"Sharingan… activate!"
The strange cry of a child echoed repeatedly through the vast, empty halls and corridors of Harrenhal, bouncing off stone walls, yet the speaker himself was nowhere to be seen.
"Rhaegar's voice came from the corridor on the left! Follow me!"
Boremund pushed back his black curls and tilted his head, listening carefully. After a moment he pinpointed the direction and took off running down the dim passage.
Behind him, three smaller children hurried after him, one girl and two boys.
Rhaegar was usually quiet and rarely spoke. Among the servants, rumors circulated that something was wrong with his mind.
But the children knew better.
Rhaegar told wonderful stories and built all sorts of strange little toys.
They loved playing with him.
The four children ran wildly through the empty castle.
Behind them, several maids and two white-cloaked Kingsguard followed silently.
The adults kept a respectful distance, close enough to watch, but far enough not to interfere.
They neither stopped the children nor disturbed them, allowing the youngsters their freedom.
"Dragonfire!"
Rhaegar's voice rang out again, echoing through the circular corridor.
"Boremund, you went the wrong way!" little Jocelyn shouted.
"This place is huge and empty!" Boremund scratched the back of his head. "Jocelyn… I think I'm lost."
Jocelyn looked around carefully.
"This corridor is circular... just like the one in Storm's End. The sound went around the ring and came back. We should turn around and take the passage on the right!"
"Alright!"
The two turned back the way they came, grabbing the two younger princes along the way as they ran.
"Roar! Haaa-!"
All four children looked up.
The sound was clearly coming from the top of a tower.
"Rhaegar must be up there!" Jocelyn exclaimed. "Haha, we finally found him!"
She lifted her skirt and dashed up the spiral staircase.
Boremund suddenly remembered some of the strange sayings Rhaegar had taught him.
"Even though I never understand what Rhaegar is shouting, I can feel his power getting stronger and stronger! His combat strength must be enough to defeat eight Sword of the Morning knights from Dorne!"
"Stop repeating those ridiculous words Rhaegar teaches you," Jocelyn scolded while slowing down as the climb grew tiring. "What does 'combat strength' even mean? No one understands you except the few of us. People will laugh!"
Boremund shook his head gravely.
"You wouldn't understand. This is how righteous knights measure themselves!"
"Finally found you, Rhaegar!"
The top of the tower had partially collapsed.
After pushing open a broken wooden door together, the four children ran out onto the battlements.
There they found Rhaegar.
He stood before a straw dummy, swinging a small wooden sword over and over, a large red bump swelling on his forehead.
Nearby, atop the ruined Tower of Terror, Dreamfyre lay curled in her nest.
Her slender neck drooped lazily over the tower wall. Tilting her head, she watched Rhaegar's wild sword practice with one bored eye.
Occasionally she rubbed her curved horns against the stone.
She was extremely bored.
With their target finally located, the children ran over.
The accompanying adults followed more slowly and rested nearby. The two Kingsguard leaned casually against the battlements, chatting while keeping the children in view.
Everyone in the castle had long grown accustomed to Rhaegar's strange shouts.
After hearing them several times and realizing they followed no recognizable pattern, and certainly weren't any known language, people simply assumed it was part of the boy's childish games.
No one bothered listening closely anymore.
Before his transmigration, people often asked why a grown man like him loved watching anime.
Whenever that happened, Rhaegar would wrap one thick arm around the questioner's neck and press his muscular chest into their bewildered face.
"Brother," he would say solemnly, "do you even know how many years One Piece has been running?"
"Rhaegar Therys! I challenge you again!"
Boremund spotted a pile of wooden swords on the ground, grabbed one at random, and stepped forward.
Members of House Baratheon tended to be tall and broad.
At eight years old, Boremund stood two heads taller than four-year-old Rhaegar. Even Jocelyn was unusually tall for her age.
The maids who had followed them showed no concern at all. They calmly set down their baskets nearby and spread out fruit and bread on a blanket.
The two Kingsguard adjusted their white cloaks and leaned against the wall, arms crossed, clearly interested in watching the children's duel.
"I'll defeat you in three moves," Boremund declared, taking a fighting stance.
"In four, you lose," Rhaegar replied calmly, touching the swelling bump on his forehead before pointing his wooden sword forward.
