They're already clean. All we need to do is keep them over the heat. Paul will show you.

[ Leto's air of authority softens to something more paternal than regimental. Paul knows his father has surely noticed Falco's puff of pride, and that it's the sort of thing his father finds endearing as a reaction.

After all, Paul used to do it all the time.

Leto spears the fish through deftly after he's removed his gloves, his signet ring glinting in the firelight as he does so. He offers the end of a skewer made of silver, strong wire to both boys. When Paul takes his, he does as instructed, rotating the small, nearly whole fish (two to a skewer) over the flames at a modest height. ]

You want them to end up a little darker than golden. That's how I like them, anyway.

[ Paul tells Falco, quietly, and he wonders at how naturally Falco seems to fit here between himself and his father. The woods are filling with the savoury smell of cooking seafood, mingling more pleasantly than might be expected with the damp forest around them. ]

Then we eat them with flatbread and sauce. Fisherman's lunch. It's supposed to make you impervious to the cold.