***
The eastern courtyard was separate from the main training grounds.
Most soldiers never came here. This space was reserved for different training—the kind that didn't involve shield walls or formation drilling. The kind that happened in shadows and ended with quiet deaths.
Twenty-three men and women trained here. They wore grey—not Bolton pink, but neutral colors that blended with stone and fog and shadow. They moved differently than regular soldiers. Quieter. More deliberate. Like predators stalking prey rather than warriors seeking glory.
The Flayed Hand. My personal collection of accidents waiting to happen to people who displease me.
Castor watched from the colonnade as they practiced. Ben Bones supervised, correcting technique with the same attention he gave to training hounds. Which was appropriate—these weren't soldiers, they were hunting dogs in human form. Tools designed for specific purposes.
One figure moved through a climbing exercise—ascending the twenty-foot stone wall using minimal handholds, body pressed flat against rough surface. His fingers found cracks invisible from more than a foot away, toes wedging into gaps barely wide enough for purchase. He reached the top in heartbeats, absolutely silent despite the speed.
"Mors!" Ben called up. "Again. You shifted weight wrong halfway up—left foot scraped stone. Anyone watching would've heard it."
The climber—Mors, mid-twenties with a wiry build that seemed made of leather and sinew—descended with the same impossible grace. Fingers and toes finding holds, controlling his descent so smoothly it looked effortless. At the bottom he reset, studied the wall for a moment, then climbed again.
This time perfect. No sound, no visible effort, no wasted movement. Just smooth upward progress like a spider ascending its web. At the top he paused, then dropped—a controlled fifteen-foot fall that he rolled through, coming up in a crouch with a blade already in hand.
"Better," Ben grunted. "But that roll made noise. Again."
Mors climbed once more without complaint.
Useful. Can get into any room, over any wall, through any window. Perfect for infiltration when doors are watched. How many lords sleep thinking their high tower chambers are safe?
Castor descended the steps into the courtyard proper. The assassins noticed immediately—some straightening to attention, others going absolutely still like prey animals sensing a predator. They hadn't lost that survival instinct. Good. The moment they stopped being afraid was the moment they became useless.
"Continue training," Castor said, voice carrying across stone. "I'm observing, not interrupting."
They resumed their work, but with added focus. Performing for their lord's eye now, each movement sharper, more precise. Competition for approval without being told to compete. Also good—meant they cared about excelling.
A woman worked at a table in the corner, surface covered with small vials, dried herbs, mortars and pestles, and what looked like a makeshift alchemist's setup. She wore thick leather gloves while grinding something dark and fibrous with careful, measured motions. Her plain features—forgettable face, mousy brown hair, unremarkable build—made her look like any servant girl in any castle kitchen.
Perfect camouflage. Nobody notices the plain ones. They're invisible.
"Dalla," Ben said quietly as Castor approached the worktable. "Worked as a healer's assistant in one of the villages before we found her. Learned which plants cure and which kill. We've been... expanding her education in the latter category."
Dalla looked up from her work, grey eyes flat and emotionless as winter sky. No fear, no excitement, no reaction at all to her lord's presence. Just acknowledgment.
"M'lord." Her voice was soft, unremarkable, the kind of voice you'd forget immediately after hearing. Another form of camouflage.
"Show me what you're working on," Castor said, leaning over the table but careful not to touch anything. Poison crafters didn't set up workstations where accidental contact was safe.
She gestured at three vials filled with dark liquid. "Widow's blood extract mixed with nightshade and a binding agent. Three drops in wine causes heart failure within the hour. Symptoms match a man's heart giving out—chest pain, difficulty breathing, then collapse. Looks natural. Maesters would call it a weak heart finally failing."
"Four drops?" Castor asked.
"Faster. Death in half an hour, but symptoms are more severe—vomiting, convulsions. Still could pass as natural illness, but draws more attention. Riskier." She indicated another vial. "Five drops and they die screaming, shitting themselves, bleeding from eyes and nose. Defeats the purpose entirely—that's obviously poison and invites investigation."
"Testing methodology?"
"Prisoners in the dungeons." Her tone didn't change, still that flat unremarkable cadence. "Lord Bolton provides subjects sentenced to death. I test dosages, document symptom progression, time to death, physical reactions. Everything recorded."
She opened a leather journal, pages filled with neat handwriting and detailed sketches. Castor flipped through it—clinical notes describing men dying in various ways, drawn diagrams of plants with annotations about which parts contained which toxins, tables comparing effectiveness of different preparations.
This is scientific method applied to murder. She's treating assassination like a craft to be perfected through experimentation and documentation.
"Current project?" he asked, gesturing at what she was grinding.
"Contact poison. Absorbed through skin rather than ingested." Dalla's gloved hands continued their steady work, crushing dried leaves into fine powder. "Coat a door handle, a cup rim, the inside of gloves, anywhere someone touches regularly. Poison transfers to skin, enters through small cuts or just absorption over time. Death comes days later—far enough removed that there's no obvious connection to the source."
"Drawbacks?"
