**Year 296 AC – Castor Bolton's 16th Nameday**
***
Winter held the Dreadfort in its iron fist. Snow fell in thick curtains from a sky the color of old bone, wind howling down from the Haunted Forest with voices that sounded almost human. The outer walls were buried three feet deep, drifts piling against the ancient grey stone like siege ramps built by nature itself. Guard posts stood abandoned save for the most essential watches—no man could survive more than an hour exposed to the killing cold.
Inside the great hall, however, a different world existed. Massive hearth fires roared in three separate grates, each large enough to roast an ox whole. Torches blazed from iron sconces shaped like screaming faces, casting dancing shadows across the vaulted ceiling. The long trestle tables groaned under the weight of Northern abundance: whole haunches of venison glazed with honey and studded with cloves, black bread dense with nuts and seeds, savory pies bursting with pigeon and leeks, wheels of sharp white cheese, and flagons of dark ale alongside pitchers of mulled wine steaming with cinnamon and clove. It was a feast calculated to impress, to demonstrate that House Bolton commanded resources even in the depths of winter, when lesser houses husbanded every scrap.
Two dozen lords and their ladies had braved the storm to attend—bannermen sworn to the Dreadfort, minor houses from across the North seeking favor, a few representatives from greater families testing the waters. Lord Cerwyn sat near the high table with his pretty young wife, already deep in his cups and laughing too loudly. The Dustins had sent a younger son with sharp eyes and sharper ambitions. Representatives from Houses Locke, Hornwood, and even distant Flint clustered at the lower tables, their conversation a careful dance of politics and veiled insults typical of Northern gatherings.
At the high table, elevated on the dais overlooking the hall, sat the Bolton family.
Lord Roose Bolton occupied the place of honor, lean and pale as a corpse, his eyes the washed-out pink of a man who spent too much time being leeched. He wore black wool and leather, unadorned save for the flayed man sigil embroidered in silk across his chest. His face was a mask of polite disinterest as he sipped from a silver goblet—wine fortified with the blood of the leeches that perpetually clung to his arms beneath the long sleeves. He ate sparingly, chewed methodically, and spoke in that quiet voice that somehow carried across any room, forcing people to lean in and strain to hear. Power, Roose believed, was never shouted. It was whispered.
To his left sat Lady Bethany Bolton, and she was every inch the displaced Valyrian princess forced into Northern exile. At thirty-seven, she remained heartbreakingly beautiful in a way that Northern women with their sturdy frames and weathered features could never match. Her hair was silver-gold, the color of moonlight on snow, elaborately braided in a Northern style but woven through with delicate Valyrian filigree pins that caught the firelight. Her gown was charcoal velvet trimmed with silver fox fur, the bodice cut to flatter rather than conceal, the skirts falling in elegant folds. Her eyes—violet as amethysts, exotic and unsettling in the grey North—surveyed the hall with a serenity that masked the loneliness eating her alive from the inside.
And between them, commanding attention simply by existing, sat Castor Bolton.
Sixteen years old as of today, and already he towered over most grown men at six feet four inches, with the lean, dangerous build of a natural predator. Four years of relentless training with the master-at-arms had carved his body into a weapon: broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, arms roped with lean muscle, abs visible even through the fine black linen of his shirt. He wore black leather and wool in the Northern fashion, but tailored to perfection—every seam emphasizing the lethal grace of his frame. The Bolton sigil was picked out in flayed-man pink across his doublet, and a heavy cloak of shadowcat fur draped across his shoulders, the pelt a trophy from his first solo hunt at fifteen. At his hip hung a longsword with a pommel shaped like a screaming face, the blade real castle-forged steel, not the blunted practice weapons of childhood.
But it was his face that drew the eye and held it, uncomfortable though the scrutiny might be. High cheekbones inherited from his mother, a strong jaw from his father's line, a straight nose that belonged on Valyrian statuary. His skin was pale as milk, flawless save for a single thin scar across his left eyebrow—a gift from a training accident that had taught him the value of never dropping his guard. His hair, silver-gold like his mother's, was tied back in a warrior's tail, though a few strands had escaped to frame his face. And his eyes... his eyes were a disturbing blend of both parents: predominantly the pale grey-blue of House Bolton, but shot through with violet that caught the light and burned like cold flame. When he looked at someone directly, they felt pinned, dissected, known in ways that made them instinctively reach for weapons or prayers.
