***
The column left the Dreadfort at dawn, when frost still clung to the stones and breath steamed in the grey air. Fifty mounted soldiers in black leather and mail, pink banners hanging limp in the still morning, wagons creaking under their loads of gifts and provisions.
Castor rode at the head, alone with his thoughts while Jeren and Hareth managed the column behind him. The road south toward Winterfell was one of the old ones, packed earth that turned to mud in spring and froze hard as stone in winter. His own new roads didn't extend this far yet, but they would. Everything would extend, given time.
Time. That was the key to all of it. He had two years before Robert Baratheon would ride north and drag Ned Stark into the game that would kill him. Two years to position himself so perfectly that when the realm tore itself apart, House Bolton would be ready to take what it wanted.
And it started with Sansa Stark.
Ten years old. Too young to bed, but old enough to shape. Four years of careful grooming, and by the time he took her maidenhead on their wedding night, she'd think it was love. She'd thank him for it, the way women always did when you made them think they'd chosen you.
The best part? Ned would give her to him willingly. The honorable fool would see a reformed young lord, modern and competent, everything House Bolton could be if it just moved past old hatreds. He'd see an opportunity to bind his most powerful—and historically most dangerous—bannerman through marriage.
He'd never see the predator behind the courtesy.
Ned Stark, you magnificent idiot. You're going to hand me your kingdom and your daughter, and you'll smile while you do it.
"My lord." Jeren rode up beside him, pulling Castor from his thoughts. "We'll reach Winterfell by midday if the weather holds."
"Good. When we're an hour out, have the men form up properly. Full formation, banners high. I want to look like we could ride to war tomorrow if called."
"Yes, my lord." Jeren hesitated. "The gifts?"
"Displayed prominently. Make sure the ale barrels are visible—I want everyone to see the quality of what we're bringing. And the soap, the preserved foods. Every detail matters."
"Trying to impress Lord Stark?"
Castor smiled thinly. "Trying to make him comfortable. Impressed men are cautious. Comfortable men make mistakes."
Jeren absorbed that, nodded, and fell back to relay orders.
The landscape rolled past, empty and white. They passed a few villages, people stopping to watch the Bolton column with wary eyes. Not hostile, not exactly. Just careful. The way Northerners looked at Boltons had looked for a thousand years.
That would change. Not through fear this time, but through something more insidious. Through roads that made their lives easier. Through granaries that kept them fed. Through a lord who seemed reasonable and modern instead of cruel and archaic.
They'd learn to depend on him. And dependency was just another word for ownership.
By the time the sun reached its weak zenith, the towers of Winterfell appeared on the horizon. Grey stone rising from snow, smoke from the hot springs making the castle look like it was breathing. Larger than the Dreadfort, more sprawling, but less defensible in some ways. All that warmth made people soft.
"Form up!" Hareth's voice carried back through the column.
The soldiers moved with practiced precision, falling into perfect formation. Two columns flanking the wagons, banners raised, spears held at identical angles. Professional. Disciplined. Everything a modern military force should be.
Castor straightened in his saddle, checked his appearance. Black leather and wool, well-made but not ostentatious. The pink flayed man on his chest, because he was Bolton and wouldn't pretend otherwise. His hair tied back, violet-grey eyes calm.
He looked like exactly what he was pretending to be: a young lord, competent and confident, coming to renew his oaths.
The gates of Winterfell opened as they approached.
And the game began.
***
The courtyard was busy with the usual castle chaos—servants, guards, animals, the noise of daily life. But space had been cleared before the main steps, and the Stark family stood assembled there like a portrait.
Eddard Stark at the center, grey eyes steady, hand resting casually on his sword pommel. Thirty-three years old, weathered by responsibility, radiating that bone-deep honor that made him so predictable. Beside him, Catelyn Tully Stark—red hair, blue eyes, beautiful in the way highborn women were when they had nothing to prove. She watched the Bolton column with poorly concealed wariness.
Behind them, the children.
Robb Stark stood tall at thirteen, trying to look lordly, auburn hair and Tully eyes making him look more southern than northern. The heir to Winterfell, raised on honor and duty and all the stories that would get him killed someday.
Jon Snow stood slightly apart, dark Stark coloring, watchful and quiet. The bastard, perpetually aware of his place. Useful, that. Hungry men were loyal if you fed them right.
And Sansa.
Ten years old, auburn hair braided elaborately, blue eyes wide as she stared at the approaching column. Even at that age, you could see the beauty she'd become—fine features, graceful even in childhood, everything a highborn lady should be.
