***
The eastern tower chamber was Castor's private sanctuary, hidden from the main corridors and accessible only through passages his father had shown him years ago. Here, away from servants' eyes and maesters' knowing glances, he could indulge without pretense.
Dawn light filtered grey through narrow windows. The hearth burned low, casting the room in amber and shadow. Furs covered the floor three deep, soft as sin beneath bare skin. And on those furs, three women moved in practiced rhythm around their lord.
Greta knelt between his legs, dark hair spilling across his thighs as her mouth worked his cock with the desperate skill of someone who had learned quickly that pleasing him meant surviving him. A week in the Dreadfort had stripped away her defiance, replaced it with hollow-eyed obedience. Her lips stretched around his girth, throat working as she took him deeper, gagging slightly but not stopping. She had learned not to stop.
Myranda—the kennel master's daughter, wild and vicious as the dogs she tended—straddled his chest, grinding her cunt against his mouth. She was lean and lithe, with dark curls and eyes that promised violence. Unlike Greta, Myranda loved this. She thrived on it. She rode his face shamelessly, one hand braced on the wall behind him, the other tangled in his hair to hold him close.
Violet—a girl he'd found near White Harbor, pale and delicate with eyes like bruised flowers—lay curled beside him, lips wrapped around his nipple, sucking and biting while her hand roamed lower to cup his balls, rolling them gently as Greta's mouth slid up and down his shaft. Violet was soft where Myranda was sharp, broken where Greta was bending. She lived for his touch, for the degradation he offered as affection.
Three women servicing him at once. A tableau of depravity that would have scandalized any sept and made most Northern lords avert their eyes.
And watching from a cushioned seat near the hearth, wrapped in furs despite the warmth, sat Lady Bethany Bolton.
Her violet eyes tracked every movement with something between pride and hunger. Her hand rested on the swell of her belly—nearly a month pregnant now, visible enough that she had stopped hiding it. The other hand disappeared beneath her nightgown, moving in slow circles between her thighs as she watched her son drowning in flesh and pleasure.
"That's it, Greta," Bethany murmured, voice low and approving. "Take him deeper. Show him you're learning."
Greta's eyes flicked up—shame and hatred burning there—but she obeyed, relaxing her throat, letting Castor's cock slide until her nose pressed against his stomach. She choked, tears streaming, but held herself there until he allowed her to pull back with a wet gasp.
"Good," Castor growled against Myranda's cunt. He rewarded Greta by pulling back slightly, letting her breathe, then gripped her hair and fucked her mouth in earnest—sharp, brutal thrusts that made obscene wet sounds echo in the chamber.
Myranda came first, grinding down on his tongue with a wail, thighs trembling. He drank her down, then shoved her aside carelessly. She tumbled onto the furs, boneless and satisfied, watching him with predatory adoration.
Violet took her place, straddling his hips this time, sinking down onto his cock with practiced ease. Greta fell back, coughing, face streaked with spit and tears. She didn't move away—knew better—just knelt there, watching with dead eyes as Violet began to ride.
Castor gripped Violet's hips, controlling the pace, making her work for it. Her head fell back, silver-blonde hair cascading, breasts bouncing as she rose and fell. "My lord—please—"
"Beg properly," he commanded.
"Please let me come, my lord. Please fill me—breed me like the others—"
He laughed, dark and low, then pulled her down hard, grinding deep. She shattered with a scream, walls clamping around him.
But he wasn't done.
He lifted her off—she whimpered at the loss—and turned to Greta. "On your back. Legs open."
She hesitated. Only a heartbeat, but he saw it.
"Now, Greta. Or I send a raven to Crow's Rest asking how your husband's leg is healing."
She lay back, legs spreading mechanically. No desire there, just fear and compliance.
Castor mounted her, thrust in without preamble. She was dry, unwilling, and he groaned at the tight drag of it. He fucked her hard and cold, watching her face twist—not with pleasure, but with the knowledge that she was utterly owned.
