When one and a hundred years after Aegon's Conquest eventually dawned, Runestone was still stuck in between slopes and waves...
Beneath veils of fog and snow, far removed from the greater matters of the realm.
Yet even its calmness could not keep out the tremors of change that began to shake the Seven Kingdoms.
Prince Baelon the Brave, the King's last surviving son in succession, had died from a sudden belly sickness, and his passing left the Iron Throne without a clear heir.
Regardless, the Prince's life had been full of purpose, his death full of consequence. A belly burst and matters took a turn for the worst.
For without Baelon, the royal bloodline stood in doubt. Even more than when they doubted the supposed grandson he never paid much attention to.
The Old King Jaehaerys, long revered as the Conciliator, was by then aged and frail, the years and sorrows of his reign etched deep upon him.
His body was almost failing, but his will endured.
To preserve peace, he summoned the lords of Westeros to Harrenhal for what would be remembered as the Great Council... the first of its kind in the history of the realm.
He called for this great council to prevent a war being fought over his succession. For he knew the cold truth. The only thing that could tear down the House of the Dragon... was itself.
Fourteen names were said to be offered for succession, though only two shone bright enough to draw true support...
Prince Viserys, the late Baelon's eldest son...
And Princess Rhaenys, the late Aemon's eldest daughter. The eldest daughter of the eldest son.
It was said that the debates within those blackened halls lasted for weeks.
With the Spring Prince dead, who will be the heir?
Will it be to a woman or will it pass to the man?
Banners of a hundred houses fluttered beside those great and small.
And though Runestone sent no delegation of its own, Lady Rhea Royce heard every word that filtered through raven and rumor.
She might have wondered then... had the gods been less cruel... if her own son's name could have one day been spoken among them.
For was he not of Targaryen blood through his father?
Yet such thoughts were folly. Her son had long been struck from the line of dragons by the very man who now called this council into being.
Even Lord Yorbert, who had attended as Lady Jeyne's regent, hasn't had his pleas heard.
In any case, the decision came swift and sure.
Prince Viserys was chosen by overwhelming acclaim... the lords of Westeros lifting him as heir for his gentle manner... and his opportune descent through the male line.
Thus, Viserys became the heir to the Iron Throne, and the matter of succession... though settled... left embers that would perhaps smolder for years to come.
While in Runestone, it was the same as always... but also different.
For young Ronan reached his fourth nameday.
He grew quickly, fair of face with hints of his father's fierce features but dark of hair, with grey eyes circled with purple... as a sign of his ancestries.
He was as lively as any child of his years, prone to laughter and mischief, though his mother swore his gaze was older than his flesh... thoughtful, too often aware.
The maester of Runestone began to tutor him in simple letters and tales.
To the learned man's surprise, the boy took to learning as a hawk to flight.
He memorized words after hearing them only a few times, traced letters in both ink and snow, and would spend hours poring over the same book until he could recite whole passages... and form it into better knowledge...
It was no simple feat. And a trait that would prove to be a boon for many in the future to come.
Whilst at five, he had begun to ask questions the maester could scarce answer... about dragons, bloodlines, prophecies, runes, the First Men, Children of the Forest, giants, magic... then it was about taming, breeding, calculations, forging, shipbuilding and so on.
The maester could only reply with what he could... consult from the Royce stockpiles... and ask for new text from the Citadel when he could.
Hungry for truth and progress, the young boy was.
--------------
Then came the year 103 AC... the year that ended an age. King Jaehaerys I, the Old King, passed peacefully in his sleep after fifty-five years upon the Iron Throne.
The realm mourned as it had not mourned in living memory. Bells tolled across the Seven Kingdoms.
From Dragonstone to King's Landing, dragons were seen circling in the skies, as if they, too, felt the weight of his passing. Vermithor much more so.
For Lady Rhea, the king's death carried a bitter taste.
Jaehaerys had been the foremost decision upon her son's heritage, the one who had sealed his fate as Stone.
And now he was gone... beyond reach, beyond appeal, beyond mercy.
But for the world, a new chapter had begun.
Prince Viserys ascended the Iron Throne as King Viserys I Targaryen.
His reign began in peace and splendor, and his court shone bright as any since it was not long from the Conciliator's rule.
Songs were sung of his kindness and his love for celebration, his good humor and open hand.
Yet far from King's Landing, in the cold high halls of Runestone, another story quietly continued.
Ronan Stone... bastard of the Rhea... turned six in that same year.
He climbed towers he should not, pestered maester for books, and learned his letters of the runes, High Valyrian, and even the Old Tongue faster than any other.
He could already name all the Houses of the Kingdoms, even painting their sigils and symbols... cause he took up art on the side of his studies as well.
The begrudging relatives and the gossipy smallfolk of Royce lands call him the little bastard who reads too much, but Lady Rhea saw in him something deeper...
A spark that would not dim, no matter how the realm tried to deny it.
And though the dragons had forgotten him, and the late king had judged him false, she had not.
In their shadow, under bronze and stone, the boy grew... as clever as he was curious, as bright as the sun yet cold as the wind that howled through the mountains.
For though he bore none of the dragon's prominent silver marks...
Ronan of Runestone burned with a quiet fire of his own... one that the world had yet to see.