**Three Sennight Later :-
4th moon of 296 AC **
***
Dawn broke cold over the Dreadfort, pale light filtering through the narrow window of Castor's chambers to illuminate a scene that would have made the Sept's holy men scream themselves hoarse with righteousness.
Four women. One bed. And Castor Bolton sprawled naked in the center of it all like some ancient king surveying his spoils.
Myranda sat beside him, lean body bare and unashamed, dark curls falling across her shoulders as she traced idle patterns on his chest with one finger. Her breathing came quick and shallow—she was already aroused just from watching the others, her thighs pressed together seeking friction. Those eyes that promised violence watched the scene unfolding with predatory focus, and when she licked her lips, Castor saw the hunger there. She'd taken to her elevated position with disturbing enthusiasm, and her viciousness made her invaluable.
Greta knelt between his legs, dark hair spilling across his thighs as her mouth worked his morning-hard cock with desperate, hollow-eyed efficiency. The wet sounds of her service filled the chamber—slick slides and small gags when he swelled against the back of her throat. She'd learned to breathe through her nose, learned to relax her throat, learned that resistance only made things harder. Her tongue traced the thick vein along his underside, and when his cock pulsed against her palate, she moaned softly around him—not from pleasure, but from the Pavlovian response he'd trained into her. Please him and survive. That simple.
Violet lay curled at his feet, pale hands stroking his calves with constant need for contact. Her breath ghosted across his skin, warm and quick. "My lord," she whispered, the words almost prayer-like.
"Please... please look at me. Please touch me. I need—"
Her voice broke on a whimper as his foot shifted to press against her stomach, pushing her back slightly. Even denial of attention was attention to her broken mind, and she shuddered with something between pain and ecstasy.
And Kyra—gods, Kyra had become his masterpiece.
The Winterfell serving girl stood near the bed, not in the corner but close, her body displayed for his viewing.
Two weeks had stripped away every layer of defiance, every shred of dignity, every boundary she'd thought inviolable.
Now she stood with legs spread slightly, hands behind her back pushing her small breasts forward, red hair falling in wild tangles across her shoulders. Her body was a map of his ownership—bruises on her hips and thighs, bite marks on her breasts and stomach, rope burns on her wrists and ankles, and between her legs, her sex was swollen and glistening.
Not from fear. From need.
Her eyes—once terrified, once defiant—now burned with desperate hunger. She was panting softly, her hips making small unconscious movements, seeking friction that wasn't there. He'd broken her so thoroughly that she'd become addicted to the breaking, craved the degradation like others craved air.
"Please," Kyra breathed, the word almost inaudible. "Please, my lord. Please use me. I'll do anything. Anything. Just please—"
Now that's fucking beautiful, Castor thought, watching her beg. Broke her down and rebuilt her into pure need. Greta's obedient, Violet's worshipful, Myranda's vicious, but Kyra? Kyra's become a junkie for it.
"Myranda," he said, his voice rough with arousal and authority. His hand moved to cup her breast, thumb rolling across her nipple until it hardened into a tight peak. She gasped—"Ahh~"—and arched into his touch. "Our little Winterfell girl has been very good lately. Very... enthusiastic. Don't you think she deserves a reward?"
Myranda's smile was all sharp edges and cruelty. "She's been begging since she woke up, my lord. I've never seen anyone so desperate to be degraded." Her hand drifted down Castor's chest, nails dragging lightly across his skin.
"What did you have in mind? My Lord~"
Castor's cock twitched in Greta's mouth at the possibilities, and he felt her throat work to accommodate the movement, a small "mmph" escaping around his girth. He tangled his hand in Greta's dark hair and pulled her off his length with a wet, obscene pop. She gasped for air, saliva connecting her lips to his cock in glistening strands, her eyes unfocused.
"All of you," he commanded. "On the bed. I want to see you work together."
The scramble to obey was immediate and gratifying. Violet crawled up onto the mattress with eager desperation. Greta moved more slowly, mechanically, taking her assigned position. Myranda rose with that predatory grace, already anticipating what he wanted. And Kyra—
Kyra nearly lunged onto the bed, her need overriding any remaining hesitation.
