***
The letter arrived on a grey morning when snow fell in lazy spirals that wouldn't settle. Castor broke the grey wax seal—Stark direwolf pressed deep into it—and read by the window of his solar while Mira stood nearby with the day's other correspondence.
Lord Castor Bolton,
Word has reached Winterfell of your father's passing and your succession. The bonds between our houses have held for three hundred years through winter and war. It would please me to see those bonds renewed in person.
When the roads permit safe travel, come to Winterfell. Bring such men as suits your station. We will speak of your oaths and the future of the North.
Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North
Castor read it twice, face expressionless. Mira waited, knowing better than to speak before he did.
"When did this arrive?" he asked.
"Dawn, my lord. The raven from Winterfell."
He set the letter on his desk, stared at it. Not a request. A summons dressed in courtesy, which was how men like Ned Stark gave orders to bannermen they didn't entirely trust. Come. Kneel. Remind me you're loyal.
Perfect.
"Send a reply," Castor said. " Tell Lord Stark I'm honored by his invitation and will depart for Winterfell within the fortnight, weather permitting." He paused, thinking.
"And remind Jeren that Lord Cerwyn arrives today. Make sure the guest quarters are prepared. The good ones, not the drafty chambers in the north tower."
"Yes, my lord." Mira made a note on her tablet. "Anything else?"
"Tell the kitchens to serve the new ale tonight. The strong batch. And make sure the barrels are clearly marked—I want Cerwyn to know exactly what he's drinking."
She nodded and departed, leaving him alone with the letter and his thoughts.
Castor looked out the window at the Dreadfort's walls. Grey stone, grey sky, pink banners hanging limp in the still air. Below, in the training yard, he could hear Hareth shouting at the new recruits—his professional soldiers, learning to hold formation, learning to fight as a unit instead of a mob.
Winterfell. The seat of Stark power. Where the real game would begin.
He'd spent months building roads and granaries, creating infrastructure that made him valuable. Now it was time to become indispensable. And the way to do that wasn't through threats or displays of strength.
It was through marriage.
Sansa Stark. Eleven years old, beautiful if the rumors were true, raised on songs about knights and ladies. She'd be easy to charm. Even easier to mold.
And through her, he'd have a legitimate claim to Winterfell itself when the time came.
The door opened. Bethany entered, one hand resting on the swell of her belly—four months now, visible even under the layers of wool and velvet. She closed the door behind her, moved to his side.
"What does Stark want?" she asked quietly.
"To see if I'm my father's son." He handed her the letter. "To decide if I'm a problem or a tool."
She read it, lips pressing thin. "And what will you show him?"
"A loyal bannerman. Reformed. Modern. Everything Ned Stark values." He turned to face her, one hand coming to rest on her belly. "But first, we have a guest to entertain."
"Cerwyn." She'd read the day's schedule already. "Why is he coming?"
"To see the construction. To talk about trade." Castor smiled slightly. "And because I need him spreading word that House Bolton is prosperous and stable. When I go to Winterfell, I want every lord between here and there to have heard how impressive we are."
"And his wife?"
"Will be an opportunity, if she's as unhappy as the reports suggest."
Bethany's violet eyes searched his face. "You're planning something."
"I'm always planning something." He kissed her forehead. "Go. Rest. Tonight will be tedious—formal dinner, business talk. You don't need to sit through it if you're tired."
"I'm not tired," she said, but there was relief in her voice. She hated entertaining guests, especially Northern lords who looked at her Valyrian features and whispered about foreign blood and Dreadfort strangeness.
"Then watch from the gallery if you like. But don't feel obligated."
She nodded, squeezed his hand, and left.
Castor returned to the window. Lord Cerwyn would arrive within hours. A minor lord, not particularly powerful, but well-connected and prone to gossip. Exactly the kind of man whose opinions traveled.
This would be easy.
