Book One: A Game of Thrones. Book Two: A Clash of Kings. Book Three: A Storm of Swords. Book Four: A Feast for Crows. Book Five: A Dance with Dragons. A Dance with Dragons is a longer book than A Feast for Crows, and covers a The epic game of thrones chronicled in George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and. George R. R. Martin A DANCE WITH DRAGONS Book Five of A Song of Ice and Fire Dedication this one is for my fans for.
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1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • THE BOOK BEHIND THE FIFTH SEASON OF THE ACCLAIMED HBO SERIES GAME OF THRONES. A Dance with Dragons is the fifth of seven planned novels in the epic fantasy series A Song of Ice and Fire by American author George R. R. Martin. In some. Feb 12, Download [PDF] Books A Dance with Dragons (PDF, ePub, Mobi) by George R. R. A Game of Thrones: Book 1 in A Song of Ice and Fire series.
A man might befriend a wolf, even break a wolf, but no man could truly tame a wolf. Both of you will change. Cats were vain and cruel, always ready to turn on you. Elk and deer were prey; wear their skins too long, and even the bravest man became a coward.
Bears, boars, badgers, weasels … Haggon did not hold with such.
Spend too much time in the clouds and you never want to come back down again. Even in their own skins, they sit moony, staring up at the bloody blue. Once, when Lump was ten, Haggon had taken him to a gathering of such. The wargs were the most numerous in that company, the wolf-brothers, but the boy had found the others stranger and more fascinating.
Borroq looked so much like his boar that all he lacked was tusks, Orell had his eagle, Briar her shadowcat the moment he saw them, Lump wanted a shadowcat of his own , the goat woman Grisella … None of them had been as strong as Varamyr Sixskins, though, not even Haggon, tall and grim with his hands as hard as stone. The hunter died weeping after Varamyr took Greyskin from him, driving him out to claim the beast for his own. No second life for you, old man.
Greyskin made four, though the old wolf was frail and almost toothless and soon followed Haggon into death. Varamyr could take any beast he wanted, bend them to his will, make their flesh his own. Dog or wolf, bear or badger … Thistle, he thought. Haggon would call it an abomination, the blackest sin of all, but Haggon was dead, devoured, and burned.
Mance would have cursed him as well, but Mance was slain or captured. No one will ever know. I will be Thistle the spearwife, and Varamyr Sixskins will be dead. His gift would perish with his body, he expected. He would lose his wolves, and live out the rest of his days as some scrawny, warty woman … but he would live. If she comes back. If I am still strong enough to take her.
A wave of dizziness washed over Varamyr. He found himself upon his knees, his hands buried in a snowdrift. He scooped up a fistful of snow and filled his mouth with it, rubbing it through his beard and against his cracked lips, sucking down the moisture. The water was so cold that he could barely bring himself to swallow, and he realized once again how hot he was. The snowmelt only made him hungrier. It was food his belly craved, not water. The snow had stopped falling, but the wind was rising, filling the air with crystal, slashing at his face as he struggled through the drifts, the wound in his side opening and closing again.
His breath made a ragged white cloud. When he reached the weirwood tree, he found a fallen branch just long enough to use as a crutch. Leaning heavily upon it, he staggered toward the nearest hut.
Perhaps the villagers had forgotten something when they fled … a sack of apples, some dried meat, anything to keep him alive until Thistle returned. He was almost there when his crutch snapped beneath his weight, and his legs went out from under him. How long he sprawled there with his blood reddening the snow Varamyr could not have said.
The snow will bury me. It would be a peaceful death. They say you feel warm near the end, warm and sleepy. It would be good to feel warm again, though it made him sad to think that he would never see the green lands, the warm lands beyond the Wall that Mance used to sing about.
South of the Wall, the kneelers hunt us down and butcher us like pigs. He could not have been more than ten. Haggon traded a dozen strings of amber and a sled piled high with pelts for six skins of wine, a block of salt, and a copper kettle.
Eastwatch was a better place to trade than Castle Black; that was where the ships came, laden with goods from the fabled lands beyond the sea. Some knew him for a skinchanger too, but no one spoke of that.
