The journey north across the Golden Sea and into the Blazewater Bay was blessed by calm winds and clear skies, as if the gods themselves approved of the match forged at Casterly Rock.
On the quarterdeck of The Blade of Winter, Ser Jorah Mormont barely left Lady Lynesse Hightower’s side. He wrapped his thick, fur-lined mantle around her shoulders against the ocean chill, pointing out distant headlands and sea birds, his rough, scarred face lit by a soft, radiant happiness no one in the North had ever seen on him.
Leaning against the ship’s rail nearby, Lady Maege Mormont and Lord Galbart Glover watched the couple with fond, amused expressions—before turning their eyes straight back to Robin Flint.
"So, my 'Singing Lord'," Maege chuckled, nudging Robin’s elbow with her heavy leather gauntlet. "Will you be bringing your lute to Bear Island, or do we need to build a special high chair on the high table for our resident minstrel?"
Robin let out a long, weary sigh, rubbing his brow. "Aunt Maege, if you call me 'The Singing Lord' one more time, I am increasing the freight tariff on Bear Island’s next shipment of glass panes by ten percent."
Galbart Glover burst into a booming roar of laughter that startled a flock of gulls overhead. "Threatening us with glass tariffs! By the Seven, Robin, you truly are a ruthless tyrant! But you can't escape it, lad. The bards in Lannisport are already writing songs about the young wolf who brought Casterly Rock to a silent standstill!"
"They are exaggerating a standard acoustic performance," Robin muttered, his M22 analytical mind still mildly baffled by how a simple 20th-century ballad had reduced the proudest lords of Westeros to quiet tears. "It was merely resonance and frequency control."
Ser Jorah turned toward them, holding Lynesse’s hand gently in his own.
"Call it whatever you wish, Robin," Jorah said, his voice deep and sincere. "You gave me the courage to stand before Lord Leyton and ask for Lynesse’s hand. The North remembers what you did for us at Casterly Rock, Robin—that’s a promise, from House Mormont to House Flint. But you won't escape so easily. You are going to sing at our wedding on Bear Island. My bride will accept nothing less."
Lynesse looked at Robin with wide, pleading violet eyes, offering a sweet, bright smile. "Please, Lord Robin? Jorah speaks of Bear Island as a place of dark woods and cold stone... but hearing your song made me feel as though the North holds magic."
Robin looked at the happy couple, then at Maege’s proud face, and finally felt his stoic mask melt away into a warm, genuine smile. "If it pleases the bride, I will play. But only one song."
When The Blade of Winter dropped anchor in the bustling harbor of Flint’s Finger, the docks were lined with hundreds of shouting, cheering smallfolk.
Standing at the very edge of the stone pier, wearing a dress of soft green wool trimmed with white fox fur, was seven-year-old Lyra Flint.
The moment the gangplank touched the timber dock, Lyra didn't wait for formal court protocol. She took off running across the planks, her dark hair flying in the wind, and threw herself straight into Robin’s arms.
Robin caught her effortlessly, swinging her around in a circle as she giggled wildly, burying her face into his shoulder.
"Robin! You were gone forever!" Lyra gasped, pulling back to inspect his face with serious eyes. "Did you fight any monsters? Did you buy more books? Did you bring me sweets from the south?"
"No monsters, little wolf," Robin laughed softly, setting her down gently on her feet. "Only southern lords and heavy jousts. But I brought guests."
Lyra’s bright dark eyes immediately locked onto Ser Jorah, Aunt Maege, and Lady Lynesse.
When Lynesse stepped down from the ship, looking like a vision of southern gold in her fine silk cloak, Lyra’s jaw dropped in genuine, childhood wonder. She walked right up to the Hightower lady, tilting her head up.
"You look like a high princess from Old Nan's stories," Lyra said softly, completely devoid of guile.
Lynesse melted on the spot. She dropped gracefully to her knees on the timber pier, ignoring the salt dust, and took Lyra’s small hands in her own. "And you must be Lady Lyra. Your brother spoke of you every single day at Casterly Rock."
"He did?" Lyra beamed, instantly deciding that Lynesse was her favorite person in the realm. "Come on! You have to see our gardens! I helped pick the winter apples yesterday!"
That evening, Robin hosted a grand welcome banquet for his returning friends. But rather than dining in a cold, drafty Great Hall, Robin led his guests into the heart of Flint’s Finger: The Great Glasshouses.
When Lynesse stepped through the heavy iron-reinforced oak doors, she stopped dead in her tracks, her breath catching in her throat.
Where she had expected cold, damp stone walls and dark timber beams, she found herself standing inside a sprawling, cathedral-like structure of iron framework and crystal-clear glass. Beneath her feet were clean, paved stone walkways warmed from below by Robin’s geothermal hot-water pipes.
The air was warm, humid, and rich with the intoxicating scent of damp earth, blooming Jasmine, sweet citrus blossoms, and ripe red strawberries. Overhead, the starry northern night sky was completely visible through the glass panels, while inside, iron lanterns cast a soft, golden glow over rows of lush green plants, dwarf fruit trees, and vibrant flower beds.
"By the Mother..." Lynesse whispered, her eyes wide with wonder as she reached out to touch a soft green leaf. "This... this is in the North?"
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"My brother built it!" Lyra boasted proudly, skipping along the stone path beside Lynesse and taking her arm. "He made the glass hot enough to turn into water, and then he laid iron pipes under the ground so the plants never get cold! We have fresh strawberries even when it snows three feet outside!"
At the long mahogany table set in the center of the conservatory, surrounded by blooming roses and orange trees, the party sat down to a feast of fresh roasted river trout, steaming vegetable pies, hot bread, and sweet cider.
Lyra talked Lynesse's ear off for two full hours. She showed her drawings of Winterfell, explained how to feed the glasshouse bees, and told her stories of how Robb Stark had fallen into a snowbank during their visit.