***
Lord Medgar Cerwyn arrived in the early afternoon with a small retinue: a handful of guards, two servants, and his wife. They rode through the Dreadfort's gates looking cold and tired, snow dusting their cloaks.
Castor met them in the yard, Jeren at his side, a dozen of his household guards standing at attention in neat formation. A calculated display—not threatening, just professional. Organized. The kind of thing that made visitors remember House Bolton had resources.
"Lord Cerwyn," Castor said, stepping forward. "Welcome to the Dreadfort. I hope the journey wasn't too difficult."
Medgar dismounted, grunting slightly. He was a broad man in his forties, grey-bearded, with the weathered face of someone who spent too much time riding in bad weather. "Lord Bolton. Good of you to invite us." His eyes flicked around the yard, taking in the neat formation of guards, the well-maintained walls. "You've made... changes since your father's time."
"Some," Castor agreed. "I'll show you tomorrow, if the weather holds. For now, let me introduce my steward, Jeren. He'll see to your quarters and anything you need."
Jeren stepped forward, bowing. "My lord, my lady. If you'll follow me."
It was then that Lady Cerwyn dismounted, and Castor got his first real look at her.
Lady Alysanne Cerwyn was younger than her husband by at least a decade—maybe thirty, perhaps less. She had the dark hair and grey eyes common in the North, but there was something finer about her features. High cheekbones. A straight nose. A mouth that looked like it had forgotten how to smile. She wore traveling leathers under a wool cloak, practical rather than decorative, and moved with the careful grace of someone used to being watched and judged.
She curtsied when she saw him looking. "My lord. Thank you for your hospitality."
Her voice was soft, proper, exactly what a minor lady's should be. But her eyes—they flicked to his face for just a moment, widened slightly at whatever they saw there, then dropped immediately to the ground.
Interesting.
"Lady Cerwyn. I hope your journey was bearable." He kept his tone courteous, formal. "Jeren will show you to your quarters. There's hot water for bathing, and dinner will be in the great hall at sunset. Please, rest and warm yourselves."
She curtsied again, murmured something appropriate, and followed her husband and Jeren toward the keep.
Castor watched her go, noting the way she held herself—shoulders tight, steps measured, like someone perpetually braced for disappointment. A second wife, almost certainly. Married off to secure an alliance or settle a debt. Trapped in a life she hadn't chosen with a man who probably barely noticed she existed.
Perfect.
***
The great hall was warmer than usual—Castor had ordered the hearths built high, extra torches lit, furs laid over the stone floors. He wanted Cerwyn comfortable, relaxed, off-balance from hospitality after expecting the cold cruelty the Dreadfort was known for.
Bethany descended from the family quarters as servants set the high table. She wore dark blue velvet, cut to accommodate her pregnancy, silver jewelry at her throat and wrists. She looked every inch the lady of the keep, elegant and untouchable.
"You don't have to stay," Castor said quietly when she reached him.
"I want to." She glanced toward where servants were arranging platters. "Besides, if I hide every time we have guests, people will think I'm ashamed."
"Are you?"
She looked at him, violet eyes steady. "Of carrying your child? No. Of what people will say?" A small smile. "Let them talk. By the time they work up the courage to say it to your face, you'll be too powerful for it to matter."
He kissed her temple. "Sit beside me tonight. Let Cerwyn see that House Bolton is stable, united. It'll make everything easier."
She nodded and took her place at the high table while Castor reviewed the menu with the kitchen master: venison, black bread, sharp cheese, winter vegetables in cream sauce. And barrel after barrel of the new ale—Dreadfort Black, three times the potency of normal Northern brew, smooth enough that men didn't realize how drunk they were getting until it was too late.
When Lord and Lady Cerwyn entered the hall, everything was ready.
Medgar's eyes went wide at the spread. "You've prepared quite a feast, Lord Bolton."
"It's not every day I have the chance to show proper hospitality," Castor replied smoothly. "Please, sit."