A Dance with Dragons: A Song of Ice and Fire: Book Five (Unabridged)
Varamyr could feel the snowflakes melting on his brow. This is not so bad as burning. Let me sleep and never wake, let me begin my second life. His wolves were close now. He could feel them.
He would leave this feeble flesh behind, become one with them, hunting the night and howling at the moon. The warg would become a true wolf. Which, though? Not Sly. Haggon would have called it abomination, but Varamyr had often slipped inside her skin as she was being mounted by One Eye. He did not want to spend his new life as a bitch, though, not unless he had no other choice.
Stalker might suit him better, the younger male … though One Eye was larger and fiercer, and it was One Eye who took Sly whenever she went into heat. 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.
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. His breath hung pale and misty in the air. He could feel ice forming in his beard. Varamyr Sixskins closed his eyes. She weeps for Bump, but she never wept for me. Lump had been born a month before his proper time, and he was sick so often that no one expected him to live.
His mother waited until he was almost four to give him a proper name, and by then it was too late. She was going to name him after Father. Bump died, though. He died when he was two and I was six, three days before his nameday. The gods have taken him down into the earth, into the trees.
The gods are all around us, in the rocks and streams, in the birds and beasts. Your Bump has gone to join them. Bump sees. He is watching me. He knows. The dogs. Loptail, Sniff, the Growler. They were good dogs. They were my friends. His hands shook so badly that it took two blows to silence Sniff and four to put the Growler down. The smell of blood hung heavy in the air, and the sounds the dying dogs had made were terrible to hear, yet Loptail still came when father called him.
He was the oldest dog, and his training overcame his terror. By the time Lump slipped inside his skin it was too late. No, Father, please, he tried to say, but dogs cannot speak the tongues of men, so all that emerged was a piteous whine. That was how they knew. Two days later, his father dragged him into the woods. He brought his axe, so Lump thought he meant to put him down the same way he had done the dogs.
Varamyr woke suddenly, violently, his whole body shaking. There are hundreds of them. So cold. When he tried to move, he found that his hand was frozen to the ground. He left some skin behind when he tore it loose. She had him by the shoulders and was shaking him, shouting in his face.
Varamyr could smell her breath and feel the warmth of it upon cheeks gone numb with cold. Now, he thought, do it now, or die. He summoned all the strength still in him, leapt out of his own skin, and forced himself inside her. Thistle arched her back and screamed. Was that her, or him, or Haggon?
He never knew. His old flesh fell back into the snowdrift as her fingers loosened. The spear-wife twisted violently, shrieking. His shadowcat used to fight him wildly, and the snow bear had gone half-mad for a time, snapping at trees and rocks and empty air, but this was worse. Her body staggered, fell, and rose again, her hands flailed, her legs jerked this way and that in some grotesque dance as his spirit and her own fought for the flesh. She sucked down a mouthful of the frigid air, and Varamyr had half a heartbeat to glory in the taste of it and the strength of this young body before her teeth snapped together and filled his mouth with blood.
She raised her hands to his face. He tried to push them down again, but the hands would not obey, and she was clawing at his eyes. Abomination, he remembered, drowning in blood and pain and madness. When he tried to scream, she spat their tongue out.
The white world turned and fell away. For a moment it was as if he were inside the weirwood, gazing out through carved red eyes as a dying man twitched feebly on the ground and a madwoman danced blind and bloody underneath the moon, weeping red tears and ripping at her clothes. Then both were gone and he was rising, melting, his spirit borne on some cold wind.
He was in the snow and in the clouds, he was a sparrow, a squirrel, an oak. A horned owl flew silently between his trees, hunting a hare; Varamyr was inside the owl, inside the hare, inside the trees. Deep below the frozen ground, earthworms burrowed blindly in the dark, and he was them as well. A hundred ravens took to the air, cawing as they felt him pass.
A great elk trumpeted, unsettling the children clinging to his back. A sleeping direwolf raised his head to snarl at empty air. Before their hearts could beat again he had passed on, searching for his own, for One Eye, Sly, and Stalker, for his pack. His wolves would save him, he told himself. That was his last thought as a man. True death came suddenly; he felt a shock of cold, as if he had been plunged into the icy waters of a frozen lake.