"Kyra," Castor said, standing and moving to the foot of the bed where he could watch them all. His cock stood rigid, flushed dark with blood, Greta's saliva still gleaming on the shaft. "You said you'd do anything?"
"Yes!" The word burst from her like a dam breaking. "Yes, my lord, anything, please just—"
"Then show me. Show me how thoroughly you've learned your place. Make the others come while I watch."
Kyra's eyes went wide with something beyond arousal—gratitude. As if he'd given her the greatest gift imaginable by allowing her to debase herself further. She moved between Violet and Greta with single-minded focus, her hands already reaching, her mouth already descending.
The sounds that filled the chamber then were obscene symphony. Violet's high, breathy moans—"Oh, oh gods, yes, please"—as Kyra's fingers found her pearl and began circling with desperate intensity. Greta's quieter gasps as Kyra's other hand pushed between her thighs, finding her wet and willing despite her hollow-eyed resignation. And Kyra's own whimpers of need, muffled against Violet's breast as she sucked and bit at the pale flesh.
Myranda positioned herself beside Castor, her body pressed against his side, one hand wrapping around his cock and beginning to stroke with firm, practiced movements. "She's perfect now," Myranda murmured, her breath hot against his ear. "You've turned her into something that lives just to be used. I've never seen anything like it."
"Nngh—" Myranda's hand squeezed tighter, her thumb swiping across his sensitive head, smearing the precum that beaded there. The wet slide of her palm made him throb.
On the bed, Violet was coming apart. Her back arched, pressing her breast deeper into Kyra's sucking mouth, her hands clawing at the sheets. "I'm—oh gods, I'm going to—my lord, please may I—"
"Come," Castor commanded, his voice rough. "Come for me, Violet."
She shattered with a broken cry—"Ahhh! Thank you, my lord, thank you!"—her body convulsing as Kyra's fingers worked her through the climax. Her thighs clamped around Kyra's hand, trapping it, and she sobbed with the intensity of it.
Greta was close too—her breathing had gone ragged, small sounds escaping her throat. "Mmm... ah... ahh..." Unlike Violet's cries, Greta's pleasure was quieter, more internal, but her hips were rolling against Kyra's hand in unconscious rhythm.
"That's it," Castor said, watching Kyra service them both with frantic desperation. "Make her come too, Kyra. Show me what that mouth can do when it's not wrapped around my cock."
Kyra pulled away from Violet's breast with a wet sound and dove between Greta's legs, her tongue finding the hollow-eyed girl's sex with practiced ease. The moan that escaped Greta was involuntary—"Ohh~"—her body responding even as her mind remained distant. Kyra licked and sucked with the same desperate intensity she brought to everything now, and within moments, Greta's thighs were trembling, her breath coming in sharp gasps.
"Ahh... ah... nng..." Greta's climax was quieter but no less real, her body stiffening and then relaxing in waves as Kyra's tongue worked her through it.
Myranda's hand on Castor's cock had maintained steady rhythm throughout, and now she increased her pace, her grip tightening. "Your turn, my lord," she purred. "Let me taste you."
Before he could respond, Myranda had dropped to her knees and taken him into her mouth. Unlike Greta's mechanical efficiency or Kyra's desperate enthusiasm, Myranda's technique was aggressive—she wanted to make him lose control, wanted to prove her superiority over the others. She took him deep, her throat opening to accept his full length, and the sensation was incredible. Hot, wet, tight, and willing.
"Fuck," Castor growled, his hand fisting in her dark curls. "Just like that."
The wet sounds of Myranda's service mixed with the aftermath of the others' climaxes—Violet's continued whimpers, Greta's heavy breathing, Kyra's frustrated moans as she realized she hadn't been allowed her own release.
Castor pulled Myranda off with a sharp tug on her hair. "Bed. On your back. Kyra, mount her face."
They moved with synchronized obedience. Myranda sprawled across the mattress, and Kyra positioned herself over the older woman's face, her swollen sex hovering just above Myranda's mouth. Castor moved between Myranda's spread legs, positioning his cock at her entrance. She was soaked—watching the others and servicing him had left her dripping.
