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leek stew: for lean times
into a pot of broth, add sliced leeks and mushrooms; season with ginger or saffron, if available; add salt and pepper to taste
For reasons unknown to Reek, Master insisted that Reek be the one to serve his new lady wife; not that Reek would dare to question Master’s orders, Reek knew better. Unfortunately for Reek, his new mistress was not as receptive to his obedience, constantly playing games to try and test Reek. She alternated between scolding and pleading, calling Reek by another name, a man’s name, but Reek was good, Reek could resist.
Until now, when the game had changed. She no longer tried to test Reek, or trick him; she didn’t do much of anything these days, not sleep or eat, only sat at the lone window of her chambers until Master came to use her. And it was such a clever game, this new one, because Reek would be blamed for his failure to attend his new mistress, without her even having to lift a finger.
But Reek tried, bringing her simple soups or porridges, anything he might be able to convince her to eat. So far it was all in vain. Even so, Reek, the disgusting, heinous creature that he was, found himself this time hoping she would turn it down, and then perhaps no one would mind if Reek ate it. The bread was stale, but if allowed to soak in the soup for a bit, Reek might be able to stomach it. It was treasonous to even think that, but Reek was so hungry, and so tired of eating rats. How nice it would be to have something warm, and tender against his aching teeth, to feel something other than pain.
“Lady Sansa.”
Too late, Reek remembered that he shouldn’t call her by her given name, that a sniveling mess the likes of Reek did not deserve to use such familiarities with her. But before Reek could correct and call her ‘Lady Bolton,’ she took the bowl. Reek’s relief that she was finally eating was drowned out by the pitiful cramping of his stomach at the loss of a potential meal. Reek bowed and scraped and turned to go, but stopped when she called him back by the name that wasn’t his.
“I am not used to eating alone,” she said softly. “Would you join me?” She broke the bread into halves and handed him one, offering the chair next to hers.
And, because Reek was weak- weak, meek, freak- he took the seat.
pottage: for peasants and weary travelers
into a large pot, combine grains, vegetables, and whate’re else on hand; season accordingly; add water or reduce as needed for proper consistency
Unlike before a raid, the air was somber. The ironborn men mingled uneasily with the Karstark troops, the old grudges between islanders and greenlanders revealed to be pointless in the face of certain doom, yet too strong to erase entirely.
Winterfell’s courtyard was crammed with bodies, more people than Theon had ever seen in the castle grounds. Many of them were not soldiers but women and children, smallfolk who had been evacuated from the surrounding villages, with even more packed inside. Large soup cauldrons interspersed the weapons and armor stockpiled for the coming battle, with random foodstuffs being tossed in to keep up with the hungry masses, noble and common alike.
Theon milled about by one such cauldron, ladling out pottage into bowls in the hope that he would not be called upon to socialize. Gone were the days when he had been able to charm a room with smiles and a silver tongue. He had become used to shadowing Yara and letting her do the talking for the both of them. For a time, he took advantage of Gendry’s quiet company - the blacksmith never tried to engage with him, except for once when he had looked at the massive soup pots almost fondly, calling them ‘bowls of brown’- until Arya had pulled him away for something; and, despite their earlier attempt at reconciliation, Theon was still terrified to be around Jon for long, especially now that he was constantly in the company of the Dragon Queen.
A peasant woman with a babe in arms thanked him profusely when he gave an extra bowl to the little one holding her apron, blessedly leaving before he had to muster up a response. He turned to fill the bowl of the next person in line, only to realize that the gloves they wore were far nicer than any a peasant could afford.
“I thought I might find you here,” Sansa said. While he tried to find his tongue, she gently took the ladle from his grasp and filled her bowl, then a second which she handed to him. “You’ve done enough for now, it’s time you ate and rested. Sit with me?”
Who was he to refuse the lady of Winterfell? Especially when she came to him not as Lady Stark, but as Sansa. Just as they both knew he had pledged himself to her not as Lord Greyjoy, but as Theon.
She led him to a spot where they could sit and eat, a pocket of warmth in the dark of the night. They ate in silence, and every now and then their eyes met and she smiled; and Theon thanked all the gods he knew that if this was his last night, he had spent it with her.
golden soup: for the ill and infirm, to heal body and soul
into a pot of bone broth, add bread crumbs, eggs, and cardamom and saffron; beat until thickened; add lemon and salt
The moment he stepped foot into the godswood, Theon knew he was going to die. He had accepted that it was a possibility when he swore to protect Bran, but it was not until he actually stood there that he knew his death was imminent.
He went to his death bravely, surrounded by his fellow ironborn- they too knew they were about to die, far from the sea. They were there for Yara, not out of loyalty to him, but he appreciated their presence, nonetheless. It was more than a turncloak like him deserved.
Theon never expected to wake up.
For a while he simply drifted, hearing snatches of words but unable to decipher their meaning. Once he thought he heard a woman crying, though for the life of him he couldn’t think who it might be. Someone pressed a spoon to his lips, and his mouth filled with warmth and salt. The warmth moved down his throat to settle in his belly, chasing away the cold. Slowly, after several spoonsful, he grew strong enough to open his eyes.
Sansa was perched at his bedside with a bowl of soup in her lap, her hip pressing against his beneath several thick blankets. She looked exhausted, with bruise-like shadows under her reddened eyes, and whisps of hair escaping her mussed braids. Theon thought he had never seen such a beautiful sight in all his life.
“Safe?” he managed to croak out. She startled, nearly spilling the soup over them both as she hastened to set it aside.
“Theon,” she breathed. “It’s alright, you’re safe.”
He shook his head weakly. “No, you. Safe.”
“Oh!” A tremulous smile crossed her lips as she caught his meaning. “Yes, I’m safe. We all are, thanks to you. You bought Arya the time she needed.”
Theon sighed. “Good, that’s- that’s good.”
“Yes, yes it is.”
Sansa’s smile was still fragile, her eyes suspiciously damp. Theon’s hand trembled with the effort it took to lift it to her cheek, where dried tracks betrayed earlier tears.
“Why… were you crying?” he murmured.
At that, the mask finally broke and she lay down beside him, her shoulders hitched with sobs as she drew him into the tenderest of embraces, curling in to nestle her face in the crook of his neck. Theon was too weak to hug her properly but he found the strength to stroke her hair. He reveled in the soft puff of breath against his throat, the scent of her skin, incontrovertible proof that Sansa was alive; and, Theon realized rather distantly, that this must mean he was too.
Alive. Such a thought no longer frightened him the way it once had.