Then he found himself rushing over moonlit snows with his packmates close behind him. Half the world was dark. One Eye, he knew. He bayed, and Sly and Stalker gave echo.
When they reached the crest the wolves paused. Below, the world had turned to ice. Fingers of frost crept slowly up the weirwood, reaching out for each other. The empty village was no longer empty. Blue-eyed shadows walked amongst the mounds of snow.
Some wore brown and some wore black and some were naked, their flesh gone white as snow. A wind was sighing through the hills, heavy with their scents: dead flesh, dry blood, skins that stank of mold and rot and urine.
Sly gave a growl and bared her teeth, her ruff bristling. Not men. Not prey. Not these. The things below moved, but did not live. One by one, they raised their heads toward the three wolves on the hill. The last to look was the thing that had been Thistle.
She wore wool and fur and leather, and over that she wore a coat of hoarfrost that crackled when she moved and glistened in the moonlight. Pale pink icicles hung from her fingertips, ten long knives of frozen blood.
And in the pits where her eyes had been, a pale blue light was flickering, lending her coarse features an eerie beauty they had never known in life. She sees me. The ship was small, his cabin smaller, but the captain would not allow him abovedecks. The rocking of the deck beneath his feet made his stomach heave, and the wretched food tasted even worse when retched back up.
But why did he need salt beef, hard cheese, and bread crawling with worms when he had wine to nourish him? It was red and sour, very strong. Sometimes he heaved the wine up too, but there was always more. His father never had any use for drunkards, but what did that matter?
His father was dead. A bolt in the belly, my lord, and all for you. If only I was better with a crossbow, I would have put it through that cock you made me with, you bloody bastard.
Belowdecks, there was neither night nor day. Tyrion marked time by the comings and goings of the cabin boy who brought the meals he did not eat. The boy always brought a brush and bucket too, to clean up. A droll fellow, till a mountain fell on him. He was an ugly boy, though admittedly more comely than a certain dwarf with half a nose and a scar from eye to chin. Or did some dwarf diddle your mother?
Tell me that. Myrcella is older than Tommen, by Dornish law the Iron Throne is hers. I will help her claim her rights, as Prince Oberyn suggested.
A Dance of Dragons.pdf
Oberyn was dead, though, his head smashed to bloody ruin by the armored fist of Ser Gregor Clegane. And without the Red Viper to urge him on, would Doran Martell even consider such a chancy scheme?
He might clap me in chains instead and hand me back to my sweet sister. The Wall might be safer. Mormont might be dead, though. By now Slynt may be the lord commander. Do I really want to spend the rest of my life eating salt beef and porridge with murderers and thieves?
Not that the rest of his life would last very long. Janos Slynt would see to that. The cabin boy wet his brush and scrubbed on manfully. The boy tossed his brush back in his bucket and took his leave. The wine has blurred my wits. Tyrion had some Braavosi and a smattering of Myrish. In Tyrosh he should be able to curse the gods, call a man a cheat, and order up an ale, thanks to a sellsword he had once known at the Rock.
At least in Dorne they speak the Common Tongue. Like Dornish food and Dornish law, Dornish speech was spiced with the flavors of the Rhoyne, but a man could comprehend it. Dorne, yes, Dorne for me. He crawled into his bunk, clutching that thought like a child with a doll.
Sleep had never come easily to Tyrion Lannister. Aboard that ship it seldom came at all, though from time to time he managed to drink sufficient wine to pass out for a while. At least he did not dream. He had dreamed enough for one small life. And of such follies: love, justice, friendship, glory. As well dream of being tall. It was all beyond his reach, Tyrion knew now. But he did not know where whores go. His last words, and what words they were. The crossbow thrummed, Lord Tywin sat back down, and Tyrion Lannister found himself waddling through the darkness with Varys at his side.
He must have clambered back down the shaft, two hundred and thirty rungs to where orange embers glowed in the mouth of an iron dragon. He remembered none of it. Even in his dying, he found a way to shit on me.
Varys had escorted him through the tunnels, but they never spoke until they emerged beside the Blackwater, where Tyrion had won a famous victory and lost a nose. If I had not loosed, he would have seen my threats were empty. He would have taken the crossbow from my hands, as once he took Tysha from my arms.
