***
The pounding on the door came just past midnight. Urgent. Angry.
Castor had been half-expecting it. Catelyn Stark wasn't the type to let suspicions fester when she could confront them directly. Brave. Stupid, but brave.
He took his time answering. Let her knock twice more, let her stew in the hallway, wondering if he was asleep or deliberately making her wait. When he finally opened the door, he was shirtless, hair loose, looking exactly like a man roused from bed.
Catelyn stood there wrapped in a heavy cloak over her nightgown, face pale in the torchlight, blue eyes blazing with fury and fear.
"We need to talk," she hissed. "Now. Privately."
Castor glanced down the empty corridor, then stepped aside. "By all means, Lady Stark. Please, come in."
She swept past him into the chamber. He closed the door quietly, threw the bar with deliberate slowness. The sound of wood settling into iron brackets was loud in the silence—final, like a cell door closing.
She heard it. He saw her shoulders tense, saw her realize she'd just locked herself in a room with him.
Good.
The chamber was still warm from the dying hearth, shadows dancing on stone walls. His bed was rumpled from where