Before the wooden rings had finished circling the hips of half the noble girls in the Vale... and the takraw balls were being volleyed across courtyards from Gulltown and beyond... the Bastard of Runestone had moved on again.
His mind was never still.
If there was wood to shape, string to pull, or air to test... he was there, carving, tying, whittling.
And soon enough, the workshops of Runestone began to echo with a new sound.
A sharp whirr, a sudden clack, followed by laughter, cheers, and sometimes a pained "Ow!"
For Ronan Stone had introduced the "trompo". Or wooden spinning tops.
A toy of "battles" and whimsy both... nothing more than a lump of carved wood with a nail at its point and a string wound around its body from the middle.
But in the hands of one who knew how to flick and pull, the trompo would leap, spin, and dance across the ground like a living thing.
It was the children who were fascinated first, of course.
Passionately learning how to wind the string, how to release it with a snap of the wrist... and mayhaps how to catch it again in the palm before it fell still.
Simple fun, or so it seemed.
Until the clever bastard introduced how to make it a challenge. How one spin master can take on others in a "battle".
Two or more trompos spun, collided, and chipped where the iron points met.
The winner was the last one standing, the one who bested the others, damaging them to varying degrees.
These losers... well, they could always carve another or buy new ones.
Soon enough, spinning top fights became an interesting way to pass the time across the kingdoms.
Courtyards rang with the hum of spinning wood and clattering points, and wagers were even made by grown men over whose top would outlast the rest.
Ronan himself could only sigh when the maester scolded him about the "hazardous entertainments" he'd unleashed upon the realm.
To ease their worries, the boy apparently made a smaller, gentler version... blunt-tipped, light, meant for babes and toddlers.
He called them dreidels.
These ones bore letters on each side, symbols that the child might spin to learn words, numbers, and fortune.
Not half as thrilling as the trompos, but enough to make nursemaids smile and mothers sigh in relief.
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But the true wonder came next.
Not a toy that spun danced upon the earth... but one that soared.
It began with a frame of wood, light and sturdy, covered with thinned hide stretched tight. Sometimes made of cloth that is thin and sturdy
Tied a long string, and only need to wait for the winds of the Vale to stir, and let go.
And the "kite" took flight. Like the kite bird that is known in the realm.
At first, the onlookers gasped.
Then they cheered, for the small, trembling thing rose higher and higher, its tail fluttering like a banner.
The bastard boy guided it from below, tugging the string so that it dipped, turned, and soared again.
A bird made by man's hand.
The maester nearly dropped his quill watching it.
The assigned knights almost left their posts to gape.
Even Lady Rhea smiled as the shape cut against the pale blue sky.
Word spread like wildfire across the realm.
Soon, there were kites of every kind... square, diamond, round, and strange.
Some painted with house sigils, others with beasts, dragons, or moons.
The winds of Runestone's hills became a playground for colors and dreams.
And then, inevitably, came kite duels.
Two fliers would cross strings in the sky, each trying to cut the other's line.
When one kite fell, the crowd would roar in triumph.
When both tangled and crashed, laughter echoed for leagues.
In a realm where only Targaryens could fly dragons, the kite became quite the interest.
A symbol that even common hands could command the winds... if only for a moment. Even if it is still from the ground.
Making the smallfolk say the Bastard of Runestone had stolen a secret from the skies.
The maesters wrote of him as "the bastard boy who made the air his canvas."
And a few lords, half in jest and half in awe, began to call him the boy who taught men to fly.
His name spread farther than the King's own in whispers.
For while the new King Viserys ruled the Iron Throne, Ronan Stone ruled something stranger... the hearts and imaginations of the realm itself.
Almost even overshadowing the seven-year-old princess who rode her dragon so young.
But beneath the cold stones of Runestone, the boy only smiled, carving yet another shape the world had not seen before.
Perhaps for him, innovations and progress like these were still far from enough. Especially when there are so many more to come.