***
The shield wall broke on the third attempt.
Castor watched from the observation platform as the leftmost section collapsed—three recruits losing cohesion, the ripple effect spreading through the formation like a crack in ice. Shields separated, spacing went wrong, and suddenly there were gaps that would get men killed in actual battle.
"HALT!" Hareth's roar carried across the training yard.
Eight hundred men stopped. Some were breathing hard after thirty seconds of maintaining formation. Others barely winded—the core two hundred who'd been drilling for four months now and could hold position in their sleep.
Still not good enough. Need them holding formations for hours, not seconds. Real battles don't pause for tired soldiers.
"Again!" Hareth stalked along the broken formation, pointing at the recruits who'd failed. "You three! What happened?"
"Got tired, sergeant." The speaker was maybe eighteen, face red from exertion and now fear.
"Tired." Hareth's voice dripped contempt. "The enemy don't care if you're tired. They care that you just left a gap big enough to drive a spear through. Which means you're dead, and so are the five men around you. Tired dead. Congratulations."
The recruit flinched. His companions looked equally miserable.
Castor descended from the platform and walked toward the formation. Men straightened when they noticed, trying to look more professional under their lord's eye.
"Let me see your stance," Castor said to the recruit who'd spoken.
The kid set his shield, trying to look proper. His weight was wrong—too far forward, back foot barely planted. First solid hit would knock him over.
"Shift back." Castor used his boot to tap the recruit's rear foot. "More weight here. You're not charging, you're holding. Let the shield take impact, not your body."
The recruit adjusted. Better, but still tense.
"Relax your grip. You're strangling the shield." Castor demonstrated with his own hand, loose but controlled. "Tight grip burns your strength in minutes. You need to last."
Three more adjustments to stance, shield angle, sword position. The recruit looked less likely to immediately die now.
Castor moved down the line, correcting six more men. Small things—foot placement, shield height, how they held their weight. Details that seemed minor but meant everything when you were trying to hold formation under pressure.
"Reform!" Hareth bellowed. "And this time hold it properly or you're all running the walls until dark!"
The threat worked. Men set shields with renewed focus, locked formation tighter, braced properly.
"ADVANCE!"
Eight hundred men moved forward as one mass. The sound was impressive—boots on packed earth, armor creaking, shields maintaining contact. Not perfect, but better than three months ago when they could barely walk in step.
Walton appeared beside Castor, armor dusty from working with the cavalry recruits in the adjacent field. "They're improving, m'lord. Slowly, but improving."
"How's the mounted archery going?"
Walton's expression soured. "Half can't shoot straight from horseback. Other half can't control their mounts while nocking arrows. It's a mess."
"Keep at it. The ones who can't learn go back to infantry." Castor watched his shield wall wheel left, the rightmost edge becoming an anchor point while the formation pivoted ninety degrees.
Sloppy, but they managed it without breaking. "We need cavalry who can actually fight mounted, not just ride horses while carrying weapons."
"Aye, m'lord." Walton paused. "The men are asking about Winterfell. When you'll visit next."
Right. The betrothal. Two months since it was formalized and I haven't been back. Probably should make an appearance eventually. Play the dutiful betrothed.
"When there's time. Have to balance courting with actually running the lands."
"Some are wondering if the Stark alliance means we'll be expected to contribute more when Lord Stark calls banners."
"It means we need to be ready for whatever's asked." Castor gestured at the drilling troops. "That's why we're doing this. So Bolton forces are actually worth having in a fight."
And when everything goes to shit in a few years, I'll have an actual army instead of farmers with sticks.
Ben Bones approached from the kennels, looking uncomfortable as always when dealing with human training rather than dogs. "M'lord, about the... the quiet ones."
The assassins. Twenty men training separately in less visible ways.
"What about them?"
"They're asking for live practice. Say they need actual targets to test what they've learned." Ben's voice dropped lower. "Real targets."
Live training. Meaning people to kill for practice.
"Use prisoners. Anyone sentenced to death for serious crimes—rape, murder, desertion. Make them useful before they hang." Castor kept his tone matter-of-fact. "Coordinate with the dungeons. And keep it quiet."
"Aye, m'lord."
The shield wall was holding formation now, advancing steadily across the field. Hareth had them practice defensive positions—square formation, all shields outward, bristling with spears. Designed to stop cavalry charges.
This would actually work. Put this on a battlefield against typical Northern fighters charging individually for glory, and it would grind them down systematically.
A runner appeared from the castle—one of the younger servants, breathless from sprinting. "M'lord! Maester Tybald says there's ravens from Winterfell. Three of them."
Three ravens. That's unusual. Something important or just Ned being thorough about correspondence.
"Hareth! Keep drilling them! Another hour before they rest!" Castor headed toward the castle at a quick walk.
The maester's tower was warm, cluttered with books and scrolls and the smell of ink. Tybald looked up from his desk when Castor entered, grey beard quivering slightly.
"My lord, correspondence from Winterfell. Lord Stark writes personally." The maester handed over three sealed messages. "Each marked for your attention."
Castor broke the first seal. Ned's handwriting, neat and clear:
Lord Bolton,
I write regarding your betrothal to my daughter Sansa. Two months have passed since the formal agreement, and Lady Catelyn reminds me that proper courtship requires regular contact and visits. While I understand your duties at the Dreadfort occupy much of your time, Sansa asks after you frequently.
The Harvest Festival approaches in three months' time. I request your presence at Winterfell for the celebrations. It would be good for you both to spend time together, to know each other better as is proper before marriage. Sansa grows more beautiful and graceful each day—you will be well pleased with your future wife.