They settled at the high table—Castor at the head, Bethany to his right, the Cerwyns to his left. Servants brought bread and salt, then filled cups with wine.
"To House Cerwyn," Castor said, raising his cup. "And to friendship between our houses."
They drank. The conversation began.
***
Medgar Cerwyn, it turned out, loved to talk. Especially when drinking.
The ale flowed freely—servants kept his cup full, and he kept draining it, not noticing or not caring that each cup was stronger than he was used to. He talked about his lands, his harvests, his concerns about the coming winter. He asked about the construction projects he'd heard rumors of, and Castor explained them in just enough detail to sound impressive without revealing anything truly valuable.
"Stone granaries," Medgar said, nodding enthusiastically. "That's clever. How'd you learn to work the mortar?"
"Books, mostly. Old texts about building techniques from before the Conquest. And trial and error." Castor gestured to a servant, who brought fresh platters. "But the real innovation is the ale. Have you tried it yet?"
"This?" Medgar raised his cup. "It's good. Strong."
"Very strong. A new brewing method—cleaner fermentation, better temperature control. The result is ale that's three times the potency of normal brew, stores longer without souring, and sells in White Harbor for double the price."
That got Medgar's full attention. "Double?"
"At least. The merchants are calling it Dreadfort Black. They can't get enough." Castor leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a confidence. "I'm looking for partners to help distribute it beyond my immediate reach. Someone with connections south and west of here, who knows the markets and can move volume."
Medgar's eyes gleamed. Even drunk, he could recognize a profit opportunity. "I have those connections."
"I thought you might." Castor smiled. "We can discuss terms tomorrow, when you've seen the production facilities. For now, enjoy. Consider it a preview of what we could accomplish together."
Medgar drank again, deeply, and returned to his rambling stories about trade routes and merchant contacts.
Beside him, Lady Alysanne ate in silence.
She'd barely spoken since sitting down. Answered when directly addressed, made appropriate noises when her husband talked, but otherwise seemed content to fade into the background. She drank her wine slowly—nursing it, Castor noticed, making one cup last while her husband emptied three or four.
Her eyes, though. Every so often, when she thought no one was looking, they'd flick up. Not at her husband. At Castor.
Quick glances, there and gone, like she was trying to understand something that didn't quite make sense. He was young—only sixteen—but tall, well-built, with the kind of presence that made people notice him. And his eyes, pale grey shot through with Valyrian violet, had a way of making people uncomfortable when he looked at them too long.
He caught her looking once. Held her gaze for just a moment. She flushed and looked away quickly, pretending sudden fascination with her plate.
Beside him, Bethany noticed. She always noticed. Her hand found his under the table, squeezed once. A silent question: Are you planning what I think you're planning?
He squeezed back: Yes.
Bethany's lips curved slightly. She turned to Alysanne, voice warm and gracious. "Lady Cerwyn, how are your lands faring this winter? I imagine the cold comes earlier in your region."
Alysanne startled slightly at being directly addressed. "We... we manage, my lady. The harvests were sufficient. We'll survive until spring."
"Just survive?" Bethany tilted her head. "That seems a modest goal for a house as old as yours."
A flicker of something—frustration? bitterness?—crossed Alysanne's face before she controlled it. "Winter in the North is always hard, my lady. Survival is victory enough."
"Perhaps," Bethany said. "But my son believes we can do better than just survive. That's why he builds granaries and roads. Why he innovates instead of simply maintaining." She glanced at Castor, pride evident in her eyes. "He believes the North can thrive, if we're willing to change."
Medgar, half-listening, raised his cup. "To Lord Bolton! And his... his grand vision!" He drank deeply, some of the ale spilling down his beard.
Alysanne's expression tightened—a wife's embarrassment at a husband making a fool of himself. But she said nothing, just took a small sip of her own wine and waited for the moment to pass.
