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4. The Art of Cuisine
🕑 Added 2025-10-23 17:49:40 +0000 UTCCleanliness. Order. Skill. Delicacy. Passion. Yet above all, cleanliness—thrice more precious than any other virtue in the kitchen, where man’s most elemental need was wrought into sustenance.
Thus was I sorely displeased upon first stepping within this chamber, intent as I was to impart refinement, to enlighten with cuisines of sophistication and novelty, and to cast myself in the part of gracious benefactor.
Misfortune took me by the hand, and what I beheld was naught but a sty. Buckets of refuse stinking of spoiled greens. The cloying sweetness of flesh long surrendered to rot. Towers of sullied dishes left abandoned, and servants clad in garments befouled with stains.
Perhaps, aye, I paint the last in darker hues than truth demands, but still, the sight was intolerable. This was no sanctum fit for the art of cookery. Not by my measure, nor by the measure, I should hope, of any creature of high birth possessed of taste and self-regard.
I beheld the scene, face drawn tight in distaste, displeasure near to spilling into tantrum. By sheer mastery of self alone did I spare myself such embarrassment. Yet still, I was displeased.
“Why is it so foul and unorderly?” I demanded of Vaelery, who lingered at my side.
The words, though still borne on the cadence of childishness, struck the room like gospel. At once, all movement stilled. The kitchen saw me, and I was seen.
“Prince Daemon?!” came the startled cry, not from the head cook—of that much I was certain—but from some lesser hand. “We were not informed of your visit.”
“I needn’t forewarn anyone to walk my own home, cook.”
Perhaps it was unjust of me to feel so betrayed by what ought have been plain to expect. Cleanliness was rare in these days of ours, when men set blame for ailment upon miasma and wandering spirits.
Yet still, disgust was disgust.
“You.” I set my finger upon the presumptuous cook. A young man, near my father’s age, unmarked by hardship, his form bearing no scar of labour nor privation. Comfort and inheritance had swaddled him since birth—of this much I was certain. “I would have your name and station.”
He started—more so than he had at my first words. Yet training held him, and the manner of obedience bred in the Red Keep did not desert him. “Yohn, Your Grace,” he stammered, and bent into a bow, ungainly for want of practice. “I serve as one of three primary aides to Head Cook Jaremy.”
So, Jaremy, steward of meals for the courtiers of the Red Keep. Small wonder, then, that this kitchen festered with so many hands.
More mouths yet to glut themselves at the expense of crown and kingdom, those classless sycophants who had made the Red Keep their kennel. A part of me, that darker half which had ever declared war upon my own scruples, took secret pleasure in the disgust pressed upon those courtiers.
Yet what assurance had I that such filth was not the custom of every kitchen within these walls?
Unacceptable.
I lifted my hand, bidding Yohn rise.
“Henceforth, you, Yohn, shall serve as my personal servant in all matters of the table,” declared I, turning from him to Vaelery, whose face bore the twist of displeasure. How commendable of her, to bear the weight of outward emotion in my stead. “Vaelery will furnish you with notes of what is required to see this charge fulfilled. From these rabble, you may choose two aides to your liking. Be ready within the turn of a glass.”
The maid, wedded to my command as she was, moved swiftly to deliver the notes and scribbles I had deigned upon the coarse vellum dubbed paper.
Cooking, I held, was a skill to which all persons of wit must be inclined. To lack it was to be but half a person.
Such was my wisdom. Such was the way of the world.
“Are you possessed of any skill in the kitchen, Vaelery?” I asked of my maid. She stood beside me once more, as ever was her wont, her gaze fixed with quiet fascination upon the cook who now followed my simplest of instructions—preparing fried chicken, fried potatoes, and a fair spread of condiments.
This was but our beginning. In time, I would demand variety: first the many ways of frying chicken, then the carving of tenders, the fashioning of wings, the shaping of nuggets. Fries would follow, perfected step by step, and thereafter the art of glazing in all its forms.
It was to my delight that I found Westeros, for all its rustic habits and antiquated methods, did not want for herbs, spices, nor the sauces born of region and tradition that I had known in my other life.