He was beautiful. Unnaturally, disturbingly beautiful, in the way that great predators were beautiful—admirable from a distance, terrifying up close.
Castor ate with controlled precision, nodded at appropriate moments during conversations, smiled when expected. To any observer, he was the perfect heir: respectful to his father, courteous to guests, charming in that carefully measured way that Northern lords appreciated. Gracious but not soft. Intelligent but not arrogant. Dangerous but leashed.
All of it was performance. Every smile calibrated. Every word chosen. Every gesture calculated to produce a specific response in his audience.
Inside his mind, two consciousnesses existed in perfect fusion. Castor Bolton, born sixteen years ago in this cold fortress, raised on lessons of fear and flaying and the proper way to rule the recalcitrant North. And Vikram Malhotra, dead at twenty-five in a bedroom in Delhi, shot four times by a husband whose wife he'd claimed as conquest. Two lives, two sets of memories, two personalities that had slowly merged over four years into something greater and more terrible than either alone.
He remembered dying. Remembered the cold spreading through his limbs, the tunnel vision, the final gasping breath. Remembered opening his eyes in a child's body, in a medieval fortress, in a world he'd read about in books and fanfiction. The disorientation had lasted mere hours. Then had come acceptance, assessment, and finally, anticipation.
Because this world offered something the modern one never had: the absence of consequences for those strong enough to seize power.
Four years. He'd spent them building foundations. A network of twenty servants and spies, loyal through carefully deployed kindness and the occasional demonstration of what happened to those who betrayed him. Alliances with the ambitious sons of minor houses, cultivated through shared training and carefully offered advantages. A reputation as the brilliant, dangerous heir who would someday make House Bolton greater than even the ancient Red Kings. And beneath all of it, hidden in shadowed alcoves and midnight conversations, the corruption of his mother.
His eyes slid sideways, catching her profile in the firelight. She was listening politely to Lord Cerwyn's wife prattle about some domestic triviality, nodding at appropriate moments, the perfect picture of ladylike grace. But Castor saw the tension in her shoulders, the slight tightness around her eyes, the way her fingers twisted her napkin beneath the table. She was counting minutes until this performance could end, until the guests retired and she could retreat to the privacy that had become her prison.
Or would have been her prison, if Castor hadn't offered her another option.
He thought of last week: her on her knees in the library after midnight, violet eyes glazed with shame and hunger as she took him in her mouth, his hands fisted in silver hair as he used her throat like the depraved whore he was training her to become. The memory sent a pulse of heat through his groin, cock stirring beneath the table. Tonight would be the culmination. Tonight, he would claim her completely. Breed her. Make her his in the most primal, irreversible way possible.
The thought brought a smile to his lips—small, controlled, but real.
Bethany glanced at him in that moment, as if sensing his thoughts. Their eyes met. Hers widened fractionally, a flush rising in her pale cheeks as she read the promise in his gaze. Her tongue darted out, wetting her lips, an unconscious gesture that spoke volumes. Then she looked away quickly, back to her conversation, but her hand trembled as she reached for her wine.
Good. Let her anticipate. Let the hunger build. By the time she came to him tonight, she would be desperate.
Across the table, Roose's pale eyes tracked the exchange. His expression didn't change—it never did—but Castor felt the weight of his father's assessment. Roose noticed everything, filed away every detail for later use. The closeness between mother and son wouldn't concern him; if anything, he likely viewed it as a tool for control. A son emotionally bound to his mother was easier to manipulate, easier to threaten if discipline became necessary.
What Roose didn't understand—what he couldn't understand, because his cold pragmatism blinded him to certain human realities—was that emotional bonds cut both ways. That dependency created leverage regardless of which party felt the need more strongly. That a son who owned his mother's heart and body could wield her against any threat, including the father who thought himself beyond reach.
Castor raised his goblet in subtle salute to his sire. Roose returned the gesture, a ghost of approval in those pale eyes.
Enjoy your wine, Father, Castor thought. It will be your last.