"Dosage is harder to control. Too little and target just gets sick. Too much and the poison is detectable—residue on surfaces, unusual symptoms that raise questions." She mixed the powder with a clear liquid, creating a paste. "Also risky for the user. Must be extremely careful during application. One mistake and you poison yourself."
"Have you made mistakes?"
"Three." She said it without shame or hesitation. "First time, didn't wear proper gloves. Absorbed trace amounts, was sick for two days. Learned from that.
Second time, dosage was wrong—target died too obviously, attracted attention.
Third time, binding agent was improper and the poison degraded too quickly, became ineffective. Refined the formula. Works properly now."
Castor studied her while she worked. No tremor in her hands, no hesitation, no moral conflict visible in her expression. She talked about killing the way cooks discussed recipes.
"Any limitations I should know about?"
"Time is the main factor. Ingested poisons act within hours. Contact poisons take days—sometimes a full sevennight depending on dosage and the target's health. Can't use them when you need immediate results." She sealed one of the vials carefully.
"Also, some people have natural resistance. Rare, but happens. A man who's been taking small doses of poison deliberately—building tolerance—might survive what would kill a normal person."
Mithridatism. The old technique of deliberately poisoning yourself in small doses to build immunity. Smart lords do it, paranoid ones definitely do it.
"Good work. Continue developing the contact poisons—those have the most strategic value. A target dying a sevennight after we touch them, with no trace back to the source, is perfect assassination." Castor gestured at her journal.
"And keep documenting everything. If something happens to you, I want another poisoner able to continue your work from these notes."
"Yes, m'lord."
Across the courtyard, two men sparred with short blades. Not the sweeping cuts of proper sword fighting, but quick brutal strikes—kidney stabs, throat slashes, armpit thrusts where armor didn't protect. Killing blows designed to end fights in heartbeats rather than minutes.
One fighter moved like water—smooth, efficient, economical. Every motion served purpose. He deflected his opponent's blade with minimal force, redirecting rather than blocking, then his own knife was against the other man's throat in one flowing motion.
"Dead," he said quietly, pulling the blade back.
"Fuck." His sparring partner—younger, maybe nineteen—stepped away frustrated. "How do you do that? I'm faster than you."
"Speed doesn't matter if you're predictable." The winner—thirties, average height, completely unremarkable appearance aside from a scar along his jawline—reset his stance. "Again. This time, stop thinking like a soldier."
"What do you mean?"
"Soldiers think about honor, fair combat, proving themselves. You're thinking 'how do I win this fight?' Wrong question." The older man's voice was patient but firm. "Ask instead: 'how do I kill this man as quickly as possible with minimum risk to myself?' There's no fair in murder. Just alive or dead."
Ben stepped closer to Castor, voice low.
"Ryk. Former smuggler from White Harbor. Killed six men before he was twenty—four in self-defense during deals gone wrong, two as paid work. We recruited him from the dungeons after he was sentenced to the Wall for cutting a merchant's throat."
Recruited from death row. Gave him purpose instead of punishment. Now he's alive because I chose to use him rather than discard him. That creates loyalty.
Castor approached the sparring area. Ryk noticed immediately, straightened slightly but didn't bow or grovel. Just acknowledged with a nod—respectful but not servile.
"You're teaching the others," Castor observed.
"Aye, m'lord. Most of these cunts know how to fight—street brawls, bar fights, some even have proper combat training. But they don't know how to kill quiet. There's a big difference." Ryk's voice carried White Harbor's rougher accent, words clipped and practical. "A soldier wants to win the fight, prove he's better than his opponent. An assassin just wants the target dead before they realize there's a fight happening."
"Demonstrate. Pretend I'm your target."
Ryk hesitated, uncertainty crossing his face. "M'lord, I'd rather not—"
"I'm ordering you. Show me how you'd kill me if I were your mark. Explain your thinking."
The courtyard went quiet. Other assassins stopped their training to watch, uncertain whether this was a test or a genuine order. Probably both.
Ryk studied Castor for a long moment, eyes assessing with professional detachment. Then he began to move—not attacking, but circling slowly, evaluating from different angles.
"If you were a target, m'lord, I wouldn't approach direct like this. You're young, strong, trained—I can see it in how you stand, how you move. Frontal assault is too risky. Even if I win, I might get hurt, and injuries slow escape." He continued circling, maintaining distance. "So I'd wait until you're vulnerable. Privy, bath, sleeping. Somewhere private where guards aren't watching close and you're not prepared for attack."
He moved behind Castor now, miming the approach without actually touching. "Come from behind. Garrote, not blade—faster, quieter, no blood spray to clean up or get on my clothes. Loop around throat, pull tight, maintain pressure. You'd have maybe ten seconds of consciousness to fight before you black out, another thirty seconds after that before death. During those ten seconds while you're fighting, I'm using my body weight to control yours—pulling backward, keeping you off balance so you can't leverage your strength advantage."
Ryk stepped back, demonstrating the positioning. "If garrote fails or isn't available—blade under the ribs, angled up toward the heart. Quick death, relatively quiet if you cover the mouth. Or throat if I need absolutely certain and don't care about blood. Throat cut bleeds everywhere, makes a mess, but it's guaranteed."
