the ceiling, blinking only occasionally, and his face was thin and lined. Willas looked back at Maester Olwin. "How is he suddenly so thin?"

The older man shrugged helplessly. "I know not Lord Willas. 'Tis as if whatever he confronted sucked the life out of him. It drained him. How he kept his sanity and life when the others did not... I know not. He is a strong man, your father. But he is coming to the end of his strength. He does not have long left. You should talk to him."

Willas closed his eyes for a long moment. This was the moment that he had been dreading since the confrontation at the Gate, but he did not want this to happen. He did not want to take over from Father at all. Who would? But he steeled himself and then walked over to the bed.

Garlan was already in the room sitting by the bed and he stood up, as red-eyed as Loras, yielding the chair to Willas. He hugged his brother gently and then sat down and took Father's hand in his. "Father? It's me. Willas."

Slowly, oh so very slowly, Father turned his head to look at him and he did his best not to blanche at the look in those almost lifeless eyes. But then the eyes seemed to focus and then come alive. "Willas?"

"It's me Father."

Father's shaking hand clutched at his. "Good... that you are here. I... heard. About the Septon. So sorry. So... sorry. Shouldn't have come..."

Willas shook his head. "You've nothing to apologise for, Father. You couldn't have known. "

But Father seemed to disagree, because his face worked for a long moment as he seemed to fight off a bout of tears. "I should... should have never come here. Stupid... of me. Prideful of me. I wanted... to lead the Reach again."

"Father..."

"You need to stop him."

He paused and peered at his father. "Stop who?"

"The... the thing behind the gate. I... I heard him. He is... he is... a terrible creature. He is dead... but cannot die. He wants to die but keeps... living. He is... a mad creature. A terrible creature. The Call... it woke him. He is... mad. Enraged. You... beat him back. I know why... you wield Otherbane now. It... repels him. For a while."

Willas stared at his father for a moment. "For a while? What do you mean Father?"

Tears started from Father's eyes. "Because... because he will fight you. Blight... you. Beware. Blight. His influence... brings blight..."

Horror stole over him. "Father... whatever is behind the gate will blight the harvest? Afflict the Reach?"

Father nodded jerkily. And then he clutched at his hand again. "He's afraid. Afraid... of the Stark. Of what the Stark wields. You... must call him. Only way... to kill him. To kill a god."

This was madness. He stared at Father. "There is a... a god behind the gate?"

This time Father flailed at his hand. "Yes! Yes! I heard him! Madness! He is... beyond mad! You must hold him... hold him back. The Fist. The Fist will... kill him."

"The fist? Whose fist?"

Father's face worked for along moment. "Ned... Stark. He... has... it..." And then he slumped back onto the bed, his face slackening - as did his grip.

Willas stared at that slackening hand - and then at Father's face. And then he took it his hands and wept as he realised that Father's eyes were lifeless.

Oberyn

The stink of Kings Landing was something that could be smelt far out to sea, like a miasma of corruption that really said everything about the wretched place. He leant against the railing of the ship and stared at the city with a certain amount of wry loathing. It would always be the place where Elia had died, at the hands of the Mountain. One day his vengeance would come. One day.

He looked up at the Red Keep and pulled a slight face. Well, at least Robert Baratheon wasn't there. The Fat King was up in Winterfell, investigating this Call business with the Toothgrinder and Ned Stark, who was probably back there now after his trip to the Wall. He wished that news of Sarella was more up to date. The last he'd heard was that she was on her way to the Nightfort, along with that astonishing new that she was on the trail of Gerion Lannister. Interesting.

Well, perhaps there would be a letter on its way to him. He'd sent a raven ahead of him to warn his personal agent in this stinking shithole of a city, and if Sarella had sent any letters to him by ships that stopped at King's landing they would be there waiting for him.

The first thing that struck him as the ship moored at the jetty was that the Goldcloaks that he could see seemed… different. Less slovenly than the last time he had visited the city. They did not lean on their shields, they did not have rust on their spears and they did not seem to be taking bribes openly from people. He raised a languid eyebrow and then peered at the city itself. That, at least, was still the same.

Gods, it stank.

"Will you go to the Red Keep?"