He thrust in without warning or gentleness, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke. Myranda's scream of pleasure was muffled by Kyra's cunt descending onto her mouth, and the vibration of that scream must have felt incredible because Kyra threw her head back with a wail—"Oh!!! sevens, oh fuck, yes!"
Castor set a punishing rhythm, his hips slamming against Myranda's, the wet slap of flesh on flesh joining the chorus of moans and gasps. Below him, Myranda's tongue worked frantically on Kyra's sex, and he could feel her inner walls clenching around him with each pass of her tongue over Kyra's pearl.
"Touch yourselves," he ordered Greta and Violet, who'd been watching with wide eyes. "I want to see all of you desperate for me."
Their hands moved immediately between their own legs, fingers circling and pressing, chasing pleasure while watching their lord fuck Myranda and use Kyra's face.
The chamber became a temple of depravity. Four women in various states of arousal and service, all centered around him. The sounds—wet slides, sharp gasps, broken moans—created obscene music. The scents—sex and sweat and desperate need—filled his nose. The sight—bodies writhing, breasts bouncing, faces flushed and desperate—burned into his memory.
Kyra came first, grinding down on Myranda's face with abandon, her body going rigid as pleasure crashed through her. "Ahhh! My lord! Thank you, thank you, thank you!" Her gratitude for being allowed to come was genuine, pathetic, perfect.
Myranda's climax followed shortly after, her cunt clamping down on Castor's cock like a vice, rippling along his length as she screamed into Kyra's still-grinding sex.
The dual sensation—Myranda's inner walls milking him and the visual of Kyra's complete corruption—pushed Castor over the edge. He thrust deep and held there, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself inside Myranda. Rope after rope of his seed filled her, and he felt some of it leak out around his still-buried length, running down to the sheets below.
"Fuck," he gasped, the word torn from him despite his usual control.
Violet and Greta had both come as well, watching and touching themselves, their small cries adding to the symphony.
For a long moment, the only sounds were heavy breathing and small, satisfied whimpers. Then Castor pulled out of Myranda, his cock still semi-hard, glistening with their mixed fluids. He surveyed his collection—four women thoroughly used, marked by him, existing in this moment solely for his pleasure.
This is what power looks like, he thought, watching his seed leak from Myranda's well-used cunt. Not armies or gold or titles. This. Complete dominion over others. Breaking them and rebuilding them exactly as you want them.
"In my past life, I fucked married women for sport. Had to be careful, subtle, always watching for angry husbands. Died because of it. But here? Here I can take whatever I want, break whoever I want, and no one can stop me. This world is what I always wanted—power without consequences."
"Clean yourselves," he ordered, his voice carrying absolute authority despite his own breathlessness. "Then bring me breakfast. Greta, you're under the table again—I want your mouth available while I eat. Myranda, help me dress after. Violet, change the bed linens. And Kyra..."
He paused, watching her slowly dismount from Myranda's face, her thighs trembling, his lieutenant's saliva and her own release glistening on her inner thighs.
"Kyra, you'll attend me while I bathe. Time to make sure every part of you knows its purpose."
The hunger in her eyes as she nodded was everything he'd worked to create. No resistance. No defiance. Just pure, desperate need to serve and be used.
Two weeks to break a serving girl completely, he thought as the women scrambled to obey. Not bad. Though Kyra made it easy—girl's got a submissive streak a mile deep. Just needed someone ruthless enough to exploit it.
He rose from the bed, stretching, enjoying the morning light on his naked, scarred skin and the sight of four women moving to serve his every need. Outside these chambers, he was Lord Bolton—young, reformed, carefully controlled. Inside them, he was what this world had let him become.
Utterly dominant. Completely without mercy. And alive with power that his past life had never allowed.
Thanks for the second chance, whatever cosmic force made this happen, he thought with dark satisfaction. I'm making damn sure this life counts for something.
The Dreadfort was his. These women were his. Soon the gold would flow, the machines would run, and the plans for Essos would take shape.
But first: breakfast, with Greta's hollow-eyed efficiency servicing him under the table while he planned how to reshape the entire fucking world.
Let's get to work.
***
CHAPTER END