After that brief exchange, neither spoke.
The wooden swords clashed.
Clack! Clack! Clack!
Smack!
The match was already decided.
A red mark appeared on Boremund's cheek.
"Four moves," Rhaegar said proudly, lowering his sword behind his back and striking what he believed to be a heroic pose.
"I don't get it…" Boremund muttered, rubbing his cheek. "I'm stronger than you, and I even used the new move I learned!"
He wasn't angry.
After all, since arriving at Harrenhal, he had grown quite used to losing.
Rhaegar stuck his sword into the straw dummy and dusted off his clothes.
"You closed your eyes again at the end."
"I… can't help it!" Boremund waved a finger in front of his own face. His eyes reflexively tried to blink shut.
Whenever a weapon moved toward someone's face, instinct made them close their eyes.
When attacked, people instinctively raised their arms to shield their heads.
These were natural human reactions.
Only long training could overcome them.
With the realm in chaos these past years, Boremund had missed such training entirely.
Just those two weaknesses alone allowed Rhaegar to dominate him.
Besides-
Rhaegar was not truly a child.
He carried the mind of an adult and had practiced swordplay aimlessly in his previous life.
If he couldn't defeat an actual child, he might as well jump into the Gods Eye and let another transmigrator take his place.
Nearby, the two Kingsguard chatted quietly.
"Rhaegar used to beat Boremund in only two moves."
"Boremund's improving quickly. His height and reach are starting to matter. Rhaegar has to work harder now."
"Fine. I lose the bet. I'll have my men bring the wine back before nightfall."
They had been betting on the duel.
Rhaegar turned toward them.
The two knights were wearing helmets and identical armor beneath their white cloaks. Only their eyes and mouths were visible through narrow openings.
Their voices were the only way to tell them apart.
The Kingsguard numbered seven knights in total. Their duty was to protect the king, and the royal family.
These two had been assigned to guard the two young princes.
Their vows said nothing about avoiding alcohol, however.
In this freezing winter, a mouthful of strong wine was a comfort hard to resist.
Harrenhal itself had none.
If they wanted wine, they had to ride over ten miles to the nearest inn and buy it themselves.
The great plague had recently claimed the lives of two Kingsguard.
Twenty-year-old Ryam Redwyne was one of the new replacements this year.
The other knight leading the mission was the veteran Lucamore Strong.
They were accompanied by a large detachment of soldiers stationed in another tower of Harrenhal, ready in case of danger.
Perhaps the two of you should be thanking me, Rhaegar thought silently.
Because he was almost certain of something terrifying.
The source of the plague devastating Westeros…
…was him.
When he first arrived in this world, the mysterious energy surrounding his body had not only killed Princess Aerea.
Four years later, it had delivered an even greater shock.
The energy had protected his mortal body from destruction during the dimensional crossing.
But it had also preserved the bacteria and viruses carried within and upon him.
In his former world, humans had coexisted with such pathogens for thousands of years. Their bodies had antibodies, supported by advanced medicine and pharmaceuticals.
To Rhaegar, they posed no real threat.
But to the people of Westeros, whose medicine was barely more than superstition-
They were catastrophic.
Not long ago, Rhaena had flown with Rhaegar on Dreamfyre to visit relatives in Oldtown, the southernmost great city of the continent.
They had stopped briefly in several places along the way.
During that trip, Rhaegar caught a cold and sneezed constantly for several days.
Then he recovered quickly.
Different people had different constitutions.
Some who caught the illness from him showed no symptoms at all.
Merchants and travelers carried the sickness across the roads.
Within a month, the plague had spread from Oldtown throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
From the symptoms described, Rhaegar was certain of it.
It was simply influenza.
Whether someone became ill, or survived afterward, was left entirely to fate.
Rhaegar knew nothing about medicine.
He could not create cures.
All he could do was pray that the Seven might protect the people.
From the moment he arrived in this world, death had followed him.
His mother.
The people burned by dragon blood in King's Landing.
Among common folk, Rhaegar was already whispered to be an ill omen.
And now there was the plague.
If all those deaths were laid at his feet...
The ghosts seeking vengeance would form a line stretching from Harrenhal all the way to King's Landing.
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