After catching his breath, Rhaegar glanced at Baelon, who had just blown another bubble of snot.
Turning sideways, he asked Aemon, "Your brother is only three. Where did the title 'Baelon the Brave' come from? Did he slaughter a pigeon or kill a fish?"
Aemon thought for a long moment but couldn't answer.
He didn't really know either.
One of the Kingsguard, Ser Ryam Redwyne, stepped forward.
"Early last winter, Prince Baelon was carried to the Dragonpit to see the dragons. While holding a wooden sword, he struck Balerion the Black Dread on the nose. The Kingsguard carrying him, Ser Samgood, remarked that the boy was 'either very brave or completely mad,' and began calling him Baelon the Brave."
"I see. Thank you, Ser Ryam," Rhaegar said politely.
Privately, however, he thought: So it came from a bit of courtly flattery.
Unfortunately for that particular flatterer, Ser Samgood had caught the plague last year.
And died.
During the great plague, two Kingsguard had perished. The knight standing before them now, Ryam Redwyne, had filled the vacancy left by Samgood's death.
Judging from the tone of his explanation, Ryam himself clearly held little respect for his predecessor's behavior.
"So," Rhaegar asked curiously, "do any of you have titles?"
"None," Boremund and Aemon answered together, shaking their heads.
Jocelyn simply listened quietly.
In Westeros, women, except those in Dorne, rarely fought in battle, which meant they seldom received epithets. The few that existed were often little more than mocking nicknames.
"If Baelon gets one at three years old, then I need one too!"
Rhaegar clapped his hands.
As a transmigrator, destined by fate, he absolutely needed a powerful title worthy of himself.
More importantly, if he didn't choose one first, someone else might give him an insulting nickname.
His imagination immediately conjured a horrifying scene:
"The tournament begins! Entering the field now is Limping Rhaegar!
The Short Rhaegar leaps from his horse!
Stinky-Hand Rhaegar slaps his opponent to the ground!
Victory goes to Crooked-Neck Knight Rhaegar!
Ladies, cheer for him!"
Just imagining it sent chills down his spine.
If those kinds of nicknames stuck to him, his life would be ruined.
So he decided to claim a title first.
If he repeated it enough, people would eventually start using it.
It had to be masculine, domineering, something that would make enemies tremble in fear.
After careful thought, Rhaegar made his decision.
"Listen carefully!"
He stood up dramatically.
With his right hand he wiped across his short hair.
"No—"
He flicked his shoulders as if tossing back an imaginary red cloak.
"—Tears—"
Dropping into a half-crouch, elbows resting on his knees, he leaned forward.
"—For—"
He clasped his fists beneath his nose and stared intensely into the distance.
"Death!"
The four children were stunned.
They stared up at Rhaegar with wide eyes, their mouths hanging open in awe.
Boremund's eyes widened.
"That's amazing!"
Jocelyn blinked.
"…What?"
Aemon nodded solemnly.
"Good!"
Baelon popped the snot bubble on his lip.
"Is it tasty?"
"HA HA HA HA!"
Rhaegar threw his head back and laughed triumphantly.
Their reactions were exactly what he wanted, awe-inspiring impact.
In Westeros, where the Faith of the Seven dominated belief, there was no concept of a "grim reaper."
The god representing death was known as the Stranger.
A completely different concept.
The only figure bearing a title resembling "death" wasn't even human, it was the dragon Balerion, known as the Black Dread.
Even that name had originally been coined by Aegon's defeated enemies after the Conquest, a way of acknowledging the dragon's terrifying power while preserving their dignity in defeat.
Nearby, Ser Ryam Redwyne rubbed his smooth chin thoughtfully.
"Death Without Crying…" he muttered. "It sounds… somewhat strange."
Life among the nobility in the age of swords was both luxurious and extremely dull.
Gossip and rumors traveled quickly, becoming essential entertainment in daily life.
Rhaegar had only spent four years in this world.
His grasp of its complicated customs was still shallow, and he had only begun learning to read.
By the time the phrase spread through the castle-
Its meaning had completely changed.
Later that evening in the barracks, Ryam Redwyne mentioned the phrase during supper.
"Death without crying? A heart as strong as steel!"
Another knight nodded.
His education was limited, but to him the phrase sounded like a symbol of knightly resolve.
Later, that same knight chatted with a blacksmith while sharpening his sword.
"Strong as steel, eh?"
The blacksmith laughed, picking up a bent iron rod.
"Sounds like one of my rough steel bars!"
He slammed it loudly against the anvil.
Most people in Harrenhal were servants, soldiers, and cooks.
With little entertainment available, gossip spread rapidly among them.
By the time the story reached them, it had become something much simpler.
A rough steel bar.
They didn't bother distinguishing between iron, steel, copper, stone, or wood.
Anything long, straight, and hard was simply called-
a hard rod.
Soon a group of old soldiers were repeating the phrase loudly while wiggling their hips and teasing the kitchen maids.
They didn't get far.
The maids, whose arms were thicker than the soldiers' legs, chased them out of the kitchen with rolling pins.
The next morning, Rhaena Targaryen sat in the dining hall eating breakfast.
Seeing Rhaegar running energetically through the hall, she called out:
"Hard-Rod Rhaegar! Come eat your breakfast!"
Rhaegar froze.
His brain exploded.
For the first time he experienced the devastating clash between two completely different cultures.
Staring blankly at Rhaena, he thought:
My earth-shattering title-
"No-Tears Death God"…
How the hell did it turn into Hard Rod in just one day?!
"Watch your language!" Rhaena scolded.
She pulled a pear from behind her back and threw it at his head.
Rhaena actually knew exactly how the nickname had started.
If someone else had invented it, she might have tracked them down and cut out their tongue.
But since Rhaegar himself had started it…
After thinking it over, she found nothing wrong with it.
One of the Kingsguard was called "The Club."
A man should be hard and straight, she reasoned.
For a boy so young to face himself honestly meant he would grow into a strong and upright man.
At least... that was Rhaena's interpretation.
Rhaegar soon gathered Aemon and the others and ran out of Harrenhal toward the shores of the Gods Eye.
As he sprinted across the grass, he had no idea that the name "Hard-Rod Rhaegar" had already become permanently attached to him.
The Kingsguard assigned to protect the princes were also responsible for recording their daily lives.
Ser Ryam Redwyne included the strange nickname in his weekly report and sent it to the Red Keep.
King Jaehaerys read the report and nodded approvingly.
"Not bad. It suits him."
Queen Alysanne read it as well and gave her own cheerful response.
"Oh! How delightful!"
In Westeros, the heraldry, mottos, names, and appearances of noble families were all carefully recorded.
Copies of these records were periodically distributed by the maesters so that every noble house could reference them.
A person's life events were also recorded, though such books were rarely shared outside noble circles.
An assistant maester responsible for royal records pulled a massive tome from the shelf.
Turning to the page labeled:
Rhaegar Therys
He calmly wrote a new word in the blank space beneath the name.
Hard-Rod.
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