Another peculiarity of this realm: the plants and beasts that in my old world had been wrought by man’s hand through breeding, taming, and ceaseless study, here grew and thrived as though they had ever been native.
“Only of simpler things, Prince Daemon. The skill and nature seen in Cook Yohn and his aides are not possessed of me.”
Her answer did not surprise me, though it displeased me all the same.
I drew a breath and set my mind to thought. My maid, though constant in my presence, bore no burden of true duty; for I was not one to want for much. Possessed as I was of will and a working mind, if ever I desired something of worth, I strove to bring it about by my own hands.
Thus her place had ever been to indulge me in my lighter fancies—testing garments, fetching water, marking my schedule, and such other trivialities. No, I had no true need of her.
“Then you shall separate yourself from such ignorance,” I decreed at last. “You will learn from Yohn. I’ll not have in my service an incompetent attendant.”
Unspoken was the trust I surrendered to her. Much like my mother, she had grown me, and I, arrogant though it was, believed I knew her as well as she knew me. If it were her hand that prepared my meals, I would not think to doubt their safety.
Yohn and his aides, for all their craft, would yet need to be taught such intimacy of knowing.
For a time, silence clothed her. Her lips parted, then closed, then parted once more, yet no word dared cross. Her gaze fell neither to the stones beneath us, nor dared it rise to meet mine. Instead, it lingered upon the cook’s hands.
I watched her thus, and though no syllable escaped her, I heard her doubt clear enough. A creature bred for service she was—soft of manner, meek of will.
It was well to know she carried judgment within her breast, for such hesitation could only be such.
At length, she bent her head. “As you command, my prince,” said she in surrender.
This would be well for her. For a woman deft in the culinary arts is ever a woman sought in the simple minds of smallfolk. Perhaps she would win herself a knight’s eye, or else an honest merchant’s want. She lacked for no comeliness, that much I believed.
The shrill cry of oil, made wrathful by the touch of raw meat, scratched at my ear.
Here began the true trial.
Lacking the tools of modern craft, one needed to rely on patience and judgment alone, for sight betrayed little. Neither time nor colour could be trusted to reveal the meat’s readiness. In the matter of fried chicken, there were three truths that needed be held in balance: the crunch that sang of craft, the browning that heralded savour, and the juiciness that preserved the heart of the flesh—all without forfeiting the thoroughness of its cooking.
With proper measure of heat, such matters might have been mastered with ease. Yet this world was innocent of advancement, and worse still, it held no reckoning for the measure of heat.
Barbarism at its finest!
Jests aside, the truth was thus: cooks in this age were forced to divine the fire’s temper by instinct alone. In that regard, they were the truer craftsmen, more skilled by necessity than the self-styled chefs of my old world, who leant ever upon the crutch of tools and numbers. The challenge, however, lay in imparting such instinct unto others without much trial and failure.
Cook Yohn cast a wary glance my way. He was obedient enough, though from the first he had borne the look of a man ill-pleased by the task set before him. He had known well that to remain at my side was to be all but disqualified from pursuit of higher station within the primary kitchens. Yet what choice had he possessed? To spurn my summons would have been to invite lash and exile, for disobedience to royal command was no light matter.
Even acceptance had borne its own peril. For what was a prince, if not fickle? And a prince in swaddling all the more so. Yohn had known it well, that if I found his craft wanting, he might be cast aside as unfit. And though I was but a child in years, still was I a son of dragon. My judgment would have been enough to ruin him.
Fortune smiled upon him, for I was no mere child nor fickle of heart. In my service, he would find not only wealth, but skill and renown in equal measure.
He worked the oil with cautious hand, steering the meat in vain to mask his tenseness. I spoke not, content to watch his craft unfold. In truth, I did not expected triumph at the first attempt; this trial was but to gauge the breadth of his skill. For that purpose three chickens had been slaughtered, so that six chances might be made.
At length, he set forth the fried meat, gleaming brown beneath the torchlight. When it had rested, I called for tasting. Vaelery took her share, I took mine, and Yohn himself partook—for he needed to know what it was he had wrought, and wherein it failed.