He was rising when I killed him. But I never knew what he was.
A little more blood on his hands, what would it matter? He could not say what had stayed his dagger. Not gratitude. Jaime … no, better not to think of Jaime. The sour red ran down his chin and soaked through his soiled tunic, the same one he had been wearing in his cell.
The deck was swaying beneath his feet, and when he tried to rise it lifted sideways and smashed him hard against a bulkhead. A storm, he realized, or else I am even drunker than I knew. He retched the wine up and lay in it a while, wondering if the ship would sink. Is this your vengeance, Father? Has the Father Above made you his Hand?
It did not seem fair to drown the cabin boy and the captain and all the rest for something he had done, but when had the gods ever been fair? And around about then, the darkness gulped him down. Tyrion told him to be quiet and kicked feebly as a huge bald sailor tucked him under one arm and carried him squirming to the hold, where an empty wine cask awaited him. It was a squat little cask, and a tight fit even for a dwarf. Tyrion pissed himself in his struggles, for all the good it did.
He was crammed face-first into the cask with his knees pushed up against his ears. The stub of his nose itched horribly, but his arms were pinned so tightly that he could not reach to scratch it.
A palanquin fit for a man of my stature, he thought as they hammered shut the lid. He could hear voices shouting as he was hoisted up. Every bounce cracked his head against the bottom of the cask.
The world went round and round as the cask rolled downward, then stopped with a crash that made him want to scream. Another cask slammed into his, and Tyrion bit his tongue. That was the longest journey he had ever taken, though it could not have lasted more than half an hour. He was lifted and lowered, rolled and stacked, upended and righted and rolled again.
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Through the wooden staves he heard men shouting, and once a horse whickered nearby. His stunted legs began to cramp, and soon hurt so badly that he forgot the hammering in his head.
It ended as it had begun, with another roll that left him dizzy and more jouncing. Outside, strange voices were speaking in a tongue he did not know.
Someone started pounding on the top of the cask and the lid cracked open suddenly.
Light came flooding in, and cool air as well. Tyrion gasped greedily and tried to stand, but only managed to knock the cask over sideways and spill himself out onto a hard-packed earthen floor. Above him loomed a grotesque fat man with a forked yellow beard, holding a wooden mallet and an iron chisel. His bedrobe was large enough to serve as a tourney pavilion, but its loosely knotted belt had come undone, exposing a huge white belly and a pair of heavy breasts that sagged like sacks of suet covered with coarse yellow hair.
He reminded Tyrion of a dead sea cow that had once washed up in the caverns under Casterly Rock. The fat man looked down and smiled. They were in a long, dim cellar with barrel-vaulted ceilings, its stone walls spotted with nitre. Casks of wine and ale surrounded them, more than enough drink to see a thirsty dwarf safely through the night.
Or through a life. I like that in a dwarf. Then food and a soft bed, yes? My servants shall see to it. Any friend of my friend across the water is a friend to Illyrio Mopatis, yes. The fat man made good on the promised bath, though. No sooner did Tyrion lower himself into the hot water and close his eyes than he was fast asleep.
He woke naked on a goose-down feather bed so soft it felt as if he had been swallowed by a cloud. His tongue was growing hair and his throat was raw, but his cock was as hard as an iron bar. He rolled from the bed, found a chamber pot, and commenced to filling it, with a groan of pleasure. The room was dim, but there were bars of yellow sunlight showing between the slats of the shutters.
Tyrion shook the last drops off and waddled over patterned Myrish carpets as soft as new spring grass.
Awkwardly he climbed the window seat and flung the shutters open to see where Varys and the gods had sent him. Beneath his window six cherry trees stood sentinel around a marble pool, their slender branches bare and brown.
He was lithe and handsome, no older than sixteen, with straight blond hair that brushed his shoulders. So lifelike did he seem that it took the dwarf a long moment to realize he was made of painted marble, though his sword shimmered like true steel.
Across the pool stood a brick wall twelve feet high, with iron spikes along its top. Beyond that was the city. A sea of tiled rooftops crowded close around a bay. He saw square brick towers, a great red temple, a distant manse upon a hill. In the far distance, sunlight shimmered off deep water. Fishing boats were moving across the bay, their sails rippling in the wind, and he could see the masts of larger ships poking up along the shore. Surely one is bound for Dorne, or for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.
