I saw Arya in my dreams again last night.

In my dream, she was both a girl and a wolf.  She lifted her hands, palms up, to show them to me. One hand had a knife in it, and both hands were covered in blood. There was a guard dressed in northern gray, with a flayed man embroidered on his chest, laying at her feet, his throat was gushing crimson rivers. She looked down at her hands, then looked up at me with questioning eyes, chewing her lip, like she did when she was thinking or confused, as if to say “Did I do this?”

Then, she turned and ran out into a field chasing after some men on horseback. “You’ll never catch them,” I thought to myself. But she did. She was a wolf, a big gray she wolf. She had blood on her snout and man’s flesh in her teeth. I could see it when she snarled. Coming out of the woods were dozens of other wolves. They seemed to be at her command. The wolf pack surrounded the men, and a motley crew of men they were, corralling them in a circle.

There were four of them. I remembered them from Harrenhal. They were sent by Vargo Hoat to hunt us down and kill us, if neccessary. We knew that Hoat would want us alive, so that he could cut off our feet, as a warning to the others, for trying to escape.

They called themselves The Brave Companions. Others called them The Bloody Mummers, on account they looked like a troupe of actors, with their fancy clothes and ornate jewelry, and that their sole purpose was to kill people for money and plunder. They were very good at their job, and most felt they enjoyed it too much.

One man was from Ib. He carried a large, two-sided ax, and had dark, shiny skin, and far away eyes. He was scary to even look at. There was a tall, thin, pale Lysene, who seemed to enjoy the killing more than the others. The Dothraki horse lord named Iggo, had scars all about his body. He carried an arakh. Tohbo Mott had told me about the sharp, curved, bladed weapon that the Dothraki were so fond of. I had never seen one, until I saw Iggo’s. The men ran with a Dornishman who was exceptionally good with a bow and arrow. Together, they made a very efficient killing machine.

But now, they were in the forest, on horseback, and surrounded by dozens of wolves. Arya gave her wolf pack their instructions with her eyes. The first to die was the ax man. He reached for his weapon as two wolves attacked his arm, pulling him from his horse. The Dornishman managed to get one arrow from his quill, but did not have time to notch it before the wolves were upon him. His screams were cut short, as one wolf relieved him of his throat. The entire time, Arya stood ready, supervising her pack at work.

The Lysene managed to break through the circle of wolves, but never got his horse out of a trot. Six different wolves took turns nipping at his horse’s legs, turning it again and again, until the horse slowed. The pale, thin Mummer swung his sword, in vain, at the wolves as they took down his horse. He wasn’t dead as the horse fell on top of him, but he was soon after.

The Dothraki yelled at the wolves in his native tongue, challenging them. His horse kicked in the head of one of Arya’s brothers, and his arakh cut another in half. I could see the rage in Arya’s eyes. She lept onto the man’s back with her jaws open. As she clamped down on the Dothraki’s right arm, I heard the bone crack. He dropped his arakh, and screamed out, grabbing the she wolf’s coat with his left hand, trying to free himself. It was of no use, though. The wolf was too big, and too strong, and full of rage ! With a few lashes of her neck, she separated his arm from his body, thrashing it about, spraying the forest with warm, dark-red Dothraki blood.

After tossing the arm aside, Arya the wolf surveyed the killing field, breathing heavily. Four partially devoured men, and four dead horses, and two slain brothers laid on the forest floor, unmoving. Satisfied that the threat was gone, she threw back her head and let out a howl. Her brothers and sisters joined her in a symphony of howling and barking and crying.

As the other wolves began to fill their bellies with their plunder, Arya the wolf looked at me with knowing eyes, as if to say, “You can travel safely now.”

I woke, and packed my things for the new mission we were to embark on this morning, and felt much more comfortable about riding out now. Lannisters. Again.

I wondered what happened to Weasel. Was she alright? Was I ever going to see her again? Did she find what she was looking for? Had she killed anybody else? Had her list of people, who she wished dead, that she whispered every night as she fell to sleep, gotten any shorter? Or had the list gotten longer? Was I on that list now?

Oh, Weasel, I hope you’re alright and I hope you found what you were looking for.