***
The feast stretched on for hours, as Northern feasts always did—endurance tests disguised as hospitality. Bards sang of the Age of Heroes, of the Red Kings who'd ruled from the Dreadfort before the Starks bent them to submission. Songs of flaying and blood and winter that never ended. The guests grew progressively drunker, voices rising, laughter becoming raucous. Lord Cerwyn had to be helped from the hall by his squire, his pretty wife trailing behind with a martyred expression that Castor filed away for future exploitation.
As midnight approached, the guests began retiring to chambers prepared for them—guest quarters in the outer keep, far enough from the family's private wings to ensure privacy. The ladies departed first, citing exhaustion from the cold journey. Then the lords, one by one, until only the most dedicated drinkers remained hunched over the tables.
Roose rose smoothly, a signal that the feast was officially concluded. "Thank you all for honoring my son's nameday," he said in that quiet, carrying voice. "The storm shows no sign of breaking. You're welcome to remain as long as necessary." Translation: You're trapped here, and I'm watching you.
The remaining guests mumbled thanks and staggered off. Roose turned to Castor, laying one pale hand on his son's shoulder—the closest thing to paternal affection he ever displayed. "Sixteen. A man grown, by Northern law. You've done well, Castor. Better than I'd hoped. We'll speak tomorrow about expanding your responsibilities. There are... projects... that require supervision."
The flaying chambers, Castor understood. He's going to start training me in the family art.
"I'm honored, Father. I'll be ready."
"Good." Roose's eyes slid to Bethany, who stood gracefully, smoothing her skirts. "Wife. To bed. The hour is late."
She inclined her head obediently. "Of course, my lord."
Roose departed without further ceremony, two guards flanking him as he disappeared into the private corridors. His chambers were in the lord's tower, three levels up, accessible only by a single staircase easily guarded. Secure. Isolated. Exactly where Castor needed him to be.
The hall emptied. Servants moved efficiently, clearing tables, banking fires to embers. Castor remained at the high table, nursing the last of his wine, projecting the image of a young lord reluctant to let his nameday end. In truth, he was counting heartbeats, calculating timing.
Bethany lingered near the hearth, ostensibly warming her hands, but her eyes kept flicking to him. The flush had spread from her cheeks down her neck, disappearing beneath the bodice of her gown. Her breathing was shallow, rapid. She was aroused just from proximity, from anticipation of what was coming.
Castor let the silence stretch until the last servant departed. Then he stood, crossed to her in three long strides, backed her against the stone mantle. No one could see—the angle was wrong, the shadows too deep. His hand slid up her side, thumb brushing the underside of her breast through velvet. She gasped, eyes flying wide.
"Meet me," he breathed against her ear, "in the old tower chamber. East wing, fourth level. After the moon crests the eastern battlement—one hour from now. Wear the red silk. The one from Lys." His hand squeezed, possessive, then slid lower to her hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "No shift beneath. And bring the oil. The warming kind."
Her breath hitched, a small desperate sound. "Castor... your father..."
"Will be asleep. Drugged, if necessary." He nipped her earlobe, felt her shiver. "This is happening, Mother. Tonight, I claim what's mine. Tonight, I breed you."
The crude language made her whimper, thighs clenching beneath her skirts. She was already wet, he knew. Already aching for it. Four years of conditioning, of breaking down barriers and normalizing the unthinkable, had brought them to this moment.
"One hour," he repeated, releasing her abruptly and stepping back. "Don't be late. And don't make me hunt you down. You won't like what happens if I have to drag you there."
The threat was calculated, edged with dark promise. Her violet eyes glazed with something between fear and lust—the perfect combination. She nodded jerkily, hands fluttering to her throat where he could see her pulse hammering.
Then she fled, skirts rustling, disappearing into the corridors that led to the lady's chambers.
Castor smiled in the empty hall. Then he, too, departed—but not toward his own chambers. Instead, he took a different route, one known only to the Boltons: a hidden panel behind a tapestry depicting the flaying of a Stark king, stone grinding on counterweights as it swung inward to reveal a narrow passage. These tunnels honeycombed the Dreadfort, remnants of the Age of Heroes when the castle had been besieged for two years by a coalition of rival houses. Secret ways to move unseen, to strike from unexpected angles, to escape if the walls were breached.
Castor used them now to reach the old tower chamber unobserved.
The chamber was a relic from an earlier time, long disused, its furniture shrouded in dust until Castor had spent the last month preparing it. High in the eastern wing, overlooking the Wolfswood through narrow windows, accessible by a single spiral stair that saw no traffic. Perfect privacy. Perfect isolation.