He had no means to pay for passage, though, nor was he made to pull an oar. I suppose I could sign on as a cabin boy and earn my way by letting the crew bugger me up and down the narrow sea. He wondered where he was. Even the air smells different here. Strange spices scented the chilly autumn wind, and he could hear faint cries drifting over the wall from the streets beyond. It sounded something like Valyrian, but he did not recognize more than one word in five.
Not Braavos, he concluded, nor Tyrosh. Those bare branches and the chill in the air argued against Lys and Myr and Volantis as well. When he heard the door opening behind him, Tyrion turned to confront his fat host. Where else? You will have no need of such, my little friend.
Choose from amongst my servingwomen. None will dare refuse you. The fat man stroked one of the prongs of his oiled yellow beard, a gesture Tyrion found remarkably obscene. Still, they will not refuse you. I have the honor to be a magister of this great city, and the prince has summoned us to session. It is best that no man knows that you were here. Have I gone somewhere? My little friend and I shall eat and drink and make great plans, yes?
He thinks to use me for his profit. It was all profit with the merchant princes of the Free Cities. Should a day ever dawn when Illyrio Mopatis saw more profit in a dead dwarf than a live one, Tyrion would find himself packed into another wine cask by dusk.
It would be well if I was gone before that day arrives. A light wind was riffling the waters of the pool below, all around the naked swordsman. He had been thinking of those guardsmen during his flight, trying to recall how many there had been. You would think he might remember that, but no. A dozen? A score? A hundred? He could not say. They had all been grown men, tall and strong … though all men were tall to a dwarf of thirteen years.
Tysha knew their number. Each of them had given her a silver stag, so she would only need to count the coins. A silver for each and a gold for me. His father had insisted that he pay her too.
A Lannister always pays his debts. The magister had invited him to explore the manse. He found clean clothes in a cedar chest inlaid with lapis and mother-of-pearl. The clothes had been made for a small boy, he realized as he struggled into them. Moths had been at them too.
At least they do not stink of vomit. Tyrion began his explorations with the kitchen, where two fat women and a potboy watched him warily as he helped himself to cheese, bread, and figs. The younger, fatter cook gave him a shrug that time. He wondered what they would do if he took them by the hand and dragged them to his bedchamber. None will dare refuse you, Illyrio claimed, but somehow Tyrion did not think he meant these two. The younger woman was old enough to be his mother, and the older was likely her mother.
Both were near as fat as Illyrio, with teats that were larger than his head. I could smother myself in flesh. There were worse ways to die. The way his lord father had died, for one.
I should have made him shit a little gold before expiring. Lord Tywin might have been niggardly with his approval and affection, but he had always been open-handed when it came to coin. The only thing more pitiful than a dwarf without a nose is a dwarf without a nose who has no gold.
Tyrion left the fat women to their loaves and kettles and went in search of the cellar where Illyrio had decanted him the night before.
It was not hard to find. There was enough wine there to keep him drunk for a hundred years; sweet reds from the Reach and sour reds from Dorne, pale Pentoshi ambers, the green nectar of Myr, three score casks of Arbor gold, even wines from the fabled east, from Qarth and Yi Ti and Asshai by the Shadow.
A Dance with Dragons
In the end, Tyrion chose a cask of strongwine marked as the private stock of Lord Runceford Redwyne, the grandfather of the present Lord of the Arbor. The taste of it was languorous and heady on the tongue, the color a purple so dark that it looked almost black in the dim-lit cellar.
As it happened, he left by the wrong door and never found the pool he had spied from his window, but it made no matter. The gardens behind the manse were just as pleasant, and far more extensive. He wandered through them for a time, drinking. The walls would have shamed any proper castle, and the ornamental iron spikes along the top looked strangely naked without heads to adorn them.
Yes, and Jaime must have the spike beside her, he decided. No one must ever come between my brother and my sister.
