A girl has no name. But a girl has a list.
The list is 115 long. With only 297 days and nights left, time ticks for the girl.
Today we strike a name from the list. The name is Tortilla Soup.
Because the night is dark and full of terrors, it is best not to be alone when the shadows grow long. A girl does not dine alone, she has a guest. The guest has travelled across the sea, and by land to be there. He has ridden in on a borrowed steed, with central locking. When the clock strikes, three high-borns and a small child gather for supper. A direwolf howls outside.
A girl makes a soup, by slicing some scarlet coloured peppers with her Valyrian steel. The girl has been unable to procure fresh fiery peppers of jalapeno, because winter is coming so everything has been set in preserves. A girl takes out a glass of finely cut jalepino peppers and asks her guest what he thinks would be an equivalent measure to two such fresh fiery peppers. After some rude banter they agree that ten such sliced peppers should do the trick.
A girl forgets to tell her guest that she has also acquired some of the finest ground chilli that the markets outside Vaes Dothrak have to offer. A girl has bought, but never tasted this powdery pepper.
The soup is made following an ancient recipe scroll found on the Island of Skagos. It is known that the recipe hailed from Barbaric wise folk. It is known.
Once the rituals of soup making are complete, the soup is warmed, and then it crosses paths with a swordsman from Westeros, bearing the regal name of Sir Blender. He carries Hillarian steel, which is also very strong but sort of funny looking.
Once the high-borns are seated at the high table, they adorn the glorious red soup with various legumes and tasty herbs. They pray to the old Gods and the new. A child is given only bread and water, as he refuses to recognise the many-faced God, simply saying, he has too many faces. A girl has a face, and it is not pleased. Eventually the child chooses to recognise at least the drowned God and is granted some fruit and vegetables in honour of this recognition.
The high-born men tuck in. A girl turns her back to prepare the fruit for the child, but not for long. (One never turns ones back on Valerian steel for long.)
As she returns bearing fruit, she sees her guest is sweating profusely, and has the eyes of a Flayed Man.* For a moment she believes he has been poisoned by a Merchant he frequented recently, but remembers he was protected by Trojan magic at the time. She asks him what is wrong. He politely shakes his head, but now his nose is running also. She asks if the soup is spicy. The guest croaks out a small reply; “It’s a little spicy.”
A girl takes her seat and looks to the other high-born man. He smiles, has a swig of mead, and carries on eating. A girl has a mouthful and realises that this dish created by ancient barbaric wise folk is indeed spicy. Three mouthfuls in, a girl begins to wonder how the other high-born man is eating so calmly. She regrets throwing in the ten sliced peppers, and not having tasted the new peppery powder first. A girl curses the seven Gods. She also curses herself for not buying ice cream at the local market. A girl carries on eating, but the more she eats, the more the burning sensation grows. A girl has a mouthful of wildfire! This soup is hot enough to make one of Khaleesi’s dragons sweat. A girl stands up and fetches the pineapple salsa to extinguish the flames in her mouth. This helps a little, but then adds to the problem. One knows that when you try to cool your mouth with salsa that you may as well start praying to the red woman’s God.
A girl feels shame (shame, shame) for ladling this soup up for her guest, as the guest’s stoic face grows redder. The other high-born is still eating heartily, and a girl is now sure that he must be a descendent of the unburnt queen. She empties her chalice to no avail. The small child watches in amusement, as a girl starts panting and looking for milk (of the poppy).
Arising from the table, a girl flees and runs down the lane hoping to find solace. Finding a tiny market stall, she shouts: “Hold the door!” Stumbling inside she finds a Merchant with creme fraiche. Her burning heart sings. She has no time to ponder whether or not this is from a happy, local goat, but instead fumbles for coins. A Thug always pays his debts. A girl runs back home waving her creme fraiche victoriously like a trophy at a sword fighting tournament
Once the creme fraiche has been eaten, and some time has passed the people at the table stop cursing the seven, and are able to laugh at what happened. The brave and stoic guest even goes back for seconds. A girl shakes her head in disbelief.
The next day, a girl curses the Gods of old and new once more. Burn in, and burn out.
* We capitalise, to show our respects to the House of The Flayed Man. Go Boltons!!