She looked at Castor, and her eyes went wider.
Hook set.
Beside her, Arya—seven, messy, clearly fidgeting and wishing she was anywhere else. Bran at six, vibrating with excitement at seeing soldiers and banners. And in Catelyn's arms, little Rickon, barely more than a baby.
Castor dismounted smoothly, handed his reins to one of his men, and crossed the courtyard toward Ned Stark. When he was five paces away, he knelt, head bowed.
"Lord Stark. Warden of the North." His voice carried, formal and respectful.
"I come to renew the oaths my father swore and to reaffirm House Bolton's loyalty to Winterfell and the true Lords of the North."
Perfect. Humble but not servile. Respectful but not weak.
Ned stepped forward, and Castor could feel the assessment in his gaze.
"Rise, Lord Bolton. You're welcome in Winterfell."
Castor stood, met Ned's eyes directly. "Thank you, my lord. I've brought gifts, as is proper for a guest seeking hospitality."
He gestured, and his men began unloading the wagons with efficient precision. Barrels of Dreadfort Black ale, prominently marked. Bricks of scented soap wrapped in oiled cloth. Sealed jars of preserved meats and vegetables. Bolts of fine wool.
"Dreadfort Black," Castor explained as servants rolled a barrel forward. "A new brewing method I've developed. Three times the strength of normal ale, stores longer without souring. The merchants in White Harbor are calling it the finest in the North."
Ned's eyebrows rose slightly. "Ambitious."
"Practical, my lord. Winter is coming. Strong ale keeps morale up when the cold sets in." He indicated the soap.
"And these—made with herbs and proper lye. Keeps disease down when people are packed inside for months. Small innovations, but they matter."
He was showing competence, not wealth. Showing that he thought about his people's welfare, not just power. Exactly what Ned Stark would respect.
Catelyn stepped forward, still wary but unable to fault the courtesy. "You're generous, Lord Bolton."
"I'm practical, Lady Stark." He bowed to her. "The North is strongest when its houses support each other. House Bolton has prospered under my rule. I want our neighbors to prosper as well."
Neighbors. As if we're not your vassals. As if Bolton doesn't dream of flaying Stark the way we did for thousands of years. But let them hear what they want to hear.
Ned gestured toward the keep. "Come inside. You must be cold from the journey. We'll talk properly once you've warmed yourself."
"You're kind, my lord." Castor turned to his men. "Hareth, see to the soldiers' quartering. Make sure the horses are cared for."
"Yes, my lord."
As Castor followed the Starks inside, he let his gaze drift across the children one more time. Robb trying to stand tall. Jon watching everything with quiet intensity. Arya already losing interest. Bran practically bouncing.
And Sansa, still staring at him with those wide blue eyes, cheeks flushed.
She'd seen something from her songs and stories. A young lord, mysterious and handsome, commanding soldiers and bringing gifts like a prince from a tale.
Poor little fool. You have no idea what you're looking at.
***
Castor's guest quarters were in the Great Keep, warm from the hot springs that heated Winterfell. Comfortable chambers with a proper bed, a hearth, a window overlooking the yard. A sign of respect—honored guests got the warm rooms.
He'd barely finished washing the road dust from his face when a servant knocked. "Lord Stark requests your presence in his solar, my lord."
"Tell him I'll attend immediately."
Jeren appeared from the adjoining servant's chamber. "Should I accompany you?"
"No. This is lord to lord. Wait here. Unpack the formal clothes for tonight's dinner."
"Yes, my lord."
Castor followed the servant through Winterfell's corridors, noting the layout, the guard positions, the warm air rising from vents in the floor. The hot springs made this castle livable in ways the Dreadfort never would be. Comfortable. Soft.
Ned's solar was exactly what Castor expected: practical, unadorned, maps on the walls, weapons hung with care. The Lord of Winterfell stood by the window, looking out over his castle.
"Lord Bolton. Please, sit. Wine?"
"Thank you." Castor settled into the offered chair, accepted a cup. The wine was good—southern, probably from the Arbor. Ned had money, just didn't flaunt it.
Ned sat across from him, and for a moment they just looked at each other. Two lords, measuring.
"Your father," Ned began carefully, "was an effective lord. House Bolton prospered under his rule."
Effective. What a delicate word for a man who flayed people alive.
"He was," Castor agreed. "He commanded through fear and precision. It worked. But it also made enemies where we could have had allies."
"And you intend to rule differently?"