With a rope and a grapnel he might be able to get over that wall. He had strong arms and he did not weigh much. He should be able to clamber over, if he did not impale himself on a spike. I will search for a rope on the morrow, he resolved. He saw three gates during his wanderings—the main entrance with its gatehouse, a postern by the kennels, and a garden gate hidden behind a tangle of pale ivy.
The last was chained, the others guarded. Tyrion knew eunuchs when he saw them. He knew their sort by reputation. They feared nothing and felt no pain, it was said, and were loyal to their masters unto death.
I could make good use of a few hundred of mine own, he reflected. A pity I did not think of that before I became a beggar. He walked along a pillared gallery and through a pointed arch, and found himself in a tiled courtyard where a woman was washing clothes at a well.
She looked to be his own age, with dull red hair and a broad face dotted by freckles. She looked at him uncertainly. Tyrion settled on a stone bench with his flagon.
The gates are guarded. Perhaps you might smuggle me out under your skirts? I have two wives already, why not three? Ah, but where would we live? I could make rather a lot of mischief in Dorne with Myrcella. Better if I sought the Wall instead. Though I fear they would not let me keep you, sweetling. No women in the Watch, no sweet freckly wives to warm your bed at night, only cold winds, salted cod, and small beer. Do you think I might stand taller in black, my lady? North or south?
Shall I atone for old sins or make some new ones? I cannot seem to hold a wife for very long, Tyrion reflected. Somehow his flagon had gone dry. Perhaps I should stumble back down to the cellars. The strongwine was making his head spin, though, and the cellar steps were very steep. Perhaps he should have asked the washerwoman. Or better yet, he should have asked his father. She loved me. The empty flagon slipped from his hand and rolled across the yard. Tyrion pushed himself off the bench and went to fetch it.
As he did, he saw some mushrooms growing up from a cracked paving tile. Pale white they were, with speckles, and red-ribbed undersides dark as blood. The dwarf snapped one off and sniffed it. Delicious, he thought, and deadly. There were seven of the mushrooms. Perhaps the Seven were trying to tell him something.
He picked them all, snatched a glove down from the line, wrapped them carefully, and stuffed them down his pocket. The effort made him dizzy, so afterward he crawled back onto the bench, curled up, and shut his eyes.
When he woke again, he was back in his bedchamber, drowning in the goose-down feather bed once more while a blond girl shook his shoulder.
Magister Illyrio expects you at table within the hour. I was bought to please the king. I need a cup of wine. Do you know where whores go? But where do they go?
Will you tell me the answer? I despise riddles, myself. Do me the same favor. The words were on his tongue, but somehow never passed his lips. She is not Shae, the dwarf told himself, only some little fool who thinks I play at riddles. If truth be told, even her cunt did not interest him much.
I must be sick, or dead. We must not keep the great cheesemonger waiting. I am done with women. The girl took that disappointment too well for his liking. She despises me, he realized, but no more than I despise myself. That he had fucked many a woman who loathed the very sight of him, Tyrion Lannister had no doubt, but the others had at least the grace to feign affection. A little honest loathing might be refreshing, like a tart wine after too much sweet.
Keep your mouth shut and your thighs open and the two of us should get on splendidly. No one fears a dwarf.
Even Lord Tywin had not been afraid, though Tyrion had held a crossbow in his hands. Sadly most of the things that happened were unnecessary. Tyrion, for example, took center stage in a travelogue for instance.
Instead of showing him beginning his journey and then arriving later on we get the whole trip. One of the characters is apparently dead, I hope they are so that the poor soul can be spared having to wade through the rest of the series. Arctic Couple , Losing interest This book is the first true disappointment in the series. It seemed like everyone was wandering around in circles for all 44 hours. Even the cliff hangers at the end were uninteresting.
More main characters killed. At the begining of the series, killing the characters kept the story fresh and unpredictable. Now it's expected. Time to kill them. Also in earlier books the main characters got to interact with each other.Stalker might suit him better, the younger male … though One Eye was larger and fiercer, and it was One Eye who took Sly whenever she went into heat.
The smell of garlic and butter had his mouth watering. As he ran, he saw through their eyes too and glimpsed himself ahead. He had strong arms and he did not weigh much. Some knew him for a skinchanger too, but no one spoke of that.
The clothes had been made for a small boy, he realized as he struggled into them.
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