The third year of Ronan's life dawned with a thin spring sun over the Vale, cold and shy, as though the heavens themselves feared to look too long upon the world below.
The snows withdrew only half-heartedly that year, leaving Runestone draped in mist and lingering frost.
Yet within its walls, life persisted... stubborn as the runes that were inscribed in many of its corners and olden tools.
Ronan had long begun to speak in halting words, the sort that tumble from a child's mouth like uncut stones... rough, imperfect, but precious all the same.
"Mama." He would say, tugging at Lady Rhea's sleeve.
Or "bird" when the falcons or ravens cried beyond the window.
In a rare instance, they heard him curse "drats" when he was seen mingling with castle rats.
And oddly enough... "meow meow ma meow" in a sad tone whenever he spots a sickly cat.
He was quick of eye and quicker of hand, reaching for things he ought not touch, and his laughter... rare but bright... seemed to fill the old halls with echoes long thought lost.
Those who watched him whispered that the boy was clever beyond his years.
The maester of Runestone recorded that he learned to walk before the turning of his first nameday.
And by the coming of his second, he could climb the small steps and stroll the halls of the castle without wanting aid.
His curiosity spared no corner of the keep.
Often he was found by the hearth, tracing the carved sigils upon the stones with tiny fingers, murmuring the shapes and arrangements of runes as Lady Rhea had taught him earlier on.
And yet, beyond those proud walls, the realm bent once more beneath the weight of sorrow.
At King's Landing, the appointed Ser Ryam Redwyne, once lauded as a knight of unmatched valor, had proven ill-fitted to rule the council chambers.
His knowledge was lacking and his words wandered. By the time he begged release from his duties, few at court were surprised, and fewer still mourned his return to duties as a white cloak.
In his stead, the Old King named his son... the Spring Prince Baelon or Baelon the Brave, his living and present son... as both Hand and heir.
For a moment, hope flickered in the royal halls. Songs were sung in Baelon's praise, and the people took heart that peace might yet endure beneath his hand.
But joy, like tempered breeze in the Vale, seldom lingers long.
In the seventh moon, black tidings swept from Dragonstone.
The Good Queen Alysanne... the realm's mother, the peacemaker, the queen who had fought for women and the weak... had breathed her last.
She had no tears left to shed, and so the Stranger took her to the Mother in peace... which was what many claimed.
Still, her passing struck the realm as a storm might fell an old oak... sudden, inevitable, and grievous.
The Old King shut himself away, and for many days, none were permitted to enter his chambers.
From Oldtown to other cities, bells tolled in mourning... from the Red Keep's high towers to the smallest sept in the Fingers, candles were lit for the Good Queen's soul.
In Runestone, the news came as a whisper borne on a chill wind.
Lady Rhea sat long in silence upon hearing it. She had only met Alysanne in a few glimpses and greetings due to the unexpected betrothal, yet those scant memories of the queen lingered.
Her decrees protecting women's rights, her kindness to those wronged by men of power.
"Had she not secluded herself..." Rhea said softly. "Perhaps she would have heard me and truly listened."
For though three years had passed since Ronan's birth, Daemon Targaryen's denial still held sway, unchallenged by king or court.
Rhea's pleas had grown quieter, not from surrender but from exhaustion. In the eyes of the realm, her son remained Ronan Stone.
Still, within their home, life went on.
The boy grew stronger, climbing walls he should not climb, laughing at the wind, chasing the falcon's shadow across the courtyard.
When he smiled, Rhea's heart ached... for in him she saw not only what she had lost but what the world refused to see... that her son was no shadow of shame, but her living defiance.
Thus passed a century after Aegon's conquest... the year that took the Good Queen from the realm... while a mother in bronze raised her child that his supposed great-grandmother had set aside.