"I intend to rule smarter." Castor leaned forward slightly, engaged but not aggressive. "Fear is effective in the short term, Lord Stark. But it's exhausting. You spend all your time watching for rebellion, crushing dissent, proving you're still dangerous. I'd rather spend that energy building things that last."
"Like your roads. Your granaries."
"Exactly. A strong Bolton makes a strong North under Stark leadership. Roads mean faster troop movement if wildlings raid. Granaries mean we don't starve if harvests fail. A professional army means we can respond to threats immediately instead of waiting to call levies."
Ned nodded slowly. "I've heard about your standing army. Some lords are... concerned."
"Let them be concerned." Castor shrugged. "I'm not hiding it. Two hundred men permanently armed and trained. It's expensive, but worth it. When was the last time a wildling raid got past the Bolton lands? When was the last time bandits set up in my territory?"
"Never, under your rule."
"Because I can respond immediately. My men don't need to be pulled from farms and given a spear they barely know how to use. They're soldiers. Professionals." He met Ned's eyes. "The North needs more of that. We're too spread out, too vulnerable. If we had professional forces at key locations, we'd be unbreakable."
*And I'd control those forces. But let's not mention that part.*
Ned studied him for a long moment. "You're young to be thinking in these terms."
"I'm sixteen, my lord. Old enough to fight, old enough to lead. My father taught me that youth is no excuse for incompetence." Castor paused, chose his next words carefully.
"He also taught me that repeating the same conflicts generation after generation is the real incompetence. Bolton and Stark have been at odds for thousands of years. I don't want to spend my life fighting battles my grandfather fought. I want to build something new."
"An alliance."
"A partnership." Castor smiled slightly. "You're the Warden of the North. The paramount lord. I don't challenge that. But I can make myself useful. Make House Bolton the kind of bannerman you want rather than the one you have to watch constantly."
He could see it working. See Ned's suspicion easing slightly, replaced by something that looked almost like hope. The honorable Lord of Winterfell wanted to believe in redemption, in change, in the possibility that ancient enmities could be overcome.
You're so predictable it's almost boring.
The door opened, and Catelyn entered without knocking. She looked between them, eyes lingering on Castor with undisguised distrust.
"My lady," Castor stood, bowed. "I hope I'm not keeping Lord Stark from his duties."
"You're not." She moved to stand beside Ned, a united front. "I wanted to meet the young Lord Bolton properly."
"I'm honored."
Her blue eyes were cold. "Bolton has a reputation, Lord Castor. A bloody one. How do we know you're any different from your father? From your ancestors?"
Direct. Rude, even. Ned shifted uncomfortably, but Castor just smiled.
"You don't, Lady Stark. You can't. Reputations are earned over years, not days. All I can offer is my word and my actions." He met her skeptical gaze calmly. "Judge me by what I do, not what my father did. If I prove unworthy of your trust, you'll know soon enough."
"That's not reassuring."
"It's honest." He shrugged. "I could make grand promises, swear sacred oaths, perform whatever theater you'd like. But words are cheap. Watch what I build. Watch how my people prosper. Watch how I serve the North. Then decide if you trust me."
Catelyn looked like she wanted to argue further, but Ned spoke first. "That's fair. Stay with us for several days, Lord Bolton. Let us know you better. Tonight we feast in your honor. Tomorrow we'll perform the oath ceremony properly."
"I'm grateful, my lord."
As Castor left the solar, he could feel Catelyn's eyes on his back. She didn't trust him. Probably never would, not completely.
Good. Let her be suspicious. Wouldn't save her.
Nothing would.
***
The Great Hall of Winterfell was everything the Dreadfort's wasn't: warm, loud, alive with conversation and laughter. Torches burned bright, the high table was laden with food, and lower tables filled with household members, visiting lords, soldiers.
Castor entered to respectful silence. He'd changed into formal attire—black leather and silver, the flayed man prominent on his chest. His pale hair was unbound now, falling past his shoulders, and those strange violet-grey eyes scanned the room with calm authority.
He looked like what he was: young, beautiful in an unsettling way, dangerous despite the courtesy.
The high table seated him as an honored guest—Ned at center, Catelyn beside him, Castor positioned near Ned's right. Beyond him, Robb and Jon. On Catelyn's side, Sansa and Arya, then the younger boys.
As servants filled cups and brought the first course, Ned stood.
"Lords and ladies, honored guests. We welcome Lord Castor Bolton to Winterfell. House Bolton has served the North for thousands of years, and tonight we celebrate the bonds between our houses."