He looked at the captain of the ship, who had once again displayed that uncanny ability of sneaking up on him, and who was once again dressed in those tight breeches that showed off her slim, almost boyish, arse. Sylva Sand was of determinedly mixed parentage, could out-swear an Ironborn, was nowhere near as pretty as Ellaria, who was back at Sunspear, and was an absolute handful in the bunk of his cabin. It was like fucking a snake at times.

"Depends on a few things," he muttered, as he watched a new Goldcloak appear, an older man with a tough of grey in his brown hair and one oddly foreshortened hand. He was looking at the ship with a knowledgeable squint. "The Goldcloaks seem to be much changed."

"The Onion Knight has knocked some honesty into them," Sand replied, before glowering at a nearby sailor and snapping at him for not coiling a rope correctly. Then she looked back at him. "That's him down there."

"The famous Knight of Onions?" He straightened and then looked at her. "I'll be back in a bit."

As he strolled down the gangplank and then reached the wharf he sobered a little. Ser Davos Seaworth had been one of the men who had been there when Lord Dayne had died and he owed him his thanks for that at the very least. "You are Ser Davos, I have been told?"

The other man nodded and then bowed awkwardly. "Prince Oberyn Martell I believe? I heard that you had arrived. Be welcome to King's Landing. If you are not too much in a hurry Lord Arryn would like to see you."

He raised both eyebrows for a moment, brushed his moustache languidly, inspected the sky, his boots, the nearby inn where there was a women with astonishing large breasts leaning out of a window and then back at Seaworth – who was just stolidly looking back at him. "Oh, very well. Do you have a horse?"

Yes, there was a horse, and not a bad one, and as they rode up the hill towards the Red Keep he looked at the main gate. There was a rotting head there on a spike and as he passed under it he stared at it and then gave it a mocking little salute. Petyr Baelishs' features were just about recognisable under a layer or three of pitch.

"You knew him?" Seaworth asked curiously as they drew rein and then dismounted.

"I met him once," Oberyn replied as he handed his reins to a groom. "And I distrusted him at once. But since he died he has given Dorne so very much gold after we were allowed to appropriate his holdings on our land."

"The bloody man had tendrils everywhere," Seaworth growled as he led him towards the Tower of the Hand.

The entrance there was guarded by a pair of guards in Arryn colours, who knocked at the door as they approached, resulting in the appearance of what looked like a steward of some kind who bowed at him. "Prince Oberyn? Lord Arryn will see you at once."

The inside of the tower still had a very much Vale appearance – Arryn colours, clunky furniture, the general Andal solidity and, well, boring stolidity. That said, there were a few other things that stood out. It looked as if many things had been packed up and not replaced with anything just yet.

As for Arryn himself, he was standing up from behind a desk and walking towards him. The old man did not look as bad as he had heard, but there was a hitch in his step and something about his eyes that spoke of something that was more than tiredness. "Prince Oberyn," Arryn said quietly as he bowed slightly to him and then held out a hand. "Welcome to King's Landing."

"Thank you Lord Arryn," Oberyn replied as he bowed a little himself and then shook hands with the older man. "You wished to see me?"

Arryn nodded and then waved a hand to the entirely nondescript man who was standing to one side of the room and who immediately bustled about, pouring wine from a flagon that had obviously been airing for some time. A look and a sniff at the proffered goblet soon told him why. "You have some of the '53? A noble vintage – Dornish wine at its finest!"

A slight smile played around Arryn's lips as he sipped from his own goblet. "I admired it at the time and it has only matured with age. I laid down quite a bit of it."

Oberyn sipped himself, resisted the temptation to smack hi s lips and instead sank into the nearest chair and then put his feet up upon the edge of the desk in front of him. Arryn's servant scowled. Arryn merely looked slightly amused as he sat on the other side of the desk.

"You do not mind?" Oberyn asked with a wry smile and a wave of the hand at his feet.

"It's no longer my desk," Arryn replied. "I am merely helping out until Lord Stannis Baratheon, the present Hand, returns from Winterfell. I am… tired. Recent events have rather underlined the fact that I need to the Vale and begin to muster its resources."

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end for a moment, but he hid it by sipping more wine and glancing about the place. "I was sorry to hear about the attack on your person," he replied, using quite a bit of equivocation. Frankly he did not care a jot about Arryn's health. "I understand that your wife has been caught?"