He'd transformed it into a temple of depravity.
Braziers burned in the corners, fueled by scented wood imported from Essos—myrrh and musk and something darker, a scent that thickened the air and heated the blood. Furs piled the floor three deep: shadowcat and bear and wolf, soft as sin beneath bare skin. The massive four-poster bed dominated the center, its frame carved from ancient weirwood, pale and bloodstained from some long-forgotten sacrifice. Fresh furs covered the mattress, and silken ropes—dyed the pink of flayed skin—coiled artfully around the posts, disguised as decorative trim but knotted in ways that would hold struggling weight. Iron rings were embedded in the bedposts and floor, hidden by strategic fur placement.
On a side table: a decanter of Arbor gold, finest vintage, stolen from his father's stores. Two goblets of Myrish glass. And a vial of Lysene oil, the expensive kind that warmed on contact, scented with essence of nightbloom—a flower that bloomed only under moonlight and was said to drive women into lustful frenzy.
The windows were shuttered against the storm, but snow still hissed against the wood, wind keening like a chorus of the damned.
Castor stripped methodically, folding his clothes and setting them aside. Naked, he was a work of art sculpted in pale marble—every muscle defined, scars from training crisscrossing his torso like a warrior's resume, the V of his hips pointing downward to his cock, which hung heavy and thick even soft, promising brutal size when roused.
He poured himself wine, drank, let the warmth spread through his veins. Then he waited, standing near the hearth, firelight painting his body in shades of gold and shadow.
Anticipation was a drug more potent than any poppy. His mind wandered through possibilities: positions, degradations, the exact words he would use to break down her last resistances. Would she cry? Beg? Fight at the last moment, forcing him to pin her down and take what was his by right? The thought sent a pulse of heat to his groin, cock beginning to stir.
Footsteps on the spiral stair—hesitant, stopping once, then continuing. The door creaked open.
Bethany slipped inside, cloaked in heavy wool against the cold. Snowflakes dusted her silver hair like a crown of diamonds, melting as she stepped into the warmth. She pushed back her hood, violet eyes wide and wild, cheeks flushed, lips parted. With trembling hands, she barred the door—a heavy oaken beam sliding into iron brackets, ensuring absolute privacy.
Then she turned and let the cloak fall.
Castor's breath stilled.
She'd obeyed perfectly. The red silk clung to her body like liquid sin, so sheer it might as well have been mist—every curve visible, every shadow revealed. The gown plunged between her breasts nearly to her navel, held by a single silver chain, the fabric draping over her nipples but doing nothing to hide their dark peaks, already pebbled hard. Slits ran from ankle to hip on both sides, baring the pale length of her legs with each breath, and at the apex of her thighs... nothing. No shift, no smallclothes. Just smooth, bare skin and the shadow of her sex, glistening faintly in the firelight.
She'd shaved as he'd commanded weeks ago—he could see the complete absence of silver curls, her cunt lips puffy and exposed, a trail of arousal already slicking the inside of her thigh.
Around her neck, on a delicate chain, hung the vial of warming oil, nestled between her breasts like an offering to obscene gods.
"Castor," she whispered, his name a prayer and a plea.
He crossed the chamber in three strides, silent as a hunting cat, and seized her throat—not choking, but claiming, thumb pressed to her pulse so she felt his control over her life. She gasped, head tilting back automatically, exposing her neck in submission.
"You're late," he growled, though she wasn't. "Did you hesitate? Think about running?"
"N-no. I... I had to wait for the guards to change—"
He squeezed, cutting off her words. "Lies. I can feel your pulse. Racing. You hesitated." His other hand slid down, cupping her breast roughly through the silk, thumb scraping her nipple until she whimpered. "Part of you still thinks this is wrong. Still thinks the gods will strike you down for letting your son fuck you."
Tears welled in her eyes—not from pain, but from the brutal accuracy. "I... I'm trying..."
"Not hard enough." He released her throat, grabbed the chain holding the oil vial, and yanked. It snapped, vial tumbling into his palm. Oil spilled across her breasts in a warm, slick stream, soaking the silk, making it cling even tighter as the liquid dripped down her belly to pool at her slit. The scent of nightbloom exploded, thick and cloying, and he watched her pupils dilate as the aphrodisiac properties took hold.
