HE OF SIX SKINS
The Long Lake stretched out like a great arm of a god, over the horizon southwards as the warm summer sun shone back the opposite way, warming the skin. In the distance, boats and barges could be seen in the distance, square sails full of wind and oars disturbing the water. Most of the camp was at the shoreline, watching both sun and boat, though all gave Varamyr a wide berth.
The trip through the Umberlands had been fruitful. He had six skins once more; four wolves, a great brown bear he had started the journey with and a large mountain owl. The first five had been opportunities that had wandered into his grasp. The sixth was something Varamyr had sought out; a creature far more capable of seeing in the dark than eagle or shadowcat. He intended to never be caught unawares again.
Four wolf noses and a pair of owl eyes, I'll never be blind again.
As he sat atop the bear, staring out over the water, the whispered promises of the Corpse Queen came to him again. Power over life and death. Armies to follow his command. Dominion over the land. All would be his in return for an invitation, to call her south of the Wall.
Varamyr cursed through his teeth again. The temptation was maddening, but he was no fool. He did not even know that calling her this far south would do anything, and there could be no chance that a being like the high priestess of the Others would share her power. Not without some means to take it back at a whim.
And even so, he had seen the kind of power she wielded. What use is being king if all those you rule are dead? What children could I sire on dead women?
The words kept coming back to him ever since that witch-queen Dalla had opened her mouth. Varamyr looked over his shoulder, to the camp of the Bolton bastard, pink banners with the skinned man on them fluttering in the breeze. Ramsey Snow, a cursed name if ever there was one, wanted him dead.
Both Dalla and Mance had warned of a plot to kill the Free Folk going south, to make it look like an attempted raid and bring down the peace. Varamyr was the largest threat to that plan, the one the bastard would kill first, the one who'd be blamed. At first, he didn't believe it. But as the days marching south passed, he began to notice the gazes of the Bolton men more and more. The more they watched him, the more he recalled the whispers.
"Fucking kneelers," he grit out. Every part of him wanted to attack first, but that is exactly what the Stark lords were waiting for, preparing for.
One of his wolves growled, setting off the others. Varamyr didn't need to turn his head to see why their hackles were up. He simply dove into one of their minds, and saw the Bolton bastard himself coming out of his camp, alone.
The kneeler looked like a moon-mad milk-dribbler wearing a pink thing under his sable cloak on his top half, dark red trousers and brown boots below. He appeared unarmed, but he wore a heavy belt, one strong enough to hold a short sword and other blades behind the back and under the cloak.
Annoyed at the sudden attention, Varamyr returned to his own skin and ordered the wolves to move down the shore a little. He had no intention of attacking the lone bastard and starting a war that way, not when he had richer, fatter kneelers to kill and rob further south.
"Greetings," came the man's voice, young and confident, "You must be Varamyr Six-Skins."
Rather than turning his head or body to face the man addressing him, Varamyr turned the bear he was sitting atop with a thought to face the man. Ramsay Snow made no show of fear, nor did he flinch, even as the bear's maw came within an arm's length or less. Fearless, Varamyr thought with amusement, But there are things in the world worth fearing, boy. Not least me.
"No, I'm the King o' you Kneelers," Varamyr pronounced with a sneer.
The thick lips of the boy curled into a toothy smile, the wide nose snorted, the pale grey eyes laughing silently. "My apologies, your Grace! I did not recognise you atop that great beast, dressed like a retched peasant from the clans' mountains."
Varamyr snarled uselessly, causing the boy to laugh openly. The wolves began to growl and advance uselessly, the bear to shift its weight to pounce. He knows I can't touch him. "Watch your tongue boy. You'll talk yourself into being wolf shit. But then, that's all you Boltons are, something the wolves who rule this land chew up and shit out each time you've ever risen against them."
Ramsay Snow's mirth died quickly, replaced by icy hate. It was Varamyr's turn to laugh, which he did so hard that he ended up having to cough after he was finished. "Speak what you came to, boy, or fuck off."
The bastard's tongue ran along the edge of his top teeth. He's not sure he should bother now. "Aye, we could exchange pleasantries all day," the words came at last, "But there's business to conduct."
Varamyr's lips curled back in disgust. More kneeler shit. "What business would I have with you?" he said, "A couple of months and I'll be gone to the south to raid among the green lands there, where my ancestors lived."
Snow shook his head and smirked again, lips wriggling. "Oh no, you're being sent south to die for the Starks," he said, "The men there wear steel all over, and ride horses that make ours look small. Their lances are long and their numbers beyond what you can understand, wildling."
"So what?" Varamyr shrugged, "They're too busy dealing with the Canadians and Stark the Younger. And they've not seen true skinchangers in thousands of years, 'cept for the dragon riding cunts."
Ramsay Snow shook his head slowly. "The Starks will use you like all lords use their smallfolk," he said, "Or they'll abandon you. You're just wildlings to them. You'll be stuck in the south, outnumbered and hated in lands you don't know."
It sounded like shite, but Varamyr considered it. What the kneeler was saying could happen, but only if the Free Folk going south were complete fools and the Starks were too. Skinchanging was too useful to any group of men at war, for seeing where the enemy was or breaking their warbands or harassing them on the move. And the Starks wanted their enemies brought low, they did not want to restrain his wish to raid or anyone else's.
