After seven endless weeks of hammers ringing against timber and stone, the transformation of White Harbor was complete.
Where rotting timber piers and choked, muddy shallows had once stood, great curved breakwaters of smooth, dark marine stone now reached out into the bay. The harbor mouth was wide, deep, and protected from winter ice. Beside the dockyards, three sprawling glasshouses warmed by underground flues glowed softly through the coastal mist, already green with cabbage, rye, and hardy berries.
In the newly modernized shipyards, five sleek patrol galleys—sheathed in burnished copper, fitted with balanced rudders, and mounted with high-tension swivels—now glided across the waters of the Bite. These Sentinels swept the sea lanes day and night, ensuring no Stepstone corsair or Lysene reaver dared set foot on Northern soil again. Half a dozen more were already taking shape on the wooden slips under the watchful eyes of Manderly shipwrights who now moved with newfound pride and skill.
His work accomplished, Robin Flint prepared for departure. His Sea Guards stowed fresh water, salted fish, and supplies aboard The Blade of Winter, her copper hull resting easily in the calm waters of the inner harbor.
On the evening before Robin’s planned departure, Lord Wyman Manderly hosted a grand farewell feast in the New Castle.
As servants cleared roasted venison and flagons of sweet arbor wine from the high table, Lord Wyman leaned across his broad seat, resting his heavy forearms on the oak table. He looked at Robin with a mixture of immense gratitude and quiet reluctance to see him go.
"My stewards tell me your ship is loaded, Robin," Wyman said softly, his deep voice carrying across the quieted high table. "You have given my city new walls, saved my harbor, and taught my shipwrights how to build ships that outrun the wind itself."
"The North is stronger when its gates are secure, Lord Manderly," Robin replied politely, setting down his cup. "Your people worked tirelessly alongside mine. The credit belongs to them."
"Aye, but there is one small thing I must ask of you before you sail," Wyman smiled, a twinkling warmth in his sharp eyes. He gestured broadly toward the lords, knights, and ladies sitting in the hall. "The dockworkers and common folk have done nothing but sing your praises. They say you sat by their fires and played tunes that could make a stone heart weep. My hall has hosted kings, bards, and southern lords, Robin... but I would count it the greatest honor of this winter if you would sing just one song for us before you go."
Robin paused, a rare flicker of hesitation passing over his calm features. He disliked performative displays, far preferring the quiet work of blueprints, foundries, and stone to the spotlight of courtly performance.
Yet, looking at the old lord’s hopeful face, and seeing Ser Wylis, Ser Wendel, and the gathered knights of White Harbor leaning forward in eager anticipation, Robin bowed his head in courteous acquiescence.
"If it pleases my host," Robin said quietly, "I shall play."
A servant stepped forward, placing Robin’s dark cherrywood lute into his hands.
Robin stepped away from the high table, walking down the steps into the center of the white-stone hall. He adjusted the tension of the strings with calm, gentle movements, testing a low, sweet chord that echoed softly against the high arched roof.
Silence fell over the Great Hall. Pages stood still with silver pitchers, guardsmen rested their gauntlets on their pommels, and in the shadow of the upper balcony, Lady Wynafryd Manderly gripped the stone railing tightly, her heart thumping against her chest.
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Robin closed his eyes for a brief second, sweeping his fingers across the strings in a slow, mournful, and breathtakingly beautiful melody. The notes were gentle and deeply emotional, flowing through the vast stone room like a cool ocean breeze over warm sand.
He opened his clear eyes, looking out over the quiet room, and began to sing in a pure, soulful voice that seemed to capture the quiet longing of an ancient world:
Love of my life, you've hurt me...You've broken my heart, and now you leave me...Love of my life, can't you see? Bring it back, bring it back...Don't take it away from me, because you don't know...What it means to me...
The song—Love of My Life—was unlike anything the lords or ladies of the North had ever heard. It carried no grand boasts of bloody battles, no knights in gilded armor, and no courtly games of chivalry. It was raw, timeless, and hauntingly human, speaking of a devotion so profound and a love so deep that even distance and time could never truly break it.
As the lute notes soared into the high rafters, gently fading like twilight over the sea, Robin struck one final, whispering chord that lingered in the air before vanishing into complete silence.
For three long seconds, no one in the hall breathed.
Then, Lord Wyman Manderly slowly brought his heavy hands together, clapping with loud, emotional force. The entire hall erupted into a roar of applause! Knights slammed their gauntlets against the wooden tables, old lords cheered, and servants wiped tears from their eyes.
High above on the balcony, Lady Wynafryd held her breath, her hand pressed against her chest as she stared down at the sixteen-year-old lord. Tears shone in her eyes, her soul utterly captivated by the young man who built like a giant and sang like a angel.
Robin offered a polite, simple bow to Lord Wyman, handed his lute back to the page, and quietly retired for the night.
When the first golden light of dawn broke over the horizon, the quays of White Harbor were packed with thousands of people.
Common folk, dockworkers, blacksmiths, and city guardsmen lined the stone piers, waving their caps and banners into the crisp morning air. Children held up small carved boats, shouting their thanks to the Lord of Flint's Finger as Robin walked down the gangplank of The Blade of Winter.
"May the Old Gods keep you, Lord Robin!" an old stonecutter shouted from the crowd.
"Fair winds to the Singing Lord!" a chorus of harbor women cheered, their voices rising over the gentle lap of the tide.
Robin stood on the quarterdeck, his slate-grey cloak catching the morning breeze, offering a calm, warm nod of farewell to the people of White Harbor.
High above the harbor, on the stone parapets of the New Castle, two sisters stood wrapped in heavy fur mantles.
Lady Wynafryd leaned far over the stone wall, her wind-swept hair framing her flushed cheeks as she watched The Blade of Winter cast off its heavy mooring ropes. Beside her, ten-year-old Wylla Manderly smirked wickedly, nudging her sister hard with an elbow.
"He's leaving, Wyn!" Wylla teased loudly, a mischievous grin plastered across her face. "You stood in the same hall with him for seven whole weeks! You watched him build docks, you watched him heal guards, you listened to him sing... and you didn't say a single word to him!"
"Wylla, hush!" Wynafryd hissed, her cheeks burning bright red as she pulled her fur mantle tighter around her shoulders.
"You could have asked him about his ship! Or his lute! Or his glasshouses!" Wylla giggled mercilessly, skipping around her blushing older sister. "Now the grandest lord in all the North is sailing away, and all you did was sigh behind a stone pillar!"
"I was being proper!" Wynafryd protested softly, her eyes lingering wistfully on the long grey warship catching the morning wind.
"Proper?" Wylla laughed, poking her sister's arm. "You looked like a frozen trout! Next time he comes back, I'm going to tell him you have a painting of him under your mattress!"
"WYLLA!" Wynafryd gasped, chasing her laughing younger sister back down the stone walkway.
Down in the bay, The Blade of Winter unfurled its dark, broad sails. Catching the strong autumn draft, the copper-hulled flagship surged forward, cutting through the misty morning waves with effortless grace as it turned south toward the open sea.
Robin Flint looked back one last time at the glowing, indestructible stone gates of White Harbor, before turning his eyes west toward home—toward Little Lyra, the She-Bears, and the quiet, strong shores of Flint's Finger.