Up the cellar steps came a man in a stained apron, grumbling. He was a head shorter than the woman, with a lumpy face and loose yellowish skin that still showed the marks of some pox. “I’m here, woman, . What is it now?” “Hang this,” she said, handing him the duck. Anguy shuffled his feet. “We were thinking we might eat it, Shama. With lemons. If you had some.” “Lemons. And where would we get lemons? Does this look like Dorne to you, you freckled fool?
Why don’t you hop out back to the lemon trees and pick us a bushel, and some nice olives and pomegranates too.” She shook a finger at him. “Now, I suppose I could cook it with Lem’s cloak, if you like, but not till it’s hung for a few days. You’ll eat rabbit, or you won’t eat. Roast rabbit on a spit would be quickest, if you’ve got a hunger. or might be you’d like it stewed, with ale and onions.” Arya could almost taste the rabbit. “We have no coin, but we brought some carrots and cabbages we could trade you.” “Did you now? And where would they be?” “Hot Pie, give her the cabbages,” Arya said, and he did, though he approached the old woman as gingerly as if she were Rorge or Biter or Vargo Hoat. The woman gave the vegetables a close inspection, and the boy a closer one reenex.
“Where is this hot pie?” “Here. Me. It’s my name. And she’s... ah... Squab.” “Not under my roof. I give my diners and my dishes different names, so as to tell them apart. Husband!” Husband had stepped outside, but at her shout he hurried back. “The duck’s hung. What is it now, woman?” “Wash these vegetables,” she commanded. “The rest of you, sit down while I start the rabbits. The boy will bring you drink.” She looked down her long nose at Arya and Hot Pie. “I am not in the habit of serving ale to children, but the cider’s run out, there’s no cows for milk, and the river water tastes of war, with all the dead men drifting downstream. If I served you a cup of soup full of dead flies, would you drink it?” “Arry would,” said Hot Pie. “I mean, Squab.” “So would Lem,” offered Anguy with a sly smile reenex.
“Never you mind about Lem,” Shama said. “It’s ale for all.” She swept off toward the kitchen. Anguy and Tom Sevenstrings took the table near the hearth while Lem was hanging his big yellow cloak on a peg. Hot Pie plopped down heavily on a bench at the table by the door, and Arya wedged herself in beside him. Tom unslung his harp. “A lonely inn on a forest road,” he sang, slowly picking out a tune to go with the words. “The innkeep’s wife was plain as a toad.” “Shut up with that now or we won’t be getting no rabbit,” Lem warned him. “You know how she is.”