The seventeenth year of a lord's life was meant to be a landmark of power, maturity, and grand celebration.
For Robin Flint, standing at the high arched window of his private solar looking out over Flint’s Finger City, it felt remarkably like the eve of an inescapable siege.
Over the past three years, what had once been a bleak, drafty coastal keep had expanded into a thriving, bustling northern port city. Modern paved cobblestone streets radiated from the castle gates down to the deep-water harbor. Glass-Garth’s massive, steam-heated conservatories supped rich soil warmth, yielding fresh crops year-round, while Garden Town—a new settlement nestled along the sheltered inland valley—glowed with clean timber homes, stone hearths, and happy families.
Throughout the domain, the smallfolk were celebrating with unrestrained joy. Banners of dark blue and silver fluttered from every lantern post. Ale poured freely in the taverns, bakeries handed out sweet honey-cakes to children, and festive fiddle music echoed across the paved squares.
Yet Robin felt only a profound, creeping existential dread.
The courtyard below was packed with high-born guests who had ridden from across the North to celebrate the young lord's seventeenth name day.
Lord Eddard Stark had arrived from Winterfell with Lady Catelyn and their children. Nine-year-old Robb and Jon were currently showing eight-year-old Lyra how to balance on wooden practice stilts in the courtyard, while seven-year-old Sansa sat on a stone bench nearby, carefully stitching a silk hand-cloth.
Beside them stood House Mormont in full force—Lady Maege laughing boisterously alongside her daughters Dacey and Alysane. Ser Jorah Mormont had also arrived from Bear Island, looking remarkably happier and less burdened, accompanied by his high-born southern wife Lynesse, who held their newborn child wrapped in fine soft wool. Lord Galbart Glover stood by the stables, admiring the sleek, copper-sheathed supply barges tied up along the river docks.
When Robin walked down the grand stone staircase into the Great Hall, his guests turned to greet him.
"Seventeen today, Robin!" Lord Stark said with a warm, rare smile, stepping forward to clap a firm, fatherly hand on the young lord’s shoulder. "A man grown by every law of the Seven Kingdoms."
"You look far too formal for a lad on his name day," Lady Maege teased loudly, winking as she gave him a friendly elbow nudge that would have knocked a lesser boy off his feet. "Where is your cup of ale? Where are your dancing shoes?"
"I find peace in quieter routine, Lady Mormont," Robin answered with a polite bow, though his clear eyes flicked nervously toward the long oak tables that sat at the side of the hall.
The tables were almost completely covered in mountain stacks of wrapped packages, sealed rolls of parchment, and ribboned crates.
"What is all this, Robin?" Ser Jorah asked, stepping closer to inspect a wooden crate stamped with the gilded lion of House Lannister.
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Robin took a slow, controlled breath, his hyper-analytical mind instantly calculating the volume of silk, scented ink, and wax seals present in the room.
"Gifts," Robin said softly, a rare flicker of genuine distress creeping into his voice. "And... correspondence."
Catelyn Stark stepped over, picking up a heavy velvet-bound box sent directly from King's Landing. As she lifted the lid, a strong, sweet scent of lavender and crushed rosewater billowed into the air. Inside lay three rolled silk ribbons, a golden brooch shaped like a songbird, and five separate, neatly folded letters written in delicate, sloping cursive.
Dacey Mormont leaned over Catelyn's shoulder, reading the wax seal on the top letter. "House Tyrell? The Maidens of Highgarden are sending you scented love letters, Robin?"
"Not just Highgarden," Alysane Mormont chuckled wickedly, pulling out another parchment tucked inside a barrel of fine Arbor wine. "Here’s one from House Redwyne! And another from the Westerlands! 'To the Golden Builder, the Voice of the Dawn...'"
Robb and Jon ran into the hall, giggling madly as they picked up small velvet pouches that had been hidden inside crates of candied plums and exotic spices.
"They're hiding them everywhere!" Robb laughed, holding up a small pink ribbon tied to a letter that had been secretly stuffed into a crate of southern oranges. "It's like a smuggler's cargo!"
"Some are hidden inside leather-bound books," Robin muttered, rubbing his brow in quiet, helpless exasperation. "Others were baked inside sweetbreads sent from Lannisport. Two were found sewn into the lining of a winter cloak sent from the Reach."
The entire hall erupted into boisterous, uncontrollable laughter!
Lord Glover slapped his knee, while Ser Jorah leaned against a pillar, chuckling so hard he nearly dropped his cup. Even Lord Stark had to cover his mouth with a gauntleted hand, his grey eyes dancing with profound amusement as he watched the brilliant young lord—who had split pirate fleets in half and rebuilt Castle Black without blinking—stand utterly defeated by a pile of scented parchment.
Robin picked up a small, unpretentious scroll sealed with simple black wax, sitting right in the middle of the chaos.
He broke the seal and unrolled the note. Written in sharp, familiar, and devilishly clever handwriting were just a few lines:
To my dear Lord Robin,
A bird tells me you turn seventeen today—a man grown, rich in silver, holder of the sea lanes, and the undisputed heartthrob of every high-born maiden from the Arbor to the Neck.
I took the liberty of sharing your correspondence address with a few dozen young ladies at court who were dying for a chance to write to the 'Singing Lord.' Consider it my small way of repaying you for composing 'The Lion's Roar.'
Do enjoy the lavender-scented parchment. I am told the Redwyne girls spent three days choosing the perfume.
Your devoted friend, > Tyrion Lannister
Robin stared at the parchment for three long seconds.
"Tyrion," Robin whispered quietly to himself, his mind already calculating three different ways to retaliate through trade tariffs on Casterly Rock wine imports.
"Well, Robin?" Lady Maege laughed loudly, sloshing her ale as she patted his shoulder. "Seventeen years old, a whole city at your back, and fifty southern maidens hunting your name! What do you intend to do about all these love letters?"
Robin carefully folded Tyrion's note, looking at the mountain of scented silk and ribboned parchment with the absolute, cold detachment of a battle commander facing a minor inconvenience.
"I shall catalog the paper for reuse in the drafting office," Robin said calmly, his voice steady and utterly unbothered. "And the lavender wax can be melted down to seal hydraulic pipe joints."
The Great Hall shook with another roar of laughter, the cheerful sounds of celebration washing over Flint’s Finger as the young lord of the North stood firmly on the edge of seventeen—unshakeable, brilliant, and completely immune to the games of the South.