They split the birds open, cleaning them thoroughly. Fat began to drip from the skin onto the flames, crackling loudly.
Turning and rotating the skewers, the five birds Rhaegar had caught were nearly roasted through.
The slightly older Kingsguard knight, Ser Lucamore Strong, proved far more skilled at roasting meat. He volunteered to prepare the food for the princes and the other children.
Ser Lyonel Redwyne led several knights to keep watch nearby. The tiny birds didn't have enough meat to interest them anyway.
Children, as the saying went, had stomachs like bottomless holes, they ate often and grew hungry quickly.
Boremund and Prince Aemon still tried to keep their manners. Together with Rhaegar they waited patiently for the meat to finish roasting.
But four-year-old Baelon was already drooling with impatience.
He tried to imitate Ser Lucamore, stirring the burning branches in the fire and blowing into the gaps to make the flames burn hotter.
The difference was that Ser Lucamore used a small stick.
Baelon used his bare hands.
Rhaegar's eyes widened.
Baelon's thin little hands rummaged freely through the burning firewood.
His skin did not burn.
He did not cry out.
Even the strands of hair hanging into the flames did not ignite.
It was as if the fire simply did not exist for him.
Nearby, the Baratheon siblings and Aemon watched the scene with the same calm expressions as Ser Lucamore, who continued roasting the birds.
None of them made the slightest attempt to stop Baelon from playing with the fire.
Rhaegar cautiously stretched his hand toward the flames.
Before even touching the fire, he could clearly feel the heat.
"Baelon… do you have some kind of magic that protects you from fire?"
"Magic?" Baelon shook his head, his hands still buried in the flames.
Ser Lucamore kept his eyes on the roasting birds and spoke in a puzzled tone.
"True dragons do not fear fire. Has Princess Rhaena never told you?"
"No," Rhaegar replied after thinking about it. His grandmother had never mentioned it.
"I can do it too," Aemon added, calmly placing his own hand into the flames.
Perhaps to the Targaryens, resistance to fire was simply too ordinary to mention.
No one dared question members of the royal family about it, and they themselves rarely spoke of it, no more remarkable than saying they were hungry and needed food.
Or perhaps the dragonlords' pride made them treat such an innate gift lightly.
Rhaegar wondered briefly whether fire immunity was some kind of secret advantage of the dragonlords.
Then he glanced toward the Baratheon siblings.
A moment later he understood.
The two families had intermarried for generations. Aside from riding dragons, anything worth knowing had long since been shared between them.
Rhaegar fell silent.
Baelon's immunity to fire had shaken him deeply.
Not long afterward, the birds finished roasting.
"Rhaegar," Ser Lucamore said, "you caught these five birds. You should divide them."
He stuck the five skewers upright in the ground, dusted ash from his armor, and stepped back.
As a Kingsguard knight, master of the knightly arts and bearer of the highest honor in the Seven Kingdoms, he would not stoop to eating birds caught by children, even if he had roasted them himself.
The five birds were not even the same species, and they varied greatly in size.
Ser Lucamore did not go far. He remained nearby, quietly observing.
He wanted to see what kind of character Rhaegar possessed.
Children chose their friends based on instinct.
But the Kingsguard watched far more carefully.
They were not only responsible for protecting the princes. Anyone who came into contact with them had to be reported to the king.
"Ser Lucamore," Rhaegar said, "could you borrow a dagger?"
Ah. So that was the game.
Trying to see if he would give up the better fruit, the way well-behaved children are always told they should.
Rhaegar snorted inwardly.
Why would he copy that fool?
Still… technically he was a child now.
Ser Lucamore carried no dagger as part of his standard gear, but he quickly borrowed one from a nearby knight.
Rhaegar then asked him to cut the roasted birds into small pieces.
That way no one needed to compete, and everyone could receive an equal portion.
Soon the five children were eating happily, grease covering their mouths.
Evening approached.
The distant towers of Harrenhal cast long shadows across the grasslands.
Boremund, Aemon, and Baelon excitedly discussed their bird-hunting adventure.
A maid held up Jocelyn's skirts as they walked.
Together they slowly made their way back toward the castle beneath the setting sun.
Rhaegar strolled along behind the group, hands clasped behind his head, belly slightly puffed out.
He smiled to himself.
Adults around princes were always scheming.
But Rhaegar himself was no different.
The method he had used to catch birds was actually very simple.
Like the little trick of making a pebble vanish beneath a bowl, unless someone pointed out the secret, many people could spend their entire lives without figuring it out.