Lord Eddard Stark
The second letter was in different handwriting—careful, practiced, the letters formed with obvious care:
Lord Castor,
Father says I may write to you directly now that we are betrothed. I hope this letter finds you well and that the Dreadfort prospers under your lordship.
I have been practicing my needlework and my septa says I am improving. I am reading about the history of House Bolton from Maester Luwin's books. It is very interesting learning about your house and our shared Northern heritage.
I hope you will visit for the Harvest Festival. I would like to know you better and hear about the Dreadfort. Father speaks well of you and says you are a good lord who cares for his people.
Your betrothed,
Lady Sansa Stark
The third was shorter, from Catelyn:
Lord Bolton,
My daughter asks after you often. A young girl's heart is tender and uncertainty weighs heavy. Your presence at Winterfell would ease her mind and demonstrate the seriousness with which you regard this union.
Lady Catelyn Stark
Well fuck.
Can't ignore this without looking like I don't care about the betrothal. And Catelyn writing means she's playing her role—concerned mother making sure the betrothed lord isn't neglecting her daughter. Good performance on her part.
"My lord?" Tybald was watching him carefully. "Shall I prepare responses?"
"Yes. Tell Lord Stark I'll attend the Harvest Festival. Apologize for the delay—duties required my attention here but I'm pleased to visit Winterfell again." Castor set the letters down. "Prepare a separate letter to Lady Sansa. Something appropriate."
"What shall I write to the young lady, my lord?"
No fucking idea. What do you write to a ten-year-old you're supposed to marry in four years? Can't be too forward, can't be cold either. Need to sound... appropriate.
"Say I'm honored by her letter and pleased she's learning about Bolton history. Mention I look forward to seeing her at the festival and hearing about her studies." Castor paused.
"Keep it proper. Nothing that could be misinterpreted."
"Of course, my lord. And Lady Catelyn's letter?"
"Brief response. Thank her for her concern and assure her I regard the betrothal with appropriate seriousness."
Appropriate seriousness. That's one way to describe violating her and then forcing her to support marrying me to her daughter. Politics is fun.
Tybald began writing, his quill scratching across parchment. Castor watched for a moment, then headed back outside.
The training yard was still active—men drilling, Hareth shouting corrections, the organized chaos of military preparation. Castor found Jeren near the weapons racks, inspecting newly forged swords.
"Need to talk," Castor said quietly.
They walked away from listening ears, toward the stables where conversations wouldn't be overheard.
"Winterfell visit in three months," Castor said. "Harvest Festival. Can't avoid it without insulting the Starks."
"How long will you be gone?"
"Week, maybe two. Depends on how much courting theater is required."
And when Catelyn expects me in her chambers again. That would be delightful.
"You'll manage operations here while I'm gone. Normal protocols—keep production steady, maintain training schedules, nothing dramatic."
"The gold mine?"
"Continues as usual. The workshops too. Everything runs on established schedules—no reason to change anything just because I'm visiting the in-laws."
Jeren nodded. "What about security? Taking guards?"
"Small escort. Maybe twenty men. Enough to look proper without seeming aggressive." Castor considered. "Actually, might bring some of the better-trained troops. Show them off a bit, let Ned see Bolton men are well disciplined. Makes the alliance look stronger."
"Playing politics."
"Always playing politics. That's what being a lord means—performing for audiences while actually running operations they never see."
They discussed logistics for a few more minutes—who would command in Castor's absence, how to handle any issues that arose, communication protocols. Standard delegation.
When Jeren left, Castor stood alone in the stable yard, thinking.
Three months until Winterfell. Need to bring appropriate gifts for Sansa—something that shows attention and care without being inappropriate. Maybe fine fabrics? Jewelry?
And Catelyn. That's the complicated part. She's been playing her role perfectly—supportive mother, concerned about her daughter's betrothed. But underneath that, she's terrified and complicit and probably conflicted as hell.
But I am sure as hell she is corrupted.
He shook his head, pushing the thoughts aside. Three months to figure it out.
Back in the training yard, Hareth was running the troops through final drills. The sun was descending, shadows lengthening. Men were exhausted but still moving, still maintaining formation.
"HALT! DISMISSED!"
Eight hundred men broke formation with visible relief, heading toward barracks and water and rest.
Hareth approached, wiping sweat from his scarred face. "They're getting better, m'lord. Give them another three months and they'll be sharp."
"They need to be. I want fifty of the best ready for travel in three months. We're going to Winterfell."
"What for, m'lord?"
"Festival. And courting. Have to play the dutiful betrothed." Castor gestured at the troops heading to barracks. "Pick the fifty best—men who look professional and can conduct themselves properly around other lords. This is about presentation as much as capability."
"Understood, m'lord."
That evening in his solar, Castor sat with wine and maps and letters from Winterfell.
Political theater.
That's all this is.
Visit Winterfell, spend time with Sansa, show Ned I'm taking the betrothal seriously. Make nice with Northern lords at the festival. Build relationships and alliances.
Meanwhile, operations here continue. Gold production, coin minting, document forging, military expansion. All the shit that actually matters keeps running while I play courtship games.
That's the advantage. Everyone sees the performance—dutiful young lord courting his Stark bride. Nobody sees the systems building underneath. By the time they realize what Bolton actually is, it'll be too late to stop.
He raised his wine cup to the empty room.
To politics. To performance. To everyone believing what they see while missing what's real.
The wine was good. The future was better.
And in three months, he'd go to Winterfell and play his part perfectly.
***
CHAPTER END