She swayed, hands coming up to grip his arms for balance. "Gods... what..."
"Just oil. To make you slicker." He smeared it across her breasts with rough hands, pinching her nipples viciously, twisting until she cried out. "Though you hardly need help, do you? Already dripping for me. Already aching for your son's cock."
"Yes," she sobbed, the admission ripped from her.
"Yes, gods help me, yes."
He spun her, slammed her front against the rough stone wall beside the hearth, her cheek pressed to cold rock. The red silk tore under brutal hands—rent from neckline to hem, shreds fluttering to the floor like ruined dreams. Naked now, fully exposed, she arched instinctively, ass pushing back toward him.Castor palmed her ass cheeks, spreading her wide, exposing both holes. Her cunt gaped slightly, pink and swollen, slick arousal coating her inner thighs. Above it, her puckered rosebud twitched, virgin tight. He gathered saliva and spat directly on that forbidden hole, watched it slide down.
She jolted, gasping. "Not—not there—"
"Everywhere," he corrected, one oil-slick finger circling her rim, pressing just enough to threaten. "Every hole. Every part of you. Mine to use." He didn't breach her ass—not tonight, that corruption would come later—but the threat made her moan, made her cunt clench on nothing.
"Turn around," he ordered, stepping back.
She obeyed shakily, turning to face him, back pressed to stone. Her eyes dropped to his cock—now fully hard, jutting from his groin like a weapon. Nine inches of thick, veined flesh, the head flared and angry purple, already weeping clear fluid. Too big for her, probably. It had been years since Roose had touched her, and even then, his father's cock was smaller, less imposing.
This would hurt. And that was exactly how Castor wanted it.
***
He backed her toward the bed, predator stalking prey, until the backs of her knees hit the furs and she fell onto the mattress with a gasp. She tried to scoot back, instinct warring with desire, but he caught her ankles and dragged her to the edge, spreading her legs wide and pinning them with his hips.
"Look at you," he breathed, towering over her, one hand wrapped around his cock, stroking slowly. "Spread open like a whore. My mother, the Targaryen princess, reduced to this. Wet and desperate for her own son's seed."
"Please," she whimpered, and didn't even know what she was begging for—mercy or ravishment.
He gave her neither. Instead, he notched the head of his cock at her entrance, pressing just enough to spread her lips, then stopped. Let her feel how impossibly big he was. Let the anticipation build into agony.
"Beg," he commanded. "Tell me what you want. Use the words."
Her face flushed scarlet with shame, but her hips bucked, trying to impale herself. "I... I want you inside me."
"Not good enough." He pulled back an inch, denying her. "Be specific. What do you want your son to do to you?"
The tears spilled over now, tracking down her temples into silver hair. "Fuck me. Please, Castor, fuck your mother. Breed me. Knock me up with your baby. I need it, I need you, please please please—"
He slammed home in one brutal thrust.
She screamed, back arching off the furs, nails raking his arms as he buried himself to the hilt in one stroke. Her cunt clamped down like a vice, velvet heat so tight he saw stars, walls rippling as she came instantly from the shock of penetration. She was weeping, sobbing his name, legs locking around his hips as orgasm wracked her.
Castor didn't wait for her to recover. He pulled back until only the tip remained, then slammed in again, setting a brutal pace that shook the bed frame. His hips pistoned like a battering ram, heavy balls slapping her ass, the wet sounds of her cunt squelching obscenely loud in the chamber.
"Fuck, you're tight," he groaned, hands mauling her bouncing tits, pinching nipples until she wailed. "Tighter than any whore I'd imagined. Father never fucked you properly, did he? Left this cunt neglected, wasted."
"Yes—gods yes—never like this—" She was incoherent, words broken by moans, body jerking with each savage thrust. He angled his hips, searching, then found that spot deep inside that made her convulse. Her eyes rolled back, another orgasm slamming through her.
"That's two," he counted aloud, voice strained with control. "Let's see how many times I can make my mother come on my cock before I breed her."
He changed rhythm—slow, grinding strokes, pelvis rubbing her swollen clit with each roll. One hand slid down, fingers finding that pearl and circling mercilessly. She thrashed, oversensitive, trying to escape the stimulation, but he pinned her with his weight.