Arryn leant back in his chair and flickered an eyebrow briefly at him. "She has," he said flatly. "A trial will be arranged. It is all… most unfortunate. But such is life. In the meantime, may I ask you why you have come to King's Landing?"

Ah, now here was the moment. He took another sip. "The Call," he admitted eventually. "I am here on behalf of my brother, Prince Doran. This… Call… has been heard by many of the Stony Dornish who have the blood of the First Men most strongly within them." He sighed a little. "Lord Dayne was one of them. On behalf of Sunspear I would like to thank you for what you did to ease his passing."

"Thank Ser Davos Seaworth. He was at the docks when Lord Day's ship came in and arranged for him to be brought to a comfortable room in a nearby building at once, whilst Ser Jaime Lannister, who was also there, sent a guard to get Edric Dayne at once. He was barely there in time."

He suppressed a snarl at the mention of the word 'Lannister', and instead nodded. "We heard that he passed Dawn on to his son before he died. And that the new Lord Dayne had departed for Winterfell."

"Like so many others," Arryn sighed. "I take it that you have questions about the Call?"

He sipped more wine and then pulled a slight face. "Oh, only several dozen, many of which can be boiled down to a few, such as how it was sent out, not to mention why it was sent out. The words are echoing all around the land, my Lord. 'The Others come. The Stark calls for aid. You are needed.' The 'Others', Lord Arryn? Surely they are nothing more than a myth. But as to how the Call was sent out… magic must have been involved, and that makes me… curious."

Arryn looked at him with hooded eyes – and then he sighed a little. "A long-overdue message came in from Winterfell a day ago. Apparently Lord Stark's ancestors created, or inherited, an… artefact. An object. It sent out the Call. As to why it sent out the Call… well, there is something you need to see. Your timing is excellent. The previous… object was replaced by another one." And with that he stood and gestured at the door, before walking to it. Confused, Oberyn drained the last of the excellent wine and then followed the old man out of the door, down the stairs and then out into the courtyard.

By the time they reached the throne room Oberyn was truly baffled, especially by the look on the faces of the men who had passed them in opposite direction coming from the room with that accursed chair. All had been pale and a few looked as if they were trembling.

Arryn had a word with the guards at the door, who nodded at him, and then led Oberyn in. Before the Iron Throne there was a small table and on that table there was a small cage. And within that cage was… the severed head of a woman? It was hard to see, the head was facing away from them and there was something odd about it. It was not a fresh head – but there was no smell that normally accompanied such a thing.

He was about to ask when in the name of the Seven Hells was going on when two things happened. The first thing was that he noticed that the head was that of a woman. The second thing was that her eyes were open and she was watching him – and then the head opened its mouth and hissed at him.

Despite himself he flinched for a moment – and then he drew on every ounce of self-control, every scrap of proud restraint, and forced himself to smile. "Very interesting," he drawled. "Is it real or a toy from Myr?"

"Take a closer look at it. You can pick the cage up if you like. Just don't stick your finger in anywhere near its mouth. An idiot from the Vale did that. He lost the first joint of his hand."

Oberyn raised a languid eyebrow at the old man and then picked the cage up and shook it slightly so that the head fell over. And at it's base… were severed tendons and the gleam of white bone where the spine was. The mouth hissed again and the eyes swivelled furiously around to try and glare at him.

No wires. No levers.

No metal.

It was real. He suppressed the sudden need to swallow as his mouth and throat were suddenly extremely dry. A slight tilt of the cage restored the head to an upright position and then he placed the cage back down on the table and backed away from it. "The head of a wight," he said eventually. "I have never seen anything like it."

"Few have," Arryn replied tiredly as he sat on a stool that a guard had brought for him. "Our friend over there brought the cage down from Castle Black. The cage replaces another one that had the head of a male wight that is now being taken down the Roseroad to Highgarden."

He looked to one side and saw the silent figure in black that had been standing in the shadows to one side. Then he turned back to the cage and inspected it closely. "What metal is this made from?"

"We do not know," the man from the Night's Watch rumbled in a low voice. "The cages are the work of the First Men. They slow the rotting of what is placed within them. There are runes on them my Lord."