The dinner continued. More courses, more ale. Medgar grew progressively louder and less coherent, while Alysanne grew progressively quieter and more tense.
By the time the final course arrived, Medgar was listing in his chair, eyes glazed, words slurring together into barely comprehensible sounds.
Castor watched, patient, waiting for the right moment.
It came when Medgar tried to stand to make some kind of toast, stumbled, and nearly fell face-first into his plate. Alysanne caught his arm, steadying him with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd done this many times before.
"My lord husband," she said quietly, "perhaps we should retire—"
"M'fine," Medgar slurred. "Fine. Jus'—jus' need a moment..." His head dipped forward, chin hitting his chest.
Castor nodded to two of his guards. "Help Lord Cerwyn to his quarters. Carefully."
They moved forward, lifted Medgar by his arms. He mumbled something incomprehensible as they half-carried, half-dragged him toward the guest wing. Alysanne started to follow, but Castor spoke before she could take more than a step.
"A moment, Lady Cerwyn."
She froze, then turned slowly. "My lord?"
"Please. Sit. Your husband will be fine—my men will see him to bed. There's no need for you to tend to him like a nursemaid."
She hesitated, clearly torn between duty and the obvious truth that Medgar was beyond any help she could provide. Finally, she sat back down, spine straight, hands folded in her lap.
The hall was emptying now. Servants clearing tables. Bethany rising gracefully, touching Castor's shoulder as she passed. "I'll retire, my lord. Thank you for a lovely evening."
Her eyes met his briefly. She knew exactly what was about to happen. And she approved.
Then she was gone, and it was just Castor and Alysanne, alone at the high table.
He let the silence stretch, watching her grow more uncomfortable by the second. She stared at her hands, at her cup, anywhere but at him.
"Your husband drinks like that often?" he asked finally, voice quiet and neutral.
She stiffened. "My lord, I don't think—"
"I'm not judging. I'm observing." He picked up the wine pitcher, refilled her cup even though she hadn't finished what she had. "You've been nursing that same cup all evening. You're cautious. Controlled. While he..." He gestured toward where Medgar had been. "Isn't."
"He enjoys himself," she said carefully. "There's no harm in that."
"There's no joy in it either." Castor leaned back in his chair, studying her. "You looked miserable the entire meal."
Her head snapped up, eyes flashing. "I was perfectly polite—"
"Polite. Yes. But miserable." He tilted his head. "How long have you been married to him?"
"Five years."
"Second wife?"
She flinched. "Yes. His first died in childbirth."
"And he married you to...?"
"My father owed his house a debt. A marriage alliance settled it." The words came out flat, mechanical. "I did my duty. I birthed my daughter, my sweet Jonelle."
"Your duty." Castor nodded slowly. "Is that what you tell yourself when you lie beside him at night? That you're doing your duty?"
Her face flushed red. "My lord, you have no right—"
"I have every right. This is my hall. You're my guest. And I can see perfectly well that you're trapped in a marriage that makes you unhappy." He leaned forward. "The question is: do you intend to stay trapped forever, or are you willing to admit you want something different?"
She stood abruptly, chair scraping. "I should go."
"Should you?" He didn't move. "Your husband is passed out in his quarters. He won't wake until morning. Where exactly are you rushing to?"
"To my chambers—"
"To lie awake staring at the ceiling, pretending you don't regret every choice that brought you here." His voice was still quiet, almost gentle.
But the words cut. "I'm not blind, Lady Alysanne. I see the way you look at him. The way you flinch when he touches you. The way you've learned to make yourself invisible because it's safer than being noticed."
Tears gathered in her eyes. "Stop."
"Why? Because it's true?"
"Because you're cruel." Her voice shook. "You're a cruel boy playing cruel games, and I want no part of it."
"I'm not playing." He rose slowly, moved around the table toward her. She backed up a step. He matched it. "I'm offering you something your husband never has: honesty. You're beautiful, intelligent, wasted on a man who doesn't see you. And tonight—just for tonight—you could stop pretending."