The kneelers hated him, Varamyr knew this. But it wasn't he that had taken the Lord of Winterfell hostage, nor the lord's daughter. Though what power must flow through her veins, able to tame a direwolf.
"I have another way," Snow continued, "One that'll leave you more than promises when the war is over."
Varamyr said nothing. The kneeler clearly liked to hear himself talk too much, he wouldn't get to it any faster through his urging. They stared at each other, each not wanting to be the one to speak first. But only one of them had to speak to get what he wanted.
"We both know the Starks will crush you wildlings eventually," Snow said, "If the Long Night is coming again, you're all just mouths to feed and men who can't stand in a battle line. Or you could strike first."
Suddenly finding the conversation interesting, Varamyr had no choice but to reply now. "And how would I do a thing like that?"
The boy's wormy lips spread into a vicious smile. "Cut the head off the wolf. You wildlings are very good at killing and escaping. You go south and join Robb Stark's army. Find a chance to kill him and his brother."
"That still leaves the father and the two boys in Winterfell," Varamyr pointed out, "Not to mention me being hunted for the rest of my life by angry kneelers."
Snow laughed silently. "They'll never take Lord Eddard from King's Landing alive," he said, "And once he's dead and his son is dead, there are houses in the North who are not so in love with the Starks. They can attack those that are, and bottle up the host in the south at the Moat."
"And Winterfell?"
"Leave Winterfell and the boys to me."
Gods, he believes he can do it. But he can't do it alone. He must mean to recruit someone to let him into the castle.
Varamyr's interest waned into nothingness. The boy was delusional, but saying that or even showing it on his face would only provoke him to turn on the Free Folk earlier. He'll say we were planning to murder the Cassel and the kneeler warriors in their sleep or some such shite.
"So, I kill the Stark lords, you kill the boys, and some kneeler chiefs rise up to stop the others from killing us both in revenge," Varamyr thought aloud, "What's in this for me?"
"Some of the lords won't be needing their land," Snow replied, "Or their daughters."
Varamyr smirked, which the boy took wrongly as approval. He's asked the Crowfood about me, thinking he knows what I live for to make me do what he wants. Conniving little cunt. "And the Others?"
"The southerners won't care who rules in Winterfell," Snow said, "We send wights south, they'll send help north if they're not fools."
Varamyr wondered if that was true. The kneelers were prickly sorts about honour and who ought to be ruler rather than who had the strength to be. Either way, this boy's words needed an answer.
"The Gods favour you," he lied, "I've had no intention of fighting a kneeler war just to be scorned after. Nor would I sit as Mance's man forever either."
Ramsay Snow nodded his head a few times. "We'll not talk from now on," he said, "Except to insult one another if we're ever in the same conversation."
"So no one knows what we've decided," Varamyr complained back, "I'm not a babe in arms, boy. Now fuck off, before I change my mind and have my skins eat you." He nudged the animals with his mind, making the bear and all the wolves open their mouths wide and snap them closed at the same instant. The new skins did it just as well as the old ones.
Still fearless, Snow laughed to himself and turned on his heel, marching back the way he came. Varamyr wasn't sure the boy believed his offer had been accepted, but it didn't matter. There was no time to waste. He ordered his bear mount back to the Free Folk camp, forcing those along the shore to make way.
It didn't take long to find who he needed to speak to. Older Taryne and younger Karla, both black haired witches claiming kneeler blood, had been put in charge of the Laughing Tree by the Canadians before they had left for the south. He found them by their tent in the centre of the camp, far from where the skinchangers had their tents. His approach was noticed. The men had retrieved their long pikes and crossbows.
"What do you want, Sixskins?" Taryne asked, "If you're here to take a woman, you've lost your mind."
Varamyr responded by getting off his bear. His legs wobbled as his feet hit the ground. The weakness he had felt since the blizzard of the Corpse Queen had not left him. It took all his resolve to force his body to stand upright properly, and walk over to the chieftesses.
Once he was close enough, he looked Taryne right in the eye. It was difficult, as she wasn't a small woman.
"The Snow bastard will come to you. He plans to attack Winterfell, and he'll need your help to do it. He asked me to go south and kill Robb Stark. I agreed. You must agree too."
Taryne and Karla exchanged a look. "Why would I betray the men I intend to give my oath to?"
Varamyr rolled his eyes. "Because if you don't say you'll help him, the bastard'll attack us in the night and say he was defending his people," he said, "And like as not start a war with Mance over it."
Karla hocked and spat by Varamyr's feet. "We're ready for him," he said, "If we tell Ser Cassel if this now, he'll help us. And we don't answer to you, Sixskins."
Not yet you don't, Varamyr wanted to growl back. "Ser Fucking Kneeler will do nothing, the Flayed Men and White Sun men outnumber his and the Crowfood's now that we've left the Umberlands. I have no intention of helping the boy. He's lying about what he'd give us for it, and he'll fail. The bastard is dangerous, fears nothing and thinks he can rule. He must be dealt with, soon."
Understanding dawned on the faces of the two women, to Varamyr's immense relief. Taryne put her hands on her hips, sighing her acceptance that something needed to be done. "So we accept his offer and what?"
Varamyr grinned at both of them. Now I have you, Snow.