"No—too much—can't—"
"You can. You will." Three fingers joined the assault on her clit, rubbing in tight circles as his cock continued the deep, grinding fuck. Her cunt fluttered, tightening impossibly, and then she was coming again, squirting messily, fluids gushing around his cock to soak the furs beneath.
"There." He grinned, feral and triumphant. "My greedy mother. Insatiable."
He pulled out—his cock shining with her cream, streaked white with her cum—and flipped her onto her stomach. Dragged her hips up, forcing her into a presenting position: face down, ass in the air, back arched. From this angle, both her holes were exposed, her cunt still twitching, gaping from the pounding.
He mounted her from behind, hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise, and resumed the brutal pace. Deeper now, hitting her cervix with each thrust, making her scream into the furs. One hand fisted in her silver hair, yanking her head back, forcing her spine into a painful arch.
"Whose cunt is this?" he demanded."Y-yours!"
"Whose womb am I breeding?"
"Yours! My son's! Gods, Castor, you own me!"
"Damn right." He released her hair to slap her ass, sharp cracks that left red handprints on pale skin. She clenched each time, moaning like a bitch in heat. "Going to fill this womb. Knock you up with my child. Our child. The product of our incest."
The depravity of it—the sheer wrongness—pushed him closer to the edge. His balls drew up tight, cock swelling impossibly harder. But he wanted more. Wanted her completely broken.
He pulled out again, ignoring her whine of loss, and grabbed the silken ropes. Before she could process, he'd looped one around her wrists, binding them together and tying them to the headboard. Her ankles next, spread wide and tied to the bedposts, leaving her utterly helpless, unable to close her legs or protect herself."Castor, what—"
"Shh." He climbed onto the bed, straddling her chest, his cock—still slick with her juices—bobbing in front of her face. "Open."
Her eyes widened in understanding, but she obeyed, lips parting. He fed his cock into her mouth, groaning at the wet heat, and began to thrust. Not gentle—proper face-fucking, hands gripping her head, cock sliding over her tongue and hitting the back of her throat until she gagged.
"That's it. Taste yourself on your son's cock. Clean it." He pushed deeper, felt her throat spasm around his head, saw tears streaming from her eyes. But she didn't resist, just went pliant, letting him use her mouth like he'd used her cunt.
When his cock was shining with spit, he pulled out, moved back between her spread legs. She looked utterly debauched: wrists bound, legs spread obscenely wide, hair a tangled mess, face flushed and streaked with tears, lips swollen from use. Her cunt gaped, pink and raw, still twitching.
Perfect.
He positioned himself, cock nudging her entrance, and locked eyes with her. "Last chance to say no."
"Don't you dare stop," she whispered fiercely.
"Breed me. Now."
He slammed in one final time, setting a punishing pace, chasing his climax. She came again—four—then five, her body wringing pleasure from the abuse. His vision tunneled, balls tightening, and with a roar he buried himself as deep as physically possible, cock pulsing as he came.
Thick ropes of cum blasted her cervix, flooding her womb. Pulse after pulse, more than he'd ever produced, painting her insides white. He ground deep, ensuring every drop stayed inside, one hand splaying possessively over her flat belly.
"Pregnant now," he breathed. "Carrying your son's child. The ultimate sin."
She sobbed, but it was relief, completion. "I love you. My dragon. My lord."
He collapsed onto her bound form, still buried inside, still twitching. They lay like that for long minutes, his weight pinning her, their combined fluids leaking slowly around his softening cock.
Finally, he pulled out with a wet sound, admired the cream pie gaping her cunt—his seed spilling from her used hole. He untied her wrists but left her ankles bound, legs still spread.
"Finger it back in," he ordered, and watched as she obeyed, two fingers scooping his cum and pushing it deep inside her cunt, pumping it back into her womb. The sight made his cock twitch with renewed interest.
"Good girl," he praised, finally untying her ankles. He gathered her against his chest, possessive, one hand resting on her belly. "Sleep now. Tomorrow, everything changes."
She curled into him, exhausted, marked, owned. "Tomorrow," she echoed dreamily.
Castor stared at the ceiling, mind already racing ahead. Phase one complete. Now for phase two.