“The crust is burnt, and the flesh within near dry,” I judged after a chew. “The oil was too hot. You must bring it to a moderate temper, and shorten the time besides. Be sparing with the coating, and make once more the same portion.”
He nodded, hesitant.
“What of your own judgment, cook?” I asked before he could withdraw. “Give me your true opinion.”
Once more he faltered, but at length he gave voice. “I… do taste the char upon it, Prince Daemon. Yet still, I deem its flavour more than sufficient.”
I inclined my head, then turned to Vaelery. My silence framed the question well enough.
“I do not share your opinion, my prince, nor that of Cook Yohn,” she replied. “To me, this is sufficiently tasteful.”
Thus did I allow the process to carry. Palatable though it seemed to them, it fell short of the design I envisioned, and so it would be tailored to my specifications.
Such was my will. Such was my right.
Still, that did not mean I had no plans for such lacking meat prepared. One should ever remember to avoid waste.
“Come, Vaelery, I must show you how this prepared meat might be assembled into something finer.” I made for the other table, where the flatbreads I had earlier ordered lay ready.
I signalled for one of the aides to attend me.
Upon reaching the table, Vaelery lifted me up to the elevated board. In moments such as these I longed for the blur of years, that I might be freed of this diminutive form. How was I to instil intimidation, when my body so plainly betrayed my image?
“My prince, is it not improper for you to devote your esteemed time to such ventures?” asked she once her duty of lifting was done.
Amusement pressed upon my heart, though I restrained myself from letting it touch my countenance.
“You need not make a question of this, Vaelery. It is indeed as you said.” The admittance came easy. “Though it amused me that you had yet to ask after my knowing of such things, and of many more besides.”
Mother kept herself in chosen ignorance of my strangeness, and Father was too beset with the burdens of rule to be troubled with such trifles. Rhaegar alone had once asked how I came by knowledge beyond the scope of my tutelage. My answer to him had been strange dreams.
A lie, of course, but such was so.
“It is not my place to question you of such things, Prince Daemon,” said Vaelery.
“Then make it your habit to do so, Vaelery. I shall be the one to decide whether you are to be enlightened or not of your curiosities.” A bit presumptuous of me. Let it not be said that I was not a prince who encouraged good habits in folk.
“Prince Daemon,” spoke the girl whom Yohn had chosen as an aide, her tone deferent. “What need you of me?”
I regarded her with a judging eye. She was by no means fair, nor did she appear particularly privileged of birth. Her features were plain in a manner all too common—black of hair, brown of eyes, and little else to set her apart.
Andal.
“You shall assist me in passing ingredients, and learn what I create,” I instructed. “What I shall be making is called a chicken wrap. The sauce I use will act as its distinction, for many variations may be wrought from chicken.”
I paused, working my thoughts.
“Let us call it a Garlic Honey Chicken Wrap. Write the name down, Vaelery.”
And just like that I commenced.
I stretched out a hand and ordered, “Pickled cucumber.”
The aide laid the item before me. With a small knife, I halved it, then quartered it, before dicing it. At last, I bowled the pieces.
“Mayonnaise and honey.”
Swiftly, the items were passed. I scooped two spoons of the mayonnaise I had bidden Yohn prepare into the bowl, then added half a spoon of honey. To it I cast a dash of black pepper, salt, garlic, and paprika.
After mixing, I brought a taste to my tongue.
Vaelery’s quill scratched as she took the process to page.
“Fresh vegetables,” I demanded once more, and once more they were passed with all due swiftness.
Thus I sliced them into circles before quartering the shapes.
“Chicken.”
The pieces of the ill-done chicken were passed, and I cut them down into small portions.
“Now comes the assembly. Pass the flatbread.”
The girl did so. I set it before me, layered a thin spread of sauce, then laid the vegetables upon it. Another spread—more a drizzle in earnest—followed, then the fried potatoes. One more spread, a sprinkle of grated cheese, then the meat. A final spread, and at last, I wrapped it.
“And just so, we have a chicken wrap,” I declared, cutting it into three portions.
I placed the finished wrap before them, straightening myself as though posture alone might grant me the height my body denied.
The Saint: Royalty has more power than believed, especially over the common folk.
