Varamyr knew the truth of that. When heclaimed

2018年12月26日

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Varamyr knew the truth of that. When he claimed the eagle that had been Orell’s, he could feel the other skinchanger raging at his presence. Orell had been slain by the

turncloak crow Jon Snow, and his hate for his killer had been so strong that Varamyr found himself hating the beastling boy as well. He had known what Snow was the

 

moment he saw that great white direwolf stalking silent at his side. One skinchanger can always sense another. Mance should have let me take the direwolf. There would be

 

a second life worthy of a king. He could have done it, he did not doubt. The gift was strong in Snow, but the youth was

untaught, still fighting his nature when he should have gloried in it.

Varamyr knew the truth of that. When he claimed the eagle that had been Orell’s, he could feel the other skinchanger raging at his presence. Orell had been slain by the

 

turncloak crow Jon Snow, and his hate for his killer had been so strong that Varamyr found himself hating the beastling boy as well. He had known what Snow was the

 

moment he saw that great white direwolf stalking silent at his side. One skinchanger can always sense another. Mance should

have let me take the direwolf. There would be a second life worthy of a king. He could have done it, he did not doubt. The gift was

strong in Snow, but the youth was

untaught, still fighting his nature when he should have gloried in it.

Varamyr could see the weirwood’s red eyes staring down at him from the white trunk. The gods are weighing me. A shiver went through him. He had done bad things,

 

 

terrible things. He had stolen, killed, raped. He had gorged on human flesh and lapped the blood of dying men as it gushed red and hot from their torn throats. He had

stalked foes through the woods, fallen on them as they slept, clawed their entrails from their

 

 

bellies and scattered them across the muddy earth. How sweet their meat had tasted. “That was the beast, not me,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “That was the gift you gave me.”

 

 

Varamyr could see the weirwood’s red eyes staring down at him from the white trunk. The gods are weighing me. A shiver went through him. He had done bad things,

 

 

terrible things. He had stolen, killed, raped. He had gorged on human flesh and lapped the blood of dying men as it gushed red and hot from their torn throats. He had

stalked foes through the woods, fallen on them as they slept, clawed their entrails from their

 

 

bellies and scattered them across the muddy earth. How sweet their meat had tasted. “That was the beast, not me,” he said in a hoarse

 

whisper.

“That was

the gift you

gave me.”

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