I fairly liked him as a boy once the pecking order was clear. As a girl, I liked her even more.
I was never brave. Not even reckless, as most boys would be when they're young and don't have a care in the world, cause they are dumb and inexperienced as most of us are, at that age, and that was ten years ago, more or less. I have a bad memory. At least that's what Sella says.
Sella, that's my wife. She's a great cook. That's what I am, actually. Or was, more like. A cook. Not too great a cook, not like her. I mean, she's a real genius in the kitchen. Thinking of it, I'm sure, most people who come to the inn these days, they do it for her sake, not because of me. My pies used to be really good, they still are, although I don't bake very often nowadays. They belong to my earliest memories, though. Maybe cause my mum used to bake a lot. She seemed to have a natural talent for it. Some people say she was just a whore. I prefer to call her a baker. A really good one, to be honest. And I wasn't the only one who said so. I don't praise her just because she was my mum. Back in King's Landing, she had a kind of reputation. I don't know who my father was, but I knew who she was. A good woman, a good mother, an immaculate baker. And so much more.
If she'd been fortunate enough to live a longer life, she would have protected me. Protected me of those who came for me. They only dared to take me cause she was no longer there to watch over me. With my father gone, she was the only one. She insisted on me having a father. A loving, caring father who'd wanted to teach me all those things fathers teach their sons. To be brave. To handle weapons. To keep their head down when there's no weapon available. He failed. As long as I can remember, I have been a real coward. Others taught me. Or told me. Told me I was a coward. I excused myself by telling them he had gone too early. My father had. They laughed at me, told me there had never been a father.
When I told my mum, she went quite mad. Told me not to listen to them. Of course there had been a father, until I was aged four. I've tried to believe her. But it's only her face I remember, not his. I blame myself a lot for more listening to our neighbors. To those who denied having seen my father at all. What do they know? As far as I'm concerned, I do know that mum and I moved around a lot in Flea Bottom since I was a baby.
People thought I wasn't too bad in my old days. That's kind of a joke, cause I'm not old. Not that old, I mean. I'm twenty-four. I feel old, though. Older than I should. Maybe everyone starts feeling old when they have kids. We have two, third one on the way. Will I feel even older when she'll be born? My third daughter. I don't doubt it will be a girl again. There's nothing wrong with daughters, mind. I do prefer them even I don't know what it would be like with sons. It's just different. Since I've given up cooking altogether, and partly also baking, which felt like losing a good, old friend, I have been standing behind the bar. I stick with the drunk. The talkers. Those who regret.
They tell me about their children. About their sons. Those who lived. Those who lived to die in the war.
I'm not wailing. A lot of people say I usually am but they don't walk in my shoes. My eldest daughter will be eight years old soon. If she were a boy, they would already have dragged her from me. But here she is, helping her mum in the kitchens. She's a quick learner. Not like me. Well, I'm a quick learner, too, when it comes to food. But not the rest. Not like Arry. Arya, of course. She was quick, quick at about everything. Talking, running, handling a sword.
I know I'm divagating. I always am. People accuse me of divagating all the time. They're right, I guess. I was never good at putting something in a nutshell. To cut a long story short, I'm a failure.
My kids don't mind. Maybe because they're girls. They don't have to claim they spring from a brave man. It's enough for them to have a loving father. And they don't expect me to do extraordinary things. But I'd fight for them, die for them, if necessary. Sella doesn't believe me when I tell her. What does she know? What does anybody know, by the way?
When I fell in love for the first time, it was with Arry. Arya, I mean. When I found out she was a girl, not before, of course. I was fourteen. Bit late, maybe. But I'd been preoccupied before. Preoccupied with staying alive. I had been very innocent before Yoren took me with him. A baker's apprentice, hard-working boy, not much joy. My master sold me to him. At that time I thought I was too bad an apprentice to merit shelter, or any kind of protection, to be taught all the things he knew. Now, I'm almost sure he did it because I was better than him, better in every way. I became his rival, his enemy, so he had to get rid of me.
I'm divagating again. I didn't want to talk about me, all I wanted to do was to tell you about her, Arya. Maybe all those people are right. All I can do is to wail.
She was so different. Different from me, from Lommy Greenhand, even from Gendry. And Gendry was already a grown-up, back then, a smith, he had nothing in common with us, only his destination: The Wall.
