The ride down from Winterfell was smooth and swift. Escorted by his Sea Guards and riding beside eight-year-old Lyra, Robin returned to Flint’s Finger as late autumn winds began to carry the sharp, icy nip of coming winter.
Upon their arrival, Flint’s Finger felt less like a cold fortress and more like a glowing sanctuary. The breakwater at the mouth of the bay turned the rough Atlantic waves into peaceful ripples. The street lanterns—fed by refined animal oils and protected by clear glass globes—illuminated clean, paved cobblestones. In the glasshouses of Glass-Garth, fresh berries and winter greens continued to sprout under regulated steam warmth, ensuring that no family in the lands of House Flint went hungry.
Two days after their return, a horn sounded from the outer watchtowers.
A swift Bear Island longship had tied up at the main dock, and down the gangplank strode Lady Maege Mormont, accompanied by her daughters—Dacey, tall, elegant, and deadly with a morningstar, and Alysane, broad-shouldered, sharp-eyed, and carrying a heavy war-axe at her hip.
The moment eight-year-old Lyra spotted them from the keep’s courtyard, she let out a squeal of pure delight.
"DACEY! ALYSANE!"
Lyra sprinted across the cobblestones. Dacey Mormont caught the little girl with an easy laugh, lifting her high into the air before pulling her into a fierce, bear-hug. Alysane chuckled, ruffling Lyra’s dark hair with a gauntleted hand.
Unlike the formal, courtly maidens of the South, the Mormont daughters treated Lyra not like a delicate porcelain doll, but like a younger sister of the North—teaching her how to balance her weight on wet stone, showing her trick knot-ties, and telling her wild tales of fighting off ironborn raiders along the sea-cliffs. Lyra adored them completely.
Inside the solar, a log fire crackled in the hearth. Robin poured hot spiced cider for Lady Maege while Dacey and Alysane sat near the window, laughing with Lyra as they showed her a carved wooden bear whistle.
Maege Mormont took a heavy gulp of the warm cider, letting out a long, satisfied sigh as the warmth settled into her bones. She set the cup down and looked at Robin with her fierce, sharp eyes.
"My brother wrote to me from the Wall before I set sail, Robin," Maege began, her voice dropping into a rough, genuinely touched tone. "Jeor says Castle Black doesn't feel like an exile anymore. He says the hot flues you unburied have made the Great Hall warmer than the hall on Bear Island, and the brothers are eating fresh cabbage soup in the middle of a blizzard."
"The geothermal vents were merely clogged by four centuries of debris, Lady Maege," Robin replied smoothly, taking a seat across from her. "It required only basic hydraulic clearing and proper thermal routing. Lord Mormont is settling into his duties as First Ranger with great vigor."
"He said you built a palace of glass right under seven hundred feet of ice," Maege chuckled, shaking her head. "The Old Bear sounds ten years younger in his letters. For that, House Mormont owes you a debt that stone and silver cannot fully repay."
Maege took another sip of her cider, her eyes glinting with a sudden, wicked spark of Northern humor. She leaned forward, resting her heavy forearms on the oak table.
"Of course," Maege purred, a sly grin spreading across her weathered face, "we also heard about your legendary victory at Winterfell, Lord Flint."
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Robin raised an eyebrow, his calm eyes meeting hers. "I wasn't aware there was a battle at Winterfell, Lady Mormont."
"Not a battle of steel, lad! The battle against the eighty southern maidens!" Maege laughed loudly, making Dacey and Alysane look over from the window with wide, amused grins. "The Greatjon told me all about it! They say every high lord from the Reach to the Westerlands tried to corner you with their silk-ribbon daughters, and Lord Stark had to put a royal shield around you just to keep you from being carried off!"
Robin offered a faint, dry smile, shaking his head gently. "The stories grow larger with every raven, Lady Maege. It was merely political posturing by families seeking access to glassworks and concrete specifications."
"Aye, political posturing with perfume and lace," Maege chuckled, winking as she gestured toward her daughters. "Though, if you ever decide you need a wife who won't faint at the sight of blood or complain when the wind blows cold... my Alysane here is only a few years older than you, and she can split a pirate's skull at twenty paces!"
Alysane Mormont didn't blush; she simply let out a short, amused bark of laughter, tossing an apple into the air and catching it. "Don't drag me into your scheming, Mother. Lord Robin is married to his blueprints and his foundries. A woman would only get in the way of his concrete-mixing."
"A very logical assessment, Lady Alysane," Robin agreed smoothly, his M22 analytical mind evaluating the easy, unpretentious camaraderie of the Mormonts with quiet appreciation. "My structural projects require absolute focus for the foreseeable future."
The conversation turned from playful banter to the hard, strategic reality of the realm.
"The western coast is quiet, Robin," Maege said, her tone growing serious and businesslike. "Safer than it has been in two hundred years. Ever since your copper-bottomed warships began patrolling from Bear Island down to the Neck, the ironborn raiders haven't dared put a timber toe into the water. The sea-lanes are clear, merchant coves are thriving, and trade with Lannisport is rich."
"The copper sheathing prevents marine fouling, maintaining maximum speed vectors," Robin noted, tracing a line on a parchment map of Westeros spread across his desk. "And the swivel scorpions ensure any hostile vessel is neutralized before it can close for boarding."
"Aye," Maege nodded grimly. "The Sunset Sea is secure. But... the same cannot be said for the eastern coast."
Robin looked up from the map, his clear eyes narrowing slightly as he processed her point.
"White Harbor," Maege continued, tapping her thick finger against the eastern coast of the North. "Lord Wyman Manderly runs a fine city, but the Narrow Sea is crawling with Stepstone pirates, Lysene slavers, and bravosi reavers. Manderly's fleet is old, their harbor gets choked with ice every hard winter, and their trade routes to Essos are bleeding silver because their ships are too slow to outrun eastern corsairs."
Dacey Mormont stepped over to the table, leaning against the chair back. "If the East Coast falls behind, the whole North suffers, Robin. White Harbor is our main trade gate to the Free Cities. If you applied your engineering to Manderly's port—if you gave them poured concrete breakwaters, copper-sheathed galleys, and glass storage—the North would control both seas completely."
Robin stared at the map of White Harbor.
His hyper-analytical brain instantly mapped the economic and tactical vectors. White Harbor was the largest city in the North, situated at the mouth of the White Knife river. If Robin modernized Manderly’s naval infrastructure, constructed deep-water concrete quays, and refitted the Manderly war-fleet, the North would possess a dual-ocean maritime defense grid.
No southern power, Essosi pirate fleet, or foreign threat could ever blockade or starve the realm.
"Lord Manderly is a wealthy man, but he is set in his ways," Robin reflected softly, his mind calculating logistics, timber supplies, and trade routes. "However, the strategic necessity is absolute."
"Wyman is a good man, and he loves the Starks," Maege said, offering a warm, encouraging smile. "And he has more silver than he knows what to do with. If you ride to White Harbor, Robin, he'll welcome you like a king—and hand you his entire harbor to redesign."
Robin looked over at Lyra, who was happily sitting on the rug with Alysane, learning how to sharpen a small hunting knife.
"We sail for White Harbor in three moons," Robin decided, his voice calm, resolute, and clear. "It is time to give the East its shield."