Myranda crawled closer, eyes glinting. "Let me taste her, my lord. While you use her."
"Do it."
Myranda buried her face between Greta's legs, tongue finding her clit even as Castor hammered into her. Greta cried out, confusing pleasure warring with violation. She tried to squirm away, but Castor pinned her hips, forcing her to take both of them.
When he felt his release building, he pulled out and came across her stomach and breasts, marking her with thick ropes of seed. She lay there, shaking, covered in his spend.
"Clean her," he told Myranda and Violet.
They descended on Greta like worshippers at an altar, tongues lapping his cum from her skin, sucking it from her nipples. Greta closed her eyes and endured.
From the chair, Bethany shuddered through her own quiet climax, fingers slick, watching her son's harem service each other under his command.
"Beautiful," she whispered. "My dragon. My perfect boy."
Castor rose, crossed to her, kissed her deeply. She tasted herself on his lips—another woman's pleasure—and moaned into it.
"Tonight," he promised against her mouth, "it's your turn."
She smiled, radiant and ruined. "I'll be waiting."
He left them there—tangled together on the furs, three women broken and remade in his image—and went to prepare for the day.
***
The small dining chamber off the lord's solar was warm, intimate, meant for family rather than bannermen. A table of dark oak, high-backed chairs, silver platters of bread and bacon and cheese. Steam rose from a pitcher of mulled cider.
Castor sat at the head, fully dressed now in black wool and leather, looking every inch the young lord. His hair was tied back neatly. His expression was calm, thoughtful, betraying nothing of the depravity an hour prior.
Across from him sat Bethany, gowned in dark blue, her pregnancy evident but worn with dignity. She ate delicately, occasionally glancing at him with a small, secret smile.
And beneath the table, hidden by the heavy tablecloth, Greta knelt between Castor's legs.
His breeches were unlaced. His cock—half-hard again already—rested heavy in her mouth. She didn't suck, didn't move. Just held him there, warm and wet, a living sheath. He'd taught her this: to kneel silent and still while he conducted business, her only purpose to keep him pleasantly stimulated without distraction.
Mira stood beside the table, older and competent, holding a ledger. She'd been in his service long enough that the sight of her lord's slight shifts of breath, the way his fingers tightened briefly on his cup, told her everything she needed to know about what was happening beneath the table.
She didn't react. Just read.
"My lord, the grain storage reports from the last moon." She turned a page. "The new granary at Crow's Rest is complete. Stone walls, sealed with lime mortar as you specified. Capacity for eight hundred bushels. The headman reports it's already half-filled from the autumn stores they'd kept in the old wooden barn."
"Good." Castor's voice was steady. Beneath the table, Greta's tongue moved slightly—whether intentional or reflex, he couldn't tell. He tapped her head once in warning. She stilled. "And the others?"
"The facility near the Weeping Water crossing is three-quarters done. They'll finish before the next snowfall. The one on the Lonely Road junction..." She hesitated. "Behind schedule. The foreman says the ground is harder than expected."
"Send another work gang. I want it operational before winter deepens." He took a sip of cider, casual. "What else?"
"Census data from the eastern villages. Totals are up by forty-three souls since the last count—mostly births, though two families returned from White Harbor." Mira's eyes flicked across numbers. "We've lost sixteen to age and sickness. Normal rates for winter."
"Any clusters of death?" he asked. "Fever, accident, anything unusual?"
"No, my lord. Spread evenly. Maester Wendimer says it's within expected norms."
Bethany looked up. "You track deaths closely," she observed mildly.
"Patterns matter," Castor replied. "A sudden spike in one village could mean disease, bad water, or an overseer working people too hard. All fixable if caught early."
Beneath the table, he felt Greta shift slightly, trying to ease her aching knees. He pressed his boot against her thigh—gentle pressure, but clear instruction: Stay still.
She froze.
"The road work?" he asked Mira.
"Progressing well. Another mile laid with gravel and stone base. Drainage ditches dug on both sides. Ser Rodrik says carts move twice as fast on the completed sections."