When I saw Arya for the last time, she went away with the brotherhood. With their leader, the one-eyed guy, and the Red Priest. I've never been good with names. But I remember what they told us. They said they'd watch over her. But I know better. They wanted to sell her, sell her like cattle. To her brother, mother, or uncle. The one they'd come across first. I never knew who that was, or if it really happened.
Along with her, they took another prisoner with them. Older guy, quite tall, with dirty hair, all armored. Couldn't talk a sentence without swearing. His face reminded me of the ham my mum let burn in the oven one day when the landlord came to collect the rent and she couldn't pay him. She'd never let something burn, my mum, not that I know of. Only that day. Well, he looked like what we found in the oven later, that one. Wrecked.
I told her so, the Lady that came to the innkeep to ask for her. Not for Arya, actually, but her sister. I've never met her sister. The description she gave us was not one resembling Arya at all. A maiden fair with copper-red hair. Sounds like a poem, doesn't it? I'd never have guessed she was her sister until she mentioned her name. What was it again? Sara? Samanta? As I already said, I'm bad with names. Something with an s, it was. S whatsername. Of Winterfell. Or was it Winterhell? Honestly, I always have to think twice. No, of course it was Winterfell.
Anyway, they were all ears when I mentioned Arry. That Lady with the impressive sword and her squire. Yellow hair, she had. She wore armor, just like a real knight. Only she was a woman. But real impressive all the same, tallest woman I ever saw. We don't see so many knights up here. Neither men nor women. Not back in those days, I mean, and even less today.
I'd really like to know if they found her in the end. There were many stories before the Long Night, and even more after, at least by those who survived to tell them. Some say Arya's still alive, rebuilt her family's castle that had almost been destroyed completely, first by the Boltons, then by the Army of the Dead.
But maybe they mistook her for her sister and Arya is dead after all. Sella would prefer that, without any doubt. She knows I was in love with her once. I told her myself, it was my own fault. I was drunk at that time, although drinking is a thing I seldom do. But it happens, the chances are even bigger when you work behind the bar, I told her.
Sometimes I wish I wouldn't have met her, Sella, I mean. And I dream about going even further north to the place called Winterfell and find out myself. But I don't dare. Have I already mentioned I'm a coward?
If it wasn't for Sella, the girls wouldn't be part of my life either. Knowing that makes it easier. Living with the lie of what could have been. I don't mean Arya and I would have had a future together, oh no, I'm not as daft as that. But sometimes I dream of what would've happened to myself if I hadn't shown the white feathers earlier. Maybe she'd have taught me how to handle a sword after all. Or I'd witnessed her marrying Gendry which would've been a bit painful. But, actually, I doubt it. That they got married, I mean. Only a year or two after I'd bid farewell to both of them, we had guests who knew Flea Bottom like I used to know it. When I mentioned Gendry's name and told them his looks, revealing he was a blacksmith who'd learned the trade by Tobho Mott, they told me he was back with him again. I couldn't believe it. The moment I heard it, I would've liked to storm out, saddle a horse, no matter whose, and ride back to King's Landing to question him about Arya. But of course, I didn't. I was a sensible boy. I still am.
So many years have passed now and I think if she had survived the Long Night, I'd know it by now. But nobody could tell me for sure so far. Who's left is mostly the common people, the villagers, those who never dared to fight. Cowards like me. The Great Houses, Lannisters, Baratheons, all gone. So are most of the knights. And that's what she always wanted to be, a knight. So maybe she perished along with all of them. Although I doubt it. Arry was always a survivor. Maybe I haven't heard from her cause she's no longer a girl. She always hated being a girl. She dressed up as boy when I knew her so why not also today?
She could have gone to Essos, hiring herself out as a sell-sword. That'd suit her. So that's the way I think of her when, every now and then, I am reminded of her. When I sell one of my pies to strangers riding north. Not that anyone in their right wits would do so. They all get one, a direwolf-shaped pie as provisions for the road. It's worth while bickering with Sella in the kitchens for space to bake again, just a little something for those who venture out in that direction. And if one of them needs to point out that the Starks no longer rule the North, I tell them I don't care. I am selling my memories here, I tell them. Nothing wrong about that.
Memories are what's still left after all.