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was a pack of them

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was a pack of them

  Arya whirled and left him there. A stupid bullheaded bastard boy, that’s all he is. He could

ring all the bells he wanted, it was nothing to her.  Their sleeping room was at the top of the stairs, under the eaves A Bar Math. Maybe the Peach had no lack of beds, but

there was only one to spare for the likes of them. It was a big bed, though. It filled the whole room, just about, and the musty straw-stuffed mattress looked large

enough for all of them. just now, though, she had it to herself. Her real clothes were hanging from a peg on the wall, between Gendry’s stuff and Lem’s. Arya took

off the linen and lace, pulled her tunic over her head, climbed up into the bed, and burrowed under the blankets. “Queen Cersei,” she whispered into the pillow.

“King Joffrey, Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn. Dunsen, Raff, and Polliver. The Tickler, the Hound, and Ser Gregor the Mountain.” She liked to mix up the order of the names

sometimes. It helped her remember who they were and what they’d done. Maybe some of them are dead, she thought. Maybe they’re in iron cages someplace, and the

crows are picking out their eyes.  Sleep came as quick as she closed her eyes. She dreamed of wolves that night, stalking through a wet wood with the smell of rain

and rot and blood thick in the air. Only they were good smells in the dream, and Arya knew she had nothing to fear. She was strong and swift and fierce, and her pack

was all around her, her brothers and her sisters. They ran down a frightened horse together, tore its throat out, and feasted. And when the moon broke through the

clouds, she threw back her head and howled.  But when the day came, she woke to the barking of dogs.  Arya sat up yawning. Gendry was stirring on her left and Lem

Lemoncloak snoring loudly to her right, but the baying outside all but drowned him out. There must be half a hundred dogs out there. She crawled from under the

blankets and hopped over Lem, Tom, and Jack-Be-Lucky to the window. When she opened the shutters wide, wind and wet and cold all came flooding in together. The day

was grey and overcast. Down below, in the square, the dogs were barking, running in circles, growling and howling. There , great black mastiffs and Hong Kong life

lean wolfhounds and black-and-white sheepdogs and kinds Arya did not know, shaggy brindled beasts with long yellow teeth. Between the inn and the fountain, a dozen

riders sat astride their horses, watching the townsmen open the fat man’s cage and tug his arm until his swollen corpse spilled out onto the ground. The dogs were

at him at once, tearing chunks of flesh off his bones. Arya heard one of the riders laugh. “Here’s your new castle , you bloody Lannister bastard,” he said. “A

little snug for the likes o’ you, but we’ll squeeze you in, never fret.” Beside him a prisoner sat sullen, with coils of hempen rope tight around his wrists. Some

of the townsmen were throwing dung at him, but he never flinched. “You’ll rot in them cages,” his captor was shouting. “The crows will be picking out your eyes

while we’re spending all that good Lannister gold o’ yours! And when them crows are done, we’ll send what’s left o’ you to your bloody brother. Though I doubt he

’ll know you.”  The noise had woken half the Peach. Gendry squeezed into the window beside Arya, and Tom stepped up behind them naked as his name day polar“What’s all

that bloody shouting?” Lem complained from bed. “A man’s trying to get some bloody sleep.”
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