Polite applause. Castor rose, raised his cup.
"Lord Stark, Lady Stark, you honor me with your hospitality. House Bolton has prospered under Stark leadership, and I look forward to many years of continued service to the North and to Winterfell."
He sat, and the feast began.
The food was good—venison, fresh bread, winter vegetables in cream, baked fish from the White Knife. Northern fare, hearty and filling. Castor ate with proper manners, engaging in light conversation, playing the perfect guest.
But his real attention was on observation.
Catelyn's warmth toward her children, except for Jon—every time the bastard spoke, her face closed slightly. Exploitable. Robb trying desperately to seem mature, asking questions about warfare and training. Jon quiet but clearly intelligent, watching everything. Arya arguing with her septa about something, getting scolded. Bran asking a thousand questions about the soldiers he'd seen.
And Sansa.
She sat three seats away, perfect posture, perfect manners, stealing glances at him when she thought no one was looking. She'd dressed carefully—a dress of ice-blue that matched her eyes, her hair elaborately braided. Trying to look older, probably.
Castor waited until there was a lull in conversation, then addressed her directly. "Lady Sansa, I hear from Lord Stark that you're quite skilled with needlework."
She startled, face flushing. "I—yes, my lord. I enjoy it."
"What are you working on currently?"
"A, um, a banner for my father. With the direwolf sigil." Her voice was soft, uncertain. "It's not finished yet."
"I'm sure it's beautiful. Art takes time." He smiled, warm and appropriate. "Do you enjoy other crafts as well?"
"I like singing, my lord. And reading stories."
"Stories. What kind?"
Her eyes lit up slightly. "Songs of knights and ladies. Tales of honor and courage."
Of course you do.
"Those are worth knowing," Castor said seriously. "They teach us what we should aspire to be. A knight who fights for honor, a lady who exemplifies grace. These things matter, even in the cold North."
She smiled, really smiled, and it transformed her young face. "Most people think such things are silly."
"Most people lack imagination." He gestured vaguely. "The North can be hard, Lady Sansa. Sometimes beauty and grace are what remind us we're more than just survivors. Never apologize for appreciating them."
Catelyn was watching this exchange with narrowed eyes. Castor ignored her, focused entirely on Sansa, making her feel seen and valued in a way ten-year-old girls desperately craved.
"Thank you, my lord," Sansa said quietly. "That's... kind of you to say."
"I'm simply being honest."
He turned back to his meal, letting the conversation flow elsewhere, but he'd felt the hook set deeper. Sansa would think about that conversation. About the young lord who'd treated her like an adult, who'd valued her interests instead of dismissing them.
Robb leaned forward, clearly emboldened by wine. "Lord Bolton, is it true you've built a standing army? Father mentioned it."
"It's true. Two hundred men, permanently armed and trained."
"How do you train them? What formations do you use?"
Castor spent the next while discussing military tactics with Robb, treating the boy with respect but subtly demonstrating superior knowledge. Robb absorbed it like a sponge, clearly impressed.
So easy. Give him attention his father's too busy to provide, and he's yours.
Jon Snow spoke less, but when he did, his comments were sharp and observant. Castor made sure to address him as Ned's son rather than highlighting bastard status—a deliberate choice that didn't go unnoticed. Jon's guarded expression eased slightly.
Another piece positioned.
Midway through the feast, servants brought out barrels of Dreadfort Black. The hall's noise level dropped as people tasted it, then rose again with appreciative murmurs.
"Seven hells," one of Ned's bannermen called out. "This is strong!"
"Three times normal potency," Castor confirmed. "One cup of that is worth three of regular ale. Makes it economical for winter stores."
"Makes it dangerous for feast nights," another lord laughed.
"Then drink carefully," Castor suggested with a slight smile.
The ale was a success. By the end of the meal, half the hall was singing its praises, and the other half was too drunk to sing anything.
As entertainment began—singers, a storyteller—Castor caught Sansa looking at him again. This time, when their eyes met, he didn't look away immediately. Just held her gaze for a three-count, something unreadable in his expression, before turning to speak with Ned.
She blushed furiously and stared at her plate for the next ten minutes.
Two years, little wolf. Just two years and I'll have you on your back in the Dreadfort, screaming my name while your father's corpse rots wherever the game leaves it. And you'll think it's love.
***
After the feast, Castor excused himself for air. The hall was too warm, too loud, and he needed to think.