"What about escape afterward?"
"Depends entirely on location." Ryk's expression was focused, analytical. "If it's a castle, I've already mapped exits and patrol patterns before attempting the kill. Know which corridors are watched, which ones aren't, when guards change shift. If it's public—tavern, market, street—I blend into the crowd immediately. Don't run, just walk like nothing happened. Running attracts attention, makes people look at you, remember your face. Calm man walking away from a body isn't suspicious until someone screams. By then you're three streets over, changed your cloak, lost in normal city traffic."
Tactical. Methodical. He's thought through every aspect of the process. This isn't theory—he's actually done this multiple times and learned from experience.
"Body disposal?" Castor asked.
"If possible, arrange it so the body isn't found immediately. Gives you time to establish distance and alibi. Closet, locked room, somewhere people won't check right away. If it needs to look like an accident—fall from height, drowning, fire—stage it appropriately. Takes more time and planning but reduces investigation afterward." Ryk paused.
"Hardest part isn't the killing, m'lord. It's the preparation and escape. The actual murder is seconds. Everything before and after determines whether you get caught."
Castor nodded slowly. "Now tell me—why are you loyal to me? I pulled you from a dungeon cell where you were awaiting transport to the Wall. That doesn't guarantee loyalty, just temporary gratitude. Gratitude fades. So why haven't you run? Why haven't you turned on me?"
Ryk met his eyes directly. No flinching, no looking away, but no challenge either. Just honest answer. "Because you gave me a choice, m'lord. Could've sent me to the Wall—miserable frozen death watching for things that don't exist.
Could've executed me—just another criminal getting what he deserved. Instead, you offered purpose. You said 'You're good at killing—work for me and that skill has value instead of just being a crime.' Made me valuable instead of disposable."
He gestured at the training courtyard, the other assassins. "At the Wall, I'd be nobody. Just another black brother freezing his cock off. Here, I'm training the next generation of the Flayed Hand. I matter. What I know matters. That's worth more than freedom, because freedom without purpose is just waiting to die."
"And if someone offers you more gold to betray me?"
Ryk's smile was cold, didn't reach his eyes. "Then they fundamentally misunderstand what motivates loyalty. Gold buys service—temporary, conditional, lasting only as long as someone else doesn't offer more.
You gave me identity. I'm not just a murderer anymore, not just a smuggler who cut one too many throats. I'm the Flayed Hand. Part of something larger, something that will outlast me. That's worth infinitely more than gold."
Perfect answer. And probably genuine—the ones who find meaning in service are far more reliable than the ones motivated purely by coin.
Money can be outbid. Purpose can't.
Castor turned to address all the assembled assassins, voice carrying across the courtyard. "You twenty-three are not soldiers. Soldiers fight on battlefields for glory and honor. They charge enemy lines with banners flying, seeking fame and stories. That's not you."
He let the words settle. "You work in shadows for results. Every major Northern house will have at least one of you within two years—servants, craftsmen, merchants, travelers. Roles that let you observe and act without arousing suspicion. You'll be invisible. Forgettable. Beneath notice."
Several assassins nodded understanding.
"Your missions are intelligence first, assassination second. I need to know what lords are planning, who's loyal to who, what weaknesses exist. Who's fucking who, who owes money to who, who has secrets they'd kill to protect. Information is more valuable than bodies in most cases. Kill only when ordered or when absolutely necessary to protect your cover."
Castor's voice went colder. "If killing is required, it must look natural or accidental. Heart failure, falling from horses, drowning while drunk, caught in fires. No dramatic murders that create investigations. No obvious assassinations that make people ask questions. Just quiet deaths that raise no suspicion and point nowhere. Understood?"
Murmured agreements from the assembled killers.
Mors spoke up from where he stood near the climbing wall, voice rough and gravelly. "What happens if we're caught, m'lord? If someone discovers what we are?"
"Then you were acting alone—a rogue criminal with no connection to House Bolton. I will deny all knowledge of you. Your family will be quietly compensated for your 'tragic loss,' but I will not risk exposing this operation to save one agent." Castor's tone was absolutely flat, emotionless.
"You accept that risk when you take this role. If you can't accept it, leave now. No shame, no punishment. Just return to regular service."
Nobody moved. They'd all made their choice already.
"Good. Ben, continue their training. I want them ready to deploy within three moons. Start with minor houses—Dustin, Cerwyn, Hornwood. Practice on easier targets before attempting Karhold or Last Hearth where security is tighter."
"Aye, m'lord," Ben said. "They'll be ready."
Castor left them to their deadly education.
Behind him, Dalla returned to grinding poisons with gloved hands.
Mors climbed walls in perfect silence.
Ryk taught throat-cutting techniques to attentive students. Twenty-three shadows learning to be accidents, disasters, quiet deaths that looked like misfortune.
The army everyone sees drilling in the main yard—that's intimidation and battlefield strength.
These are the real weapon.
Information gathering and quiet elimination.
By the time anyone realizes Bolton has eyes and knives everywhere, it'll be far too late to stop it.
He smiled in the cold afternoon light.
The machine was growing.
***
CHAPTER END