"Revenue from tolls?"
"Modest, my lord. Three silver stags this moon. Merchants are starting to prefer the new route despite the slight toll. They save more on broken wheels and time."
Castor nodded. The tolls weren't about profit yet—just establishing precedent. In five years, when the road was complete and indispensable, he could raise rates and they'd pay without complaint.
"Bridge repairs?"
"Completed on the Weeping Water span. The masons used your lime mortar for the supports. They say it's the strongest work they've done."
"Then use the same method for the next three bridges on the list." He paused, feeling the faint flutter of Greta's breath against his skin. His cock twitched. She adjusted minutely, taking him slightly deeper by reflex.
He took another slow sip of cider and continued as if nothing had changed. "Anything else?"
"One last item." Mira's voice was carefully neutral. "A request from Lord Cerwyn. He asks permission to visit the Dreadfort within the fortnight. Says he wishes to see the new construction methods for himself."
"Interesting." Castor leaned back slightly. The motion pushed his cock deeper into Greta's throat. She gagged silently, swallowed, held. "He can come. Assign him guest quarters in the outer keep. I'll give him a tour of the granaries and roads. Make him think I'm generous with my knowledge."
Bethany's eyes glinted with understanding. "And learn what he's really after while he's here."
"Exactly." Castor smiled at his mother. "He doesn't care about lime kilns. He cares about what I'm building and whether it threatens him. Better to let him see, let him think he understands, than have him imagine worse."
"You're clever," Bethany said softly.
"I learned from the best." He met her gaze, and the heat between them was palpable even across the table.
Mira cleared her throat delicately. "Will there be anything else, my lord?"
"No. That's all. Leave the ledger. I'll review the numbers this afternoon."
She bowed and departed, closing the door behind her.
The moment she was gone, Castor pushed his chair back. Greta, still on her knees, looked up at him with glazed, resentful eyes.
"Finish," he ordered.
She worked him with her mouth, faster now, no longer passive. He tangled his hand in her hair and fucked her face with sharp thrusts until he came down her throat. She choked, swallowed convulsively, took it all.
When he was done, he tucked himself away and gestured dismissively. "Go. Clean yourself up. Be ready tonight if I call for you."
She stumbled to her feet and fled without a word.
Bethany watched her go, then turned back to Castor. "She hates you."
"Yes."
"Will that be a problem?"
"No." He stood, crossed to her, bent to kiss her temple. "Hate is just another kind of chain. As long as she's more afraid than angry, she'll stay."
Bethany caught his hand, pressed it to her belly. "And when this one is born? What will you tell them?"
"The truth," he said simply. "That they're mine. That their blood is fire and ice. That they'll inherit an empire."
She shivered, though the room was warm. "I love you," she whispered.
"I know." He kissed her once more, then straightened. "I have work. I'll see you tonight."
He left her there, one hand on her pregnant belly, the other clutching her cup, violet eyes distant and dreaming of dragons.
***
The new granary near the Weeping Water stood solid and grey against the snow-dusted landscape. Castor walked its perimeter slowly, Jeren trailing behind with a wax tablet for notes.
The structure was simple but effective: thick stone walls, narrow ventilation slits high up, a sloped roof designed to shed snow and rain. The door was heavy oak, barred with iron, and the foundation was raised on stone piers to keep moisture and vermin at bay.
Inside, the air was cool and dry. Grain sacks were stacked neatly, each marked with village of origin and date. Castor ran his hand along the wall—smooth lime mortar, no cracks, no damp.
"How much can this hold at capacity?" he asked.
"Thousand bushels, my lord," the foreman replied. He was a thick man with stonemason's hands, proud of his work. "Maybe more if we stack tight."
"And the ventilation works? No condensation?"
"None so far. Air moves through proper. Grain stays dry."
Castor nodded, satisfied. This was the fourth completed granary. Three more in progress. By next year, he'd have eight distributed across his holdings—enough to store surplus from good harvests and redistribute during bad ones.
Centralized storage meant centralized control. Control meant power.