The godswood was silent and cold, ancient weirwoods standing like sentinels in the dark. The heart tree loomed before him, bone-white bark, blood-red leaves, that face carved deep. Watching. Judging.
He stood before it, breath steaming.
"Do you pray, Lord Bolton?"
Castor turned. Jon Snow stood at the edge of the clearing, looking uncertain.
"No," Castor said simply. "Do you?"
"Sometimes. When I don't know what else to do." Jon stepped closer, cautious.
"The gods don't seem to listen much."
"They don't. Either they're not there, or they don't care." Castor looked back at the tree. "I prefer to rely on myself."
Jon absorbed that, clearly unsure how to respond to such casual blasphemy. "You're... different from what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"A Bolton." Jon shrugged. "Cruel. Dangerous. Like the stories."
"I am dangerous," Castor said calmly. "Just not in the ways stories talk about. Cruelty for its own sake is wasteful. I prefer efficiency."
"That's still not reassuring."
"It's honest." Castor turned to face him fully. "You're a bastard. That means you understand what it's like when circumstances of birth limit you. I'm a Bolton. Same problem, different reason. Our ancestors' choices haunt us."
Jon looked surprised. "You're comparing being a Bolton to being a bastard?"
"Why not? Both mean people judge us before we speak. Both mean we have to work harder to prove ourselves." Castor tilted his head. "But here's what I've learned: circumstances don't define capability. What you do with what you're given—that's what matters."
"My father says something similar."
"Your father is a wise man. He sees worth where others see only circumstance." Castor paused deliberately.
"Not everyone is that generous."
Jon's face tightened. He knew exactly who Castor meant—Catelyn, who'd never accepted him, never would.
"Lady Stark has her reasons," Jon said quietly.
"I'm sure. But they're her reasons, not yours. You didn't choose to be born." Castor's voice was almost gentle.
"Never apologize for existing, Jon Snow. You're here. Make that mean something."
For a moment, Jon just stared at him. Then, hesitantly: "Thank you. That's... no one's ever put it like that."
"Most people don't think clearly about these things. They react emotionally." Castor smiled slightly. "I prefer logic."
They talked for a while longer—about training, about duty, about the Wall where bastards sometimes went to find purpose. Castor said all the right things, treating Jon with the respect the boy craved, making him feel seen and valued.
Another piece positioned on the board.
When Jon finally left, Castor stood alone in the godswood for a few minutes more, reviewing the day's work.
Ned: Impressed and cautiously hopeful.
Robb: Admiring and eager to learn.
Jon: Grateful for respect.
Sansa: Smitten in a childish way.
Catelyn: Suspicious but unable to articulate why.
All proceeding perfectly.
He returned to his chambers thinking about tomorrow. The oath ceremony. More conversations. More positioning.
And then the night took an unexpected turn.
***
Castor had sent Jeren to sleep in the servants' quarters—he wanted privacy. He'd bathed, changed into loose sleeping clothes, and was reviewing some papers by candlelight when he heard footsteps in the corridor outside.Light. Hesitant. Someone who shouldn't be there.The knock was soft, barely audible.Curious, Castor opened the door.
A girl stood there—young, maybe sixteen, dark hair, frightened eyes. She wore a servant's dress and clutched a bundle of linens like a shield.
"My lord," she whispered. "I—I brought fresh linens. For your bed."
At midnight. When he'd already been provided linens hours ago.
Castor smiled slightly. Someone had sent her. Probably the steward, trying to curry favor by offering the honored guest a warm body. Or perhaps she'd come on her own, hoping to catch a young lord's attention.
Either way, opportunity had arrived at his door.
"What's your name?" he asked quietly.
"Kyra, my lord."
"Come inside, Kyra."
She hesitated, then crossed the threshold. He closed the door behind her, barred it with deliberate slowness so she'd hear the finality of that sound.
She set the linens down with shaking hands. "I can just... I'll just change the bed and—"
"No." His voice was soft but absolute.
"You didn't come here to change linens at midnight."
She turned to face him, eyes wide. "My lord, I—"
"Who sent you? The steward? Or did you come yourself?"
Her face colored. "I... I heard the visiting lord was young and... and handsome, and I thought—"
"You thought you'd try your luck." He stepped closer, using his height to dominate the space. "Well. Here I am. Was I worth the risk?"
She couldn't seem to find words.
Castor circled her slowly, assessing. She wasn't beautiful—pretty enough, the way serving girls sometimes were, but nothing remarkable. Slim figure, small breasts, nervous energy. Young and foolish and here.