"I'm married," she whispered.
"So is my mother." He smiled coldly. "She's carrying my child. That secret will come out eventually, but by then I'll be powerful enough that no one will dare speak it aloud." He reached out, brushed a strand of dark hair behind her ear. She trembled but didn't pull away.
"Your husband won't know. No one will tell him. And tomorrow you'll go back to your life, and this will just be... one night where you felt something other than duty."
"Why?" The question came out broken. "Why me?"
"Because you're here. Because I can." He leaned close, lips near her ear. "And because you want to say yes."
She closed her eyes. A single tear slid down her cheek.
"I can't," she breathed.
"You can." His hand found her jaw, tilted her face up. "Look at me."
She did. Her eyes were grey, wide, terrified and hungry at once.
"Last chance," he said. "Walk away now, and I won't stop you. I won't mention this again. You can pretend I never offered. But if you stay—if you let me take you to my chambers—then you're mine tonight. Completely. And tomorrow, you'll have to live with knowing you wanted it."
She stood there, trembling, caught between the door and him. Between the life she had and the one moment where she could feel something other than empty.
One heartbeat. Two.
She didn't walk away.
***
He led her through the hidden passages that honeycombed the Dreadfort's walls—ancient corridors his father had shown him, accessible only to those who knew where the panels were hidden. She followed silently, one hand in his, breathing fast and shallow.
The eastern tower chamber was warm when they arrived, the hearth rebuilt from this morning's ashes, furs piled deep on the floor. Firelight danced on stone walls, making shadows writhe.
He closed the door. Barred it. Turned to face her.
She stood in the center of the room, arms wrapped around herself, looking at him with those wide, frightened eyes.
"I've never..." she started, then stopped.
"My husband is the only..."
"I know." He crossed to her slowly. "That makes this better."
He kissed her before she could respond—not gentle, not asking permission. Claiming. She made a small sound of surprise, hands coming up to his chest, but didn't push him away. After a moment, she kissed him back, tentative and desperate at once.
He pulled back, looked at her. "Tell me you want this."
"I—"
"Say it."
"I want..." She closed her eyes. "Seven help me, I want this."
"Good."
He unlaced her dress slowly, deliberately, watching her face the whole time. She trembled as each layer fell away—outer gown, inner shift, smallclothes. When she was finally naked, she tried to cover herself, arms crossing over her breasts.
He caught her wrists, pulled them away. "Don't hide."
"Please, I'm not—I'm not beautiful like—"
"You're beautiful enough." He circled her, looking at every part of her. She was slimmer than Bethany, less curved than Violet, but lovely in her own right. Pale skin. Small, pert breasts. A flat stomach. Hips that flared just enough.
She shivered under his gaze, goosebumps rising despite the warmth.
He stripped off his own clothes—shirt, breeches, boots—and watched her eyes widen when she saw him fully naked. His cock was already hard, thick and heavy, larger than she was used to.
"When's the last time your husband took you?" he asked.
"Months," she whispered. "He... he tries sometimes, but he's usually too drunk, and when he's not, it's..." She trailed off, face flushing.
"Fast. Unsatisfying. Over before you feel anything."
She nodded miserably.
"Then let me show you what it should be."
He guided her down onto the furs, positioned himself between her legs. She was tense, nervous, thighs pressed together. He ran his hands up her legs, slow and firm, feeling the muscles jump under his touch.
"Relax," he said. "This will hurt less if you don't fight it."
"I'm trying..."
He pushed her thighs apart, settled between them. She was barely wet, body not ready despite her mind saying yes. He spit on his fingers, slicked them, then reached between them and began working her—circling her pearl, dipping fingers inside, stretching her gently.
She gasped, hips jerking. "What are you—"
"Getting you ready." He watched her face as he worked, noting every hitch in her breath, every small moan she couldn't suppress. Her body responded despite her nervousness, slickness gathering, walls beginning to relax.