"Good work," he told the foreman. "You'll get a bonus when the last three are done. And I'll want you to train apprentices. I have plans for more construction."
The man's face lit up. "Aye, my lord. Gladly."
Outside, Castor stood looking south toward where the Weeping Water curved lazily through the landscape. Jeren followed his gaze.
"What are you thinking, my lord?"
"A harbor," Castor said.
Jeren blinked. "My lord?"
"Here." Castor pointed to where the new stone road would intersect with the Lonely Road, barely a mile from the river. "The Weeping Water flows to the Shivering Sea. The Shivering Sea connects with White Knife which flows to White Harbor. Right now, we move everything by cart. Slow. Expensive. Limited by how much a wagon can carry."
"But boats—"
"Boats can carry ten times what a cart can," Castor interrupted. "And they don't need roads. Just a place to load and unload." He turned to Jeren. "I want you to start surveying this stretch of river. Find where the bank is stable, where the current is manageable, where we can build a dock."
"A dock," Jeren repeated, still processing.
"A small harbor," Castor corrected. "Nothing like White Harbor, but functional. A pier, a warehouse, space for flat-bottomed boats. We build it here, at the junction, and suddenly we can move grain, timber, whatever we want downriver to trade. And bring back goods from the coast without paying Manderly's tolls for every cart through White Harbor's gates."
Jeren's eyes widened as the implications sank in. "That would... change everything."
"That's the idea." Castor smiled slightly. "But it starts small. Survey first. Then I'll draw up plans. We'll build it in stages. By the time anyone realizes what we've created, it'll be too late to stop."
"When do you want the survey?"
"Soon as the ice breaks enough to see the banks properly. And quietly. I don't need every merchant in White Harbor hearing about it before we're ready."
"Aye, my lord."
They walked back toward the waiting horses. Castor's mind was already three steps ahead: timber from the Wolfswood, stone from the Lonely Hills, trade routes that bypassed traditional power centers. Infrastructure was boring. It was also how you built empires while other men fought over crowns.
***
Back in his solar, Castor spread maps across the table. Not political maps showing houses and borders, but military ones: terrain, roads, river crossings, defensive positions.
The North was vast. Defending it required men scattered across impossible distances. The traditional levy system—lords calling their peasants to war when needed—worked for short campaigns but collapsed under sustained pressure.
He needed something better.
Jeren, Hareth the guard captain, and Maester Wendimer stood around the table, waiting.
"Current strength?" Castor asked.
Hareth spoke first. "We can muster eight hundred men if we call every village. Mix of spears, bows, some mounted. Mostly levy—farmers who drill twice a year."
"How many could fight tomorrow if I needed them?"
"Maybe two hundred. The men here at the Dreadfort, plus those in villages within a day's march."
Castor tapped the map. "Not good enough. If the Starks call a levy, fine. But I want a core force that's always ready. Professional. Trained. Loyal to House Bolton first, not to their village headman."
"A standing army?" Wendimer's tone was skeptical. "My lord, the cost—"
"Is manageable." Castor cut him off. "I'm not talking about thousands. I want two hundred men permanently under arms. Housed here at the Dreadfort or in barracks at key locations. Paid a wage, not just fed during campaigns. Drilled weekly. Real soldiers."
Hareth leaned forward, interested despite himself. "Foot or horse?"
"Both. A hundred infantry—pike and bow. Fifty cavalry. Fifty in reserve for rotation and training." Castor traced lines on the map. "Station them here, here, and here. Close enough to respond to trouble fast, spread enough to cover the territory."
"And the levy?"
"Still exists. We call them when we need numbers. But the standing force is the backbone. They hold the line while the levy forms up. They guard key points. They put down trouble before it spreads."
"Men will grumble about the cost," Wendimer warned.
"Men grumble about dying too," Castor replied. "I'd rather pay for soldiers who know which end of a spear to use than watch farmers run the first time they see real fighting." He looked at Hareth. "Can you train them?"
