The heavy oak gates of Winterfell groaned open against the biting northern wind as twenty mud-splattered riders thundered into the Great Courtyard.
At the head of the column rode Robin Flint.
He wore no armor, but his face was set in a look of such stark, absolute grimness that the guards atop the battlements immediately raised the alarm. His dark cloak was pulled tight around his broad shoulders, his boots were coated in road dust, and his eyes carried the intense, desperate focus of a commander riding through the night to warn of an invading host.
Lord Eddard Stark was down in the courtyard before Robin’s horse had even come to a full stop.
Beside Ned stood Catelyn, her wool shawl pulled tight against the chill, her eyes wide with worry. Behind them, Robb and Jon had rushed out from the armory with wooden practice swords still in hand, while little Sansa peeked anxiously from behind her mother’s skirts.
"Robin!" Ned called out, stepping forward to catch the young lord’s reins. Ned’s face was dark, his hand instinctively resting on the pommel of his dagger. "What has happened? Is it the Ironborn? Has a rogue fleet entered Blazewater Bay?"
Robin dismounted in a single, fluid motion. He didn't smile. He didn't offer his usual warm greeting. He looked at Ned with dark, haunted eyes, looking exhausted, flustered, and deeply stressed.
"It is worse than the Ironborn, Lord Stark," Robin said, his voice dropping into a low, grave whisper. "I am facing an enemy I cannot outflank, cannot ram with warships, and cannot drive off with scorpions."
Ned’s stomach dropped. By the Seven, the Warden of the North thought, his mind racing through every dark possibility. Has the King fallen ill? Have the Targaryen loyalists raised a fleet in Essos? Has a plague swept the western coast?
"Inside," Ned commanded instantly, turning to his guards. "Clear the Great Hall! Bring hot cider and meat! Ser Rodrik, double the watch on the gates!"
Five minutes later, the heavy timber doors of the Great Hall slammed shut.
A roaring fire crackled in the central hearth, casting long, dancing shadows across the stone walls. Ned sat at the center of the high table, flanked by Catelyn. Robb and Jon stood on either side, their young faces pale and serious, ready to hear the grim news of impending war.
Robin stood on the opposite side of the table. Beside him, his captain set a heavy canvas sack onto the polished ironwood table with a loud, resounding THUD.
"Speak, Robin," Ned urged quietly, leaning forward, his grey eyes locked on the boy. "Whatever threat faces House Flint, the North stands with you. How many ships? How many men?"
Robin let out a long, ragged breath. He reached into the canvas sack, grabbed a massive armful of parchment scrolls bound in red, gold, blue, and green wax, and dumped them across the table.
"Over eighty, Lord Stark," Robin declared with the terrifying, tragic seriousness of a general describing a hopeless siege. "And more are arriving at my rookery every single hour."
Ned blinked, staring at the pile of scrolls. He reached out, picking up a heavy parchment bound with the dark red seal of House Lannister. He unrolled it, reading the opening lines in silence.
Catelyn picked up a scroll bound in bright blue wax bearing the jumping trout of House Tully. Then another with the green apple of Fossoway. Then three separate scrolls bearing the twin towers of House Frey.
Ned read. Catelyn read.
Slowly—very slowly—the dark, tense panic in Ned’s eyes melted into utter, speechless confusion.
"Robin..." Ned said slowly, looking up from Ser Kevan Lannister’s polite inquiry. "These... these are not reports of war."
"They are worse, Lord Stark!" Robin burst out, throwing his hands up in rare, genuine teenage exasperation, his face flushing a bright, dusty crimson. "It’s a disaster! Lord Walder Frey has threatened to send three of his nineteen daughters to Flint’s Finger on horseback if I do not select one by the new moon! Lord Redwyne is offering fifty war-galleys if I marry his daughter! Lord Karstark sent a raven demanding to know why a Northern lord would look anywhere but the North! Even Lord Tywin sent a letter!"
Robin paced back and forth in front of the high table, rubbing his temples, looking entirely overwhelmed.
"I am fifteen years old!" Robin protested, his voice cracking slightly with pure, unadulterated boyish panic. "I have two harbor moles to finish paving! I have three new glasshouse heating systems to test! I have trade ledgers for four kingdoms to balance! I don't have time to entertain eighty highborn ladies who want to talk about silk ribbons and listen to me play the lute!"
For three agonizing seconds, the Great Hall was completely silent.
Robb Stark stood beside his father, looking from the pile of eighty marriage proposals to the flustered, red-faced "Demon Lord of Flint's Finger."
Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.
Then, Robb’s mouth twitched.
Beside him, Jon Snow made a strange, squeaking noise in the back of his throat, trying desperately to bite his lower lip.
"Robb, don't..." Jon whispered, his shoulders shaking violently.
"I'm trying..." Robb wheezed, his face turning bright red.
It was no use.
Robb erupted into a loud, hysterical snort, doubled over, and completely lost his composure. Jon followed a split second later, letting out a wild, breathless bark of laughter that echoed off the stone roof.
The two six-year-old boys collapsed onto the rush-strewn floor, rolling back and forth, clutching their stomachs, kicking their boots in the air, laughing so hard they couldn't draw breath!
"Eighty daughters!" Robb gasped between hysterical wheezes, pounding his fist on the stone floor. "Jon... Jon, he's... he's running from girls!"
"The Boy Admiral!" Jon squeaked, rolling onto his back, tears of laughter streaming down his cheeks. "He broke the Ironborn fleet at Fair Isle... but Lord Frey’s daughters brought him to his knees!"