He peered at the cage again. Yes, there were indeed runes. "Proof of… wights?"

"Aye," said the man in black, before stepping back into the shadows.

Oberyn studied the head for a long moment, taking in everything about it. He had to write to Doran immediately about this. If wights existed then what of these Others? The Call had been sent out for a reason. This was important, vitally so perhaps. It was no wonder that the Stony Dornish were reacting in the way that they were. His feet twitched a bit and he repressed the need to pace restlessly. Instead he walked slowly around the table, thinking hard.

"I will write to Sunspear," he said quietly. "My brother must know of this before I leave for Winterfell." Then he smiled crookedly at Arryn. "Dorne has not had much of a presence at King's Landing since Robert Baratheon took the throne. That might change."

Oberyn looked back at the head in a cage. "I have travelled far and seen many odd things, Lord Arryn. I have seen the House of the Undying in Qarth. I have seen the flashes of light on the horizon that show the location of where the Fourteen Flames used to be. I have had my fortune told by a mage whose face seemed to change even as she spoke to me, who told me that if the wind stayed from the South I would die when a mountain fell on me but that if it changed and came from the North that I would live to see the sun rise in front of me. But I have never seen anything like that. Wights do indeed exist." He shook his head in astonishment. "A strange day. Strange times."

Arryn nodded slowly and was about to open his mouth and say something when they both heard the sound of hurrying – almost running at times – boots, and then Arryn's man from the Tower of the Hand burst in, his eyes searching for Arryn. The moment he saw him he all but ran over and then held up two raven scrolls that had red ribbons at the top. "From… from the ravenry… in the Tower of the… Hand, my Lord," he panted. "They arrived almost at the same… time."

Something happened to Arryn's face the moment that he saw the scrolls, a mixture of hope and fear. But then he reached out with a steady hand and took the scrolls, broke the small seals on them and then read each one quickly. "Identical messages with the seal of Stannis Baratheon," he muttered, before pausing. "They did it." The three words were said in almost a whisper. Then the old man looked up and there was something in his eyes that made Oberyn straighten almost to attention for a moment. "Quill?"

"My Lord?"

"Has the number of Redcloaks in the Red Keep and City changed at all since your report this morning?"

"No my Lord."

"Tell the men to get ready at once. Lord Baratheon has succeeded."

The other man bowed and then ran out again. As he watched him go Oberyn felt his scalp prickle. Something was happening, something important. And it sounded as if some Lannister soldiers were about to have a very bad day. The question was – why? What was going on? It wasn't every day that anyone connected with the Tower of the Hand admitted that it had a ravenry for a start.

Arryn seemed to be lost deep in thought for a long moment, tapping his upper lip with one of the scrolls – and then he looked up and fixed Oberyn with a commanding gaze. "It seems that you will have a great deal to write about in your letter to Prince Doran," he said softly, before looking around carefully and then handing over one of the scrolls.

Frowning, Oberyn unrolled it and then squinted at the tiny writing – and then as he read each word he found his eyes widening. 'Cersei Lannister discovered fornicating with Jaime Lannister,' he read. 'Witnessed by Lords Stark and Baratheon and Ser B. Selmy. Doubt cast on parentage of royal children. C & J Lannister arrested on charges of treason. King Robert has divorced C. Lannister. Tests on parentage of children to commence via Stormbreaker.'

Once he had read it he then reread it, because he could not believe it. No, the words were still the same. A thousand emotions ripped through him, ranging from total incredulity to utter glee.

"Oh, I think that my brother will be very interested in this," he said eventually, keeping an iron control over his features. "Very interested indeed."

Arryn paused and then seemed to look at one area of the room by the Iron Throne. When he looked back his eyes seemed to be hooded with some undefinable emotion. "You are, I believe, a man of combat ability?"

"I have been in a few fights. I am not known as the Red Viper of Dorne for no reason."

"Then perhaps you might agree to lead the party that will disarm the few Lannister forces remaining in the Red Keep?"

Oh now this was going to be… good. He nodded. "I don't think that a spear would be a good choice in this case. I wonder if I might be allowed to borrow a sword?"

But first he had to go to the privy. Where he laughed so hard and so long that his face hurt and the tears poured his face.