"Aye, my lord. Give me six moons and I'll have them moving like a proper unit."
"You have three," Castor said. "We don't have six." He didn't explain why—didn't mention that he knew wars were coming, that the realm would tear itself apart soon enough. "Start recruiting. I want volunteers first. Men who want the wage and don't mind the discipline. Fill gaps with conscripts if you must, but I'd rather have willing men."
Hareth nodded. "I'll start tomorrow."
"One more thing." Castor looked at the river again. "Eventually, I want boats. Not just for trade. War boats. Flat-bottomed, fast, able to move men and supplies downriver faster than marching."
Silence.
"A navy?" Wendimer sounded faint.
"A small one," Castor said. "Ten boats, maybe fifteen. Nothing like the royal fleet. Just enough to control the Weeping Water and the White Knife if we need to." He shrugged. "But that's future work. First, we get the standing army in place. Then the harbor. Then the boats."
Jeren was scribbling notes furiously. "Anything else, my lord?"
"Armory inventory. I want to know what we have and what we need. If we're keeping two hundred men in the field, they need proper equipment. And I want a smithy at the Dreadfort producing our own weapons instead of buying from White Harbor."
"The cost—" Wendimer started again.
"Will be offset by not paying Manderly prices," Castor finished. "Iron's cheap. Labor's cheap. Finished swords are expensive. Do the math, Maester.
"Wendimer closed his mouth.
"That's all," Castor said. "Get started. I want progress reports weekly."
They filed out, leaving him alone with his maps.
He stared at the Dreadfort's position: eastern edge of Stark territory, close to the Lonely Hills, controlling access to the river. It was a strong position. With proper infrastructure, a professional army, and river transport, it would be unassailable.
And when the wars came—when the Starks marched south and the realm burned—House Bolton would be ready.
Not to save anyone. To take what it could while everyone else bled.
***
Mother's chambers were warm, the hearth banked high, furs piled on the bed. She'd dismissed her handmaids hours ago. Now she waited, wearing only a thin shift of Myrish silk that clung to her swollen belly and heavy breasts.
When Castor entered through the hidden door, she turned, smiling.
"You're late," she said
"I was working." He crossed to her, hands finding her waist, pulling her close. The swell of her pregnancy pressed between them.
"You're always working." She tilted her head up, and he kissed her—slow, deep, tasting wine on her tongue.
"Building an empire takes time," he murmured against her lips.
"And what am I building?"
"The future." His hand moved to her belly, splaying wide. "This child is the first stone. There will be more."
She shivered. "You're so sure."
"I'm always sure." He guided her toward the bed, eased her down onto the furs. She lay back, watching him undress with hungry eyes.
When he was bare, he knelt beside her, ran his hands over her body—worshipful, possessive. Her breasts were fuller now, sensitive. She gasped when he sucked a nipple into his mouth, bit gently.
"Castor—"
"Shh. Let me take care of you."
He made love to her slowly, carefully, aware of the child growing inside her. None of the brutal claiming he'd done to Greta this morning. This was different. This was his mother, his partner, the woman who'd given him everything.
She came twice, softly, clinging to him. When he finally spilled inside her—adding his seed to the child already quickening—she wept with something that might have been joy.
After, they lay tangled together, her head on his chest, his hand on her belly.
"Do you ever regret it?" she asked quietly. "What we've become?"
"No." His answer was immediate. "Do you?"
She was silent for a long moment. Then: "No. Gods help me, no."
"Good." He kissed her hair. "Because there's no going back. Only forward."
"Forward to what?"
"To everything," he said. "To a North that answers to us. To dragons, if I can find them. To a legacy that will outlast the Starks and their honor."
She pressed closer. "I believe you," she whispered. "My dragon. My king."
He smiled in the darkness.Outside, snow began to fall. Inside the Dreadfort's grey walls, plans layered upon plans, and a young lord who'd died once and learned never to waste a second chance shaped the future with careful, ruthless hands.
Winter was coming.
But Castor Bolton was ready.
***
END CHAPTER 3