When he finally judged her ready, he positioned himself and pushed in slowly.
She cried out—not quite pain, not quite pleasure. He was bigger than her husband, and it had been months since she'd been touched. He felt her walls stretch around him, felt the moment she went from resisting to accepting.
"Breathe," he commanded.
She did, shaky and uneven, and he slid deeper.
By the time he was fully seated, she was trembling, nails digging into his shoulders, eyes wide and glazed.
"Gods," she breathed. "You're—"
"I know." He pulled back, thrust in again, setting a slow rhythm.
"Tell me how it feels."
"Full. Too full. I can't—"
"You can." He angled his hips, hitting deeper, and she sobbed. "Your body knows what to do even if you don't."
He fucked her slowly at first, letting her adjust, watching her face shift from fear to confusion to something like reluctant pleasure. Her breathing changed. Her hips started moving with his instead of against. The small sounds she made became less panicked, more needy.
"That's it," he murmured. "Stop thinking. Just feel."
He picked up the pace, driving deeper, harder. She clung to him, gasping, clearly overwhelmed but no longer fighting. He reached between them, found her pearl, rubbed in firm circles.
She shattered with a shocked cry, walls clenching around him, back arching off the furs. He felt her orgasm ripple through her, felt the exact moment she stopped being Medgar Cerwyn's dutiful wife and became something else entirely.
He didn't let her recover. Just kept moving, kept working her, until she was sobbing and begging him to stop, to keep going, to—she didn't even know what she wanted anymore.
When he finally let himself finish, he pulled out and spent himself across her stomach, face and breasts, marking her with thick ropes of seed. She lay there, dazed and trembling, covered in him.
"Clean yourself," he said, tossing her a cloth from beside the furs. "Then come back. We're not done.
"Her eyes went wide. "My lord, I can't—"
"You can. And you will."
He took her three more times that night. Each time different. Each time pushing her further, teaching her exactly how much her body could take when someone actually knew what they were doing.
By the time he finally let her rest, she was limp and exhausted, covered in sweat and seed and the evidence of what they'd done.
"Your husband will never know," he said quietly, stroking her hair. "But you will. You will never let him touch you. You'll remember this."
She turned her face into his chest and wept tears of joy.
***
They left after breakfast. Medgar looked grey and miserable, holding his head like it might split open. Alysanne was composed—dressed, braided, face carefully neutral.
She curtsied to Castor when they met in the yard. "Thank you for your hospitality, my lord.""Safe travels, Lady Cerwyn." He kept his voice formal, polite. "I hope we'll have the chance to meet again.
"Something flickered in her eyes—fear, longing, shame, obsession all mixed together. "Perhaps, my lord."
Medgar managed to grunt his thanks, accepted a package of ale samples to take with him, and climbed onto his horse with visible effort.
As they rode out, Castor caught Alysanne looking back once. Just once. Then she turned forward and didn't look again.
Jeren appeared at his side. "They seemed... pleased with their visit."
"They were," Castor said. "Cerwyn will spread word that House Bolton is prosperous and civilized. And his wife..." He smiled slightly. "She'll remember who showed her what she was missing."
"And now, my lord?"
"Now we prepare for Winterfell." He turned back toward the keep. "Gather Hareth, the quartermaster, and the stable master. I want fifty mounted soldiers ready to ride in two days. Full kit, polished armor, Bolton banners. And prepare wagons—gifts for Lord Stark. Ale, soap, preserved foods. I want to arrive looking powerful and generous at once."
"Yes, my lord."
Castor climbed the steps back into the Dreadfort, already thinking three moves ahead.
Ned Stark wanted to see a loyal bannerman. He'd give him one.
Charming, competent, everything a lord should be.
And while the Warden of the North was busy being reassured, Castor would be seducing his daughter.
***
END CHAPTER 4