"Bear Island is very cold, isn't it?" Lyra asked softly, looking up at Lynesse as the supper plates were cleared.
Lynesse offered a gentle, slightly anxious smile, glancing down at her hands. "It is far north, little one. They say the wind blows hard, and there are no flower gardens like this in the sea."
Lyra leaned forward, her small face fiercely resolute. "Then I will send you letters every single moon! I'll draw pictures of all the flowers in the glasshouse, and I'll send you dried rose petals and apple jam! So you never feel lonely, and you never miss the south!"
Lynesse’s eyes grew wet with emotion. She pulled the little girl into a warm, tight embrace. "Thank you, sweet girl. I would love nothing more."
Robin, watching the scene from the head of the table while sipping his water, set his glass down.
"You will not have to miss the flowers for long, Lady Lynesse," Robin said calmly.
Jorah looked up, surprised. "What do you mean, Robin?"
"Before winter comes," Robin explained, his clear eyes steady, "I am sending a team of twenty of my finest timber-masons, iron-smiths, and glass-crafters to Mormont Keep. We will construct a three-room heated glasshouse directly attached to your living hall on Bear Island, complete with floor-heating pipes drawing from your hearths. You will have blooming roses and fresh greens year-round."
Jorah stared at Robin in absolute, speechless shock. A glasshouse of such quality in the South would cost thousands of golden dragons, yet Robin offered it with the casual ease of a neighbor lending a timber ax.
"Robin... I cannot ask you to spend such wealth on us," Jorah stammered.
"You didn't ask," Robin replied smoothly. "House Flint rewards its friends. Besides, my sister requires a proper floral garden when she visits you."
Robin turned toward his sister with a gentle smile. "And Lyra will be traveling to Bear Island with Aunt Maege to serve as your flower girl at the wedding."
Lyra gasped in absolute ecstasy, jumping out of her chair and doing a little victory dance around the orange tree, while Maege Mormont laughed heartily, pounding her fist against the table in approval.
Three days later, Jorah, Lynesse, Maege, and Glover departed for Bear Island, taking a ecstatic Lyra with them for a fortnight's visit.
Flint’s Finger fell into a quiet, orderly rhythm. Robin spent his mornings reviewing harbor construction, inspecting the new gravel roads of the Flint Way, and checking the structural density of his newest iron-rammed patrol hulls.
On the fourth afternoon, Robin walked into his private solar, expecting a quiet evening of ledger balancing.
Instead, he found Maester Vaelin standing beside his desk, looking genuinely alarmed. Arranged across the long mahogany table were dozens—no, hundreds—of sealed parchment scrolls. So many ravens had arrived over the past three days that the rookery tower was nearly out of roosting perches.
"What is this, Maester?" Robin asked, frowning as he pulled off his leather work gloves. "Has a plague broken out in the Riverlands? Is there a rogue fleet in the Narrow Sea?"
"No, my Lord," Maester Vaelin said, wiping sweat from his brow. "Worse. Much worse."
Robin picked up a parchment bound with blue wax bearing the fish of House Tully. Then another with the green apple of Fossoway. Then another with the red sun of Martell, the golden lion of Lannister, the boar of Crakehalls, the raven of Blackwood, and a sprawling, terrifying stack of fifteen separate scrolls bearing the twin towers of House Frey.
Robin blinked. "Maester... these are marriage proposals."
"Over eighty formal inquiries, Lord Robin," Maester Vaelin confirmed, his voice trembling slightly. "And more ravens are arriving every hour."
Robin sat down slowly in his carved chair, staring at the mountain of parchment.
His M22 analytical brain immediately began calculating the social vectors:
Robin picked up a scroll from Lord Walder Frey, which explicitly offered a choice between nineteen different daughters and granddaughters, complete with promised dowries of cattle and silver.
He picked up a letter from Lord Paxter Redwyne, proposing a match with his daughter to bind the fleets of the Arbor and the North.
He picked up a scroll from Lord Rickard Karstark, offering his daughter Alys to keep the Flint wealth within the North.
Even Lord Tywin Lannister had sent a surprisingly polite, formal inquiry through Ser Kevan, subtly asking if Lord Robin had considered seeking a match among the highborn daughters of the West.
Robin rested his chin on his crossed fingers, staring at the parchment mountain.
He had calculated orbital velocities. He had designed double-planked warship hulls. He had optimized crop rotation algorithms and managed complex trade ledgers across four kingdoms.
But looking at eighty highborn lords demanding his hand in marriage for their daughters, the reincarnated M22 commander felt a sudden, profound sense of tactical dread.
┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐│ SYSTEM DIAGNOSTIC / SOCIAL HAZARD REPORT │├────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤│ THREAT LEVEL: HIGH ││ CATEGORY: UNCONTROLLED DIPLOMATIC / SOCIAL ENTANGLEMENT ││ ││ PRIMARY RISK: Accepting any single proposal risks alienating ││ three other major geopolitical factions. Rejecting all proposals ││ risks offending the major houses of the realm. ││ ││ OPTIMAL STRATEGY: Immediate political deflection, tactical delay, ││ and consultation with Lord Eddard Stark. │└────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
Robin let out a slow, heavy breath, leaning back in his chair.
"Maester Vaelin," Robin said quietly.
"Yes, my Lord?"
"Prepare my horse, a squad of twenty Sea Guards, and a dry traveling cloak."
"Where are you going, Lord Robin?"
Robin picked up his quill, writing a rapid, precise message to Winterfell.
"I am riding to Winterfell," Robin declared flatly. "I survived the Ironborn fleet at Fair Isle and the breach of Pyke. I am not losing my castle to eighty ambitious fathers-in-law without a tactical defense plan."