Six months passed, and Flint’s Finger was no longer recognizable as the muddy, sickly backwater the fever had threatened to consume.
Where stagnant mud and sewage had once pooled in the streets, neatly laid cobblestones now lined the primary thoroughfares, slightly sloped toward central stone drainage channels. Rain washed the town clean instead of turning it into a swamp. The stench of rot had been replaced by the sharp, clean smell of slaked lime, ocean salt, and woodsmoke from the dockside smokehouses.
Commerce thrived. Merchant vessels from White Harbor, Gulltown, and even the Free Cities had begun seeking out Blazewater Bay. They knew that at Flint’s Finger, their ships could unload in half the time using the floating docks and treadwheel cranes, their cargo would be cataloged without extortion by literate dock masters, and their crews could buy long-lasting salted fish at fair prices.
The keep’s treasury swelled from harbor tariffs—a revenue stream Robin channeled directly into defense and human capital.
The town guard had grown from a handful of old men into a disciplined, two-hundred-strong amphibious patrol force. Paid good copper coin from the dock customs, the men wore matching studded leather, carried standardized pikes and shortbows, and drilled daily.
Robin did not watch the drills from a warm solar. Every morning at dawn, the ten-year-old lord stood in the courtyard beside Ser Bran, running the perimeter ramparts in full gear, practicing spear forms, and driving his growing body to the absolute limit of physical endurance.
The smallfolk adored him. To them, Lord Robin was a miracle—a boy who ate their humble food, worked until his hands bled, taught their children numbers, and made their town safe and prosperous.
Then, the ravens came.
Maester Jon entered the solar one overcast afternoon, his leather satchel laden with rolled parchments tied with varied wax seals.
"Letters, Lord Robin," Maester Jon said, setting them upon the heavy oak desk. "The first bears the direwolf of Winterfell."
Robin picked up the parchment stamped with grey wax. He cracked the seal and read Lord Eddard Stark’s dark, solemn script.
To Lord Robin Flint,
I acknowledge your pledge of fealty and mourn the loss of your noble father and mother. House Stark remembers the loyalty of Flint’s Finger. May the Old Gods give you and your young sister peace. Keep your town safe, young Lord.
Eddard Stark, Warden of the North
Robin nodded approvingly. "Lord Stark accepts my oath. That gives us legal standing."
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"It is the other letters you must worry about, my Lord," Maester Jon warned, pointing to two smaller rolls stamped with blue and white wax. "From your distant kin."
Robin opened the missive from House Flint of Widow’s Watch, followed by the letter from the Flint chieftains of the Northern mountains.
The contents were identical in intent, wrapped in veiled concern and predatory politics. They wrote of how a ten-year-old boy was far too young to manage a coastal keep, how a little girl like Lyra needed "proper ladies" to raise her, and how a regent—conveniently appointed from their own branches—should step in to take control of Flint’s Finger and its newly rumored wealth.
"They smell copper," Robin murmured, his eyes scanning the patronizing words with cold, analytical detachment. "They see an orphan boy and a infant girl sitting on a rich harbor."
"What shall we do, Lord Robin?" Maester Jon asked anxiously. "If they demand a regency before the Northern lords..."
"We manage them with two different tactics," Robin replied smoothly, picking up his quill.
He wrote two letters:
For three weeks, the strategy held. But Robin’s kin were not so easily dismissed. Seeing their offers ignored and hearing persistent rumors of massive economic shifts at Blazewater Bay, the Flints of Widow’s Watch sent formal petitions directly to Winterfell, claiming that a child had been manipulated by ambitious advisers and was unfit to rule.
A month later, a second raven from Winterfell touched down in the keep's rookery.
Maester Jon brought the letter to Robin, his hands trembling slightly. "It is from Lord Stark himself."
Robin unrolled the parchment and read:
To Lord Robin Flint,
Your kin express grave concern for your governance and the welfare of Lady Lyra. While your ledgers show great prosperity, the Wardenship of the North requires that I ensure no young lord is taken advantage of, nor any keep left vulnerable.
I am riding south with a retinue of fifty horsemen to inspect Flint’s Finger personally, observe your governance, and judge your fitness to rule.
Expect us within the fortnight.
Eddard Stark
Maester Jon swallowed hard. "The Warden of the North... coming here? If he deems you too young, he could strip your authority, appoint an uncle as regent, or foster you away at Winterfell!"
Robin slowly rolled the parchment back up, his face an unreadable mask of absolute calm.
In his past life, he had managed interplanetary survey teams and multi-million-unit populations under strict orbital audits. A medieval Lord Warden conducting a physical inspection was merely a local field review.
"Let him come," Robin said quietly, turning to look at little Lyra, who was playing peacefully on a clean wool rug near the hearth, stacking smooth sea pebbles into neat towers. "Lord Stark is an honorable man governed by duty and logic. We will show him a keep that is cleaner, safer, richer, and better defended than any other in the North."
Robin stood up and buckled his practice sword to his waist. "Gather Ser Bran, the harbor master, and the guild heads. We have two weeks to prepare for the Warden of the North."