Arya woke up suddenly, her hand instinctively reaching for Needle, the sword she'd kept at her hip until it had been taken from her. She'd been dreaming that she was a wolf, a big wolf with her own pack. They had come upon a small group of soldiers, alone in the woods. Their horses had screamed in terror as the wolves had approached, but before the soldiers understood what was happening, it was too late. They had feasted on the flesh of horse and man alike, tearing at their throats until the ground was soaked with blood. She could still smell it, heavy and metallic. Her stomach growled.
Instead of horse meat, she was given a heel of hard, stale bread by Weese. She picked off a maggot and chewed at it, watching Weese eat his porridge and bacon. She knew that if she complained, she would earn a beating. At Winterfell she had been a wolf, but here she was just a mouse, quiet and scared. She hated that. She had added Weese's name to her prayers after he had first hit her. That, at least, gave her some comfort. She had been Underfoot and Horseface and Arry the orphan boy and Lumpyface and now Weasel, but in her heart she was Arya of House Stark, and she was a wolf.
She spent the day scrubbing floors and taking orders, and by evening she was exhausted. Her hands had fresh blisters and her shoulders ached, but she didn't complain. She took a bowl of thin, greasy stew from Weese as her supper. Weese, she thought as he handed it to her, a mean look on his stupid face.
That night, she lay on her lumpy, damp cot and wrapped her thin blanket around her. She tried not to think of her featherbed at Winterfell. Wolves didn't need featherbeds. Ser Gregor, she thought. Dunsen, Chiswyck, Polliver, the Tickler, the Hound, Raff the Sweetling, Ser Amory, Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, King Joffrey, Queen Cersei, Weese.
She fell asleep after almost all the other servants, after the candles had all gone out and the night was silent. She dreamt she was a wolf again, this time feasting on a deer she and her pack had caught while hunting. The meat was rich and she felt full and satisfied after she had finished. She threw back her head and let out a howl, and the rest of her pack joined in, filling the night air with the music of wolves.
When Arya woke the next morning, she accepted the heel of stale bread from Weese without complaint. Weese, she thought. She was Arya of House Stark, of the blood of the First Men, daughter of Eddard Stark, and she was a wolf.