"It isn't funny!" Robin snapped, though his face turned an even deeper shade of red, looking like a badger backed into a corner by laughing wolves. "Lord Walder Frey sent pictures, Robb! Pictures!"
That was the breaking point.
Lady Catelyn covered her face with both hands, her shoulders shaking with quiet, uncontrollable giggles. Sansa started giggling into her wool sleeve, while little Arya, having no idea what was happening, began clapping her small hands and laughing along with her brothers.
And then, Eddard Stark—the stern, stoic, unyielding Warden of the North—let out a deep, booming laugh that startled the hounds resting by the hearth.
Ned buried his face in his hands, his broad chest heaving as he laughed harder than he had in five years, wiping genuine tears of mirth from his grey eyes.
"By the Gods, Robin..." Ned wheezed, shaking his head in absolute delight. "You fought through four hours of blood in the breach of Pyke without blinking... and you rode two hundred miles through the night because southern lords want you for a son-in-law?"
"They are relentless, Lord Stark!" Robin insisted, crossing his arms over his chest, trying desperately to maintain his dignity while three children rolled on the floor laughing at him. "They don't listen to logic! I sent a polite letter to Lord Crakehall explaining that my current harbor construction schedule leaves zero time for romantic courting, and he replied offering to send his daughter with her own masonry tools!"
Robb let out a high-pitched scream of pure hilarity, burying his face in the rushes, howling with laughter until his ribs hurt.
An hour later, the roaring laughter had finally died down into a warm, comfortable silence.
Robb and Jon sat on the floor near the hearth, exhausted from laughing, sipping bowls of sweet spiced apple cider while offering Robin amused, teasing grins whenever he looked their way.
In Ned’s private solar, a warm fire crackled in the hearth. Robin sat in a comfortable leather chair across from Ned and Catelyn, a cup of hot chamomile tea resting in his hands. The terrifying mountain of eighty marriage scrolls sat neatly stacked on the mahogany desk between them.
Robin looked far less like a legendary war hero now. He looked simply like what he was: an exceptionally brilliant, hardworking fifteen-year-old boy who had carried the weight of a domain for four years, but had finally hit a problem that could not be solved with iron, glass, or ship design.
Catelyn sat beside him, her warm, motherly eyes filled with deep affection as she picked up a scroll from House Tully.
"Robin," Catelyn said gently, her voice soft and reassuring. "You must understand why this has happened. You built a starving town into the richest port on the western coast. You defeated the Ironborn. You gave gifts to the King, built warships for Stannis, and charmed the Old Lion of Casterly Rock. And then you sang a song that made Queen Cersei weep."
Robin groaned softly, leaning his head back against the chair. "I am never playing that lute again."
"You are the most eligible young lord in the Seven Kingdoms," Catelyn smiled warmly, reaching out to pat his knee. "Every lord from Sunspear to the Wall wants their daughter married to a young man who is honorable, wealthy, powerful, and kind. It is a compliment, Robin, not a siege."
"It feels like a siege, Lady Stark," Robin murmured softly, sipping his tea. "I just want my harbor to be safe. I want Lyra to grow up warm and happy. I don't know how to talk to noble girls. I don't know what to say to them."
Ned leaned forward, setting his own cup down, his grey eyes warm and steady.
"Then you don't have to say anything to them yet, Robin," Ned said firmly.
Robin looked up, surprised. "I don't?"
"You are fifteen years old," Ned explained, his voice full of quiet, patriarchal authority. "In the North, a lord does not marry until he is ready. You are the Lord of Flint's Finger. No lord in the South—not Walder Frey, not Paxter Redwyne, not even Tywin Lannister—can force you to take a bride before you choose to."
Catelyn pulled a stack of blank parchment toward herself, dipping a quill into fresh black ink.
"We are going to write diplomatic responses to every single one of these lords," Catelyn declared with a decisive, motherly smile. "Lord Stark and I will draft them together."
Robin blinked. "What will we tell them?"
"We will tell them the truth," Catelyn said smoothly, her quill scratching elegantly across the paper. "We will state that Lord Robin Flint remains deeply touched by their generous offer. However, as Lord Warden of the North, Eddard Stark has advised young Lord Robin to devote his full energies to the security of the Northern coast and the care of his young sister until he reaches his eighteenth name-day."
Ned offered a slow, satisfied grin. "No lord can argue with a directive from the Warden of the North. It buys you three full years of absolute peace, Robin."
Robin sat back in his chair, feeling an enormous, invisible boulder lift off his chest.
For weeks, his brilliant, hyper-logical mind had been racing in circles, trying to figure out how to navigate eighty complex political alliances without offending half the realm. He had treated it like an engineering crisis, forgetting that he was just a boy, and that he had powerful, loving guardians who were more than willing to stand as his shield.
Robin looked at Catelyn, then at Ned, and finally let out a long, quiet, genuine sigh of relief.
"Three years," Robin repeated softly.
"Three years," Ned nodded warmly. "No grand weddings. No ambitious fathers-in-law. No silk ribbons. Just your harbor, your glasshouses, and your sister."
Robb leaned over from the hearth, offering Robin a mischievous smirk. "Though if you ever do decide to pick a bride, Robin, don't pick a Frey. I hear they eat porridge with their fingers!"
Jon burst into giggles again, while Robin couldn't help but let out a soft, relaxed laugh of his own.
Robin picked up his cup of tea, looking around the warm, firelit solar at the Stark family. He had come to Winterfell expecting a disaster, but as the snow fell softly outside the narrow leaded windows, the young Lord of Flint's Finger realized he had found the one thing no ledger or blueprint could ever measure: a home that had his back.