***
Dawn came grey and cold. Castor woke alone—Bethany had slipped away before first light as planned, returning to her chambers via hidden passages to maintain appearances. Evidence of their coupling stained the furs: blood from torn tissue, mixed fluids, the scent of sex and nightbloom oil still heavy in the air.
He rose, washed in cold water from a basin, dressed in clean blacks. Then he descended via the hidden passages to the main keep, emerging in a deserted corridor. Servants were just beginning morning routines—banking fires, preparing breakfast, the quiet industry of a household coming to life.
Castor found Jeren, one of his five core servants—the network's captain, a thin man of thirty with clever eyes and a talent for poisons learned from a disgraced maester. They met in a storage alcove, conversation too quiet to carry.
"It's time," Castor said simply.Jeren nodded once. No questions, no hesitation. Loyalty bought through years of careful cultivation. "The lord's morning leech treatment. Maester Wendimer always prepares the infusion personally, but I can access the ingredients. What's your preference?"
"Something that mimics natural causes. Heart failure. He's been complaining of chest pains for weeks—everyone knows leeching weakens the heart eventually. Make it look like the strain finally broke him."
"Widow's blood mixed with essence of nightshade," Jeren suggested. "Tasteless in wine, kills within hours. Symptoms present as cardiac arrest. The maester will see what he expects to see."
"Do it. And ensure the goblet is destroyed afterward. I want no traces."
Jeren melted back into the shadows. Castor continued to the great hall, where a subdued breakfast was being laid out—far simpler than the feast, just bread and cheese and cold meats for those guests still trapped by the storm.
Roose appeared at his usual hour, looking no different than always: pale, composed, quietly commanding. He nodded to his son, took his seat, and began eating. A servant brought his special morning infusion—wine fortified with leech blood and herbs, supposedly vitalizing.
Castor watched his father drain the goblet, forced his expression to remain neutral.
Three hours later, shouts echoed from the lord's solar.
By midday, Maester Wendimer had pronounced Lord Roose Bolton dead of natural causes—heart failure brought on by excessive leeching and the strain of winter cold. The body was laid out in the great hall, the flayed man banner draped across his chest.
Castor stood beside the bier, expression set in appropriate grief, accepting condolences from shocked bannermen and guests. Inside, he felt nothing but cold satisfaction. One obstacle removed.
Lady Bethany appeared, veiled in black, playing the grieving widow to perfection. But when their hands touched in a gesture meant to appear comforting, her fingers squeezed his, nails digging in—a silent message of complicity and desire.
The rites were conducted swiftly. Northern custom demanded burial before the body froze. By the Hour of the Eel, Roose Bolton lay in the Dreadfort's crypts beside his ancestors, and Castor was summoned before the gathered bannermen.
"As eldest son and heir," Lord Cerwyn intoned, speaking on behalf of the assembled lords, "Castor Bolton is named Lord of the Dreadfort and Warden of this stretch of the North. All oaths sworn to Lord Roose now transfer to Lord Castor. Do any here dispute this succession?"
Silence. Castor met each lord's eyes in turn, saw calculation rather than challenge. He was young, but he'd been trained. Tested. The succession was clean.
"Then kneel, lords, and swear your oaths anew."
One by one, they knelt. Pledged their spears and shields. Promised loyalty. Castor accepted each oath with grave courtesy, cementing his rule.
When the last lord had risen and departed, Castor stood alone in the empty hall—no, not alone. Bethany materialized from the shadows, her veil lifted, violet eyes luminous.
"My lord," she murmured, and the title carried layers of meaning.
He pulled her close, kissed her hard, tasting tears—relief, grief, mad joy. "It's done. The Dreadfort is ours. The North will be next."
"And if I'm pregnant?" Her hand covered her belly, hope and fear warring on her face.
"Then our dynasty begins now." He covered her hand with his. "I'll claim the child as mine. Let them whisper. Fear keeps them obedient."
She shivered, but nodded. "What now?"
"Now," Castor said, eyes distant, seeing a future written in blood and fire, "we build an empire. One seduction, one conquest, one bloody step at a time."
***
Night fell again on the Dreadfort, but this time it was different. The lord's solar—now Castor's—blazed with light as the new Lord Bolton spread maps across the table. The North stretched before him in ink and parchment: Winterfell at the center, like a spider in its web. The other houses arrayed around it, bound by oaths and honor and Stark authority.
Honor. What a weakness.