"Have you done this before?" he asked.
"No, my lord! I'm... I've never..."
"A maiden, then." He stopped in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. "Do you know what happens now, Kyra?"
She swallowed hard. "I... I thought you might... want..."
"I do want." His hand came up, traced her jaw. She trembled but didn't pull away.
"The question is whether you understand what you're offering."
"I just thought... a young lord might be... kind..."
"Kind." He smiled, and it wasn't kind at all. "Is that what you think I am?"
Before she could answer, he gripped her chin, forced her to keep looking at him. "Let me be clear. You came to my chambers at midnight. You're alone with me. The door is barred. If you scream, no one will come—Lord Stark's guests aren't disturbed for the cries of servants." He let that sink in.
"So we're going to do this. And you're going to be quiet and obedient. And tomorrow, you'll say nothing. Do you understand?"
Tears gathered in her eyes. "Please, my lord, I didn't mean—"
"Yes, you did. You came here hoping for something. Now you'll get exactly what you asked for."
He released her chin, gestured toward his bed. "Take off your dress."
"My lord—"
"Now."
Her hands shook as she unlaced her dress, let it fall. The shift beneath was thin, showed the outline of her body. He watched without expression as she hesitated, then pulled that off too.Naked, she tried to cover herself. He caught her wrists, pulled them down.
"Don't hide. I want to see what I'm getting."
She was shaking now, tears streaming silently. He examined her clinically—small breasts, narrow waist, the dark hair between her legs untouched by any man. Young and frightened and his.
"On your knees."
"Please—"
"On. Your. Knees."
She sank down, sobbing quietly. He unlaced his sleeping clothes, let them fall, and watched her eyes widen at the sight of his cock—already hard, thick, bigger than she'd probably imagined.
"Open your mouth."
"I don't know how—"
"You'll learn." He gripped her hair, guided her forward. "Just don't bite."
He fed his cock into her mouth slowly, feeling her gag and choke as he pushed deeper. She tried to pull back but he held her in place, forcing her to take it.
"Relax your throat," he commanded. "Breathe through your nose."
She tried, gagging again, tears and spit running down her chin. He didn't care. Just used her mouth rhythmically, not hard enough to make her vomit but enough to make her struggle.
"That's good," he said quietly. "See? You're learning already."
When her jaw was aching and her face was a mess, he pulled out, lifted her to her feet, and pushed her toward the bed.
"On your back. Spread your legs."
She climbed onto the bed, trembling, and obeyed because what choice did she have? He positioned himself between her thighs, looked down at her tear-stained face.
"This will hurt," he said, almost conversational. "You're a maiden. But it hurts less if you don't fight."
"Please don't—"
He pushed in anyway.
She screamed, muffled by his hand clamping over her mouth. He felt her maidenhead tear, felt blood slick his cock as he buried himself to the hilt. She sobbed beneath him, body rigid with pain.
"Shh," he said, still covering her mouth. "Quiet, or I'll make it worse."
He gave her a moment to adjust, then began to move. Slow thrusts at first, letting her stretch, feeling her walls clench around him. She whimpered with each stroke but didn't scream again.
"There," he murmured. "Not so bad, is it?"
It was a lie. It was clearly terrible for her. But he didn't care. He fucked her steadily, methodically, chasing his own pleasure while she lay beneath him crying.
When he was close, he pulled out, spent himself across her stomach and breasts, marking her with his seed.
She lay there, shaking and bleeding, staring at nothing.Castor stood, found a cloth, tossed it to her.
"Clean yourself."
She did, mechanical movements, still crying silently.He dressed, crossed to where his coin purse lay, pulled out two silver pieces, along with a coin bearing flayed man.
Dropped them on the bed beside her.
"One for your service. One for your silence. And this one it represents my ownership" He waited until she looked at him.
"You came here. You chose this. If you tell anyone—Lord Stark, anyone—I'll tell them you tried to seduce me for money. Who do you think they'll believe? The honored guest or a serving girl?"
Fresh tears spilled over, but she nodded.
"Get dressed. Leave. If I see you again, pretend you don't know me. Afterward follow the path to my host show that coin and climb into the wagon."
She gathered her clothes with shaking hands, dressed clumsily, and fled without looking back.Castor barred the door behind her, washed himself in the basin, and returned to bed.
Ned Stark's hospitality. So generous. Even provided entertainment without knowing it.
He fell asleep easily, dreamless and satisfied.
***
CHAPTER END