During the years Rhaegar had lived here, nobles hunted birds with bows.
Hunters waited near nests at night with nets, or scattered grain in open fields and shot birds as they gathered.
Each method was a trade secret, passed only to family members.
Never taught to outsiders.
Catching birds for meat and selling their feathers to nobles, for arrows and decoration, could easily support an entire household.
If no one in this world knew the trap method Rhaegar used, a hunter possessing such a skill could feed an entire family for life.
Not every noble was trustworthy.
Rhaegar had seen plenty like that in his previous world, people who were unreliable and constantly undermined their own allies.
Where there was power, there was always conflict.
The war with Dorne still raged in the south.
Dragons flew through the skies.
Magic lingered in shadow.
This world was far from peaceful.
Rhaegar simply hoped to live long enough to grow old.
He had no idea what kinds of people he might encounter in the future.
For now, the only children close to him were the Baratheon siblings and the two princes.
By using the bird trap openly in front of them, he had effectively taught them the technique.
Knowledge and experience were not what mattered.
What mattered was whether someone could keep a secret.
People who could not guard a secret were bigmouths from childhood.
Character revealed itself early.
Rhaegar intended to see whether the adults around these children would someday start talking about the bird-trapping method.
Sharing a small secret cost him nothing.
If they kept it, good.
If they revealed it, that would tell him everything he needed to know.
It was a simple test, one that allowed him to decide who to trust and who to avoid.
For now, it was the perfect method.
*
Night at Harrenhal
In a world without electricity, people rose with the sun and slept after dusk.
After supper, knights and soldiers on night watch patrolled the walls of Harrenhal in small groups, torches flickering in the darkness.
Inside the Kingspyre Tower, residents were washing and preparing for bed.
Boom…
Spring thunder rumbled continuously above the clouds.
For several days the thunder had sounded without lightning ever appearing.
Knock. Knock.
Someone gently tapped on a bedroom door.
"Who's there?"
"Rhaena. It's me- Rhaegar."
"Come in, little Hard-Rod."
Rhaegar pushed the door open.
Rhaena had not yet gone to bed.
She sat before her dressing table, reading a thin book by candlelight.
"Close the door. Come here."
She quickly slid the book into a drawer and beckoned him over.
The small gesture might fool a child.
But Rhaegar merely smiled faintly and walked toward her.
The room was immaculate.
A soft red wool carpet covered the floor.
Both the tea table and writing desk were draped in Rhaena's favorite yellow checkered cloth.
Five delicate wooden boxes sat on the dressing table, the full collection of cosmetics currently available to noblewomen.
Rhaena lifted Rhaegar under the arms and set him on her lap.
She leaned down and sniffed the scent of soap berries in his hair, gently stroking his black strands.
"So late at night… are you afraid of thunder?"
"The thunder isn't striking me. Why would I be afraid?" Rhaegar said.
"I just wanted to ask you something."
There was no stopping her from playing with his hair. The more he talked, the more enthusiastically she rubbed it.
So he twisted sideways and pointed toward the fireplace.
"Today I saw Baelon stick his hands into the fire without getting burned. Ser Lucamore said members of House Targaryen don't fear fire."
"Oh," Rhaena said softly. "So that's what you wanted to ask."
Her hand slowed gently on his hair, and her gaze drifted toward the fireplace.
The Targaryens came from the Valyrian Peninsula across the Narrow Sea.
Pale skin, silver hair, and purple eyes were their most recognizable traits.
Many people of Valyrian descent still lived in the Free Cities—especially Volantis and Lys.
But only one bloodline remained true dragonlords.
House Targaryen.
Rhaegar, with his black hair and dark eyes, clearly carried blood from outside Valyria.
Rhaena had never mentioned fire immunity before.
She feared that talking about bloodlines might make the boy more sensitive about his status as a bastard.
Still, Rhaegar was unusually intelligent and perceptive.
Since he had asked directly, she decided it was time to explain.
She stood up and led him toward the fireplace.
The night air was cold.
Iron tongs leaned beside the hearth.
Inside the fireplace a metal rack held the burning logs in two layers.
The maid had added enough firewood to keep the flames burning deep into the night.
"'True dragons do not fear fire,'" Rhaena said softly.
"It's an old saying among the Valyrian dragonlords."
She bent down and placed her hand directly into the fire.
Using her fingers, she pushed aside the burning logs.
Then she grasped the red-hot iron rack with her bare hand-
And lifted it out of the flames.
------
A/N- Read 21 chapters ahead on Patreon, with the first 1 free.
patreon.com/Captain_Lag