Castor's fingers traced the holdings one by one. Karstarks at Karhold—proud, with long memories of their own kingship. Umbers at Last Hearth—fierce and loyal, but rough. Manderlys at White Harbor—rich, foreign, never quite accepted. Cerwyns, Hornwoods, Dustins, Ryswells, Lockes... all of them with their own petty ambitions, unhappy marriages, hidden resentments.
Cracks in the Stark hegemony, waiting to be exploited.
But subtle exploitation. Never direct challenge—not yet. The Boltons had bent knee centuries ago after the last great rebellion was crushed. Open defiance now would unite the North against him. No, he needed to work through proxies, through whispers and seductions and the slow accumulation of leverage.
Tap. Tap.
A knock at the door.
"Enter."
Jeren slipped in, followed by the other four core network members: two women, two men, each chosen for specific skills. Mira, the older kitchen maid, who heard every secret spilled over ale. Young Rodrik, the stable hand, who knew which lords arrived and departed and with whom. Gella, the seamstress, who saw the bruises wives tried to hide. And Hareth, the guard, who controlled access to the private wings.
"My lord," they murmured, kneeling."
Rise. We have work to do." Castor gestured to the maps. "Our network needs to expand. I want eyes in every major holding within a month. Servants we can turn, guards we can bribe, merchants who can carry messages. Start with the smaller houses—Lockes, Hornwoods. Feel out dissatisfactions. Who's unhappy with their marriages? Who's drowning in debt? Who has ambitions the Starks ignore?"
"The Locke lordling is a drunk," Mira offered. "Saw him piss himself at the feast. His wife looked ready to murder him."
"Perfect. Gella, befriend Lady Locke's seamstress. Find out what she wants, what she needs, what she's not getting. If she's truly miserable, perhaps a visit to the Dreadfort could be arranged. I'm sure we could... ease her loneliness."
Knowing looks passed between the network members. They understood what their lord was building: not just political power, but something more primal. A web of seduction and coercion, of bastards and blackmail.
"What of Winterfell?" Rodrik asked submissively. "The Starks?"
"Patience. Lord Eddard is honorable to a fault—incorruptible, which makes him predictable. But his household? His bannermen? They're human. Flawed. We'll find the cracks. Lady Dustin already hates the Starks for old grievances. The Karstarks resent playing second to Winterfell. Even the Manderlys, for all their wealth, chafe at being outsiders."
He tapped Winterfell on the map. "One day, this falls. But not today. Today, we build foundations."
The meeting continued for another hour, assignments distributed, timelines established. When his network finally departed, Castor stood alone at the window, staring out at the snow-choked forest.
Behind him, a secret panel opened. Bethany emerged, wrapped in furs, hair loose around her shoulders. She moved to him, pressed against his back, arms circling his waist.
"You're cold," he observed.
"Then warm mee~"
He turned, studied her face. "Any nausea yet? Tenderness?"
She flushed. "It's too soon to know. But... I hope so. Gods help me, I hope I'm carrying your child."
"Our child," he corrected. "And when your belly swells, let them whisper. Let them suspect. Fear of scandal will keep them silent, and fear of me will keep them obedient."She rose on tiptoes, kissed him.
"I've never been afraid of you."
"You should be." But he kissed her back, hands roaming, and within minutes they were coupling again—this time bent over the lord's desk, her moans muffled against her own hand as he took her from behind, hard and possessive.
When they finished, cum dripping down her thighs, she straightened her dress and prepared to leave. But at the door, she paused.
"Castor? What you said earlier... about the North being next. Do you really think you can do it? Supplant the Starks?"
He smiled, and it was the smile of a man who'd died once already and lost all fear of consequences. "I don't think. I know. Because I've seen the future, Mother. I know what's coming. Wars and winters. Betrayals and burnings. And when the realm tears itself apart, the Dreadfort will stand. We will stand."
"The dragon and the flayed man," she whispered.
"Fire and fear," he agreed. "An empire built on both."
She departed. Castor returned to his maps, mind already spinning plots within plots. In his previous life, he'd been a genius limited by modern laws and moral expectations. Here, he was a lord with near-absolute power, meta-knowledge of future events, and no conscience to slow him down.
The game was just beginning. And this time, he would not die in someone else's bed.
This time, he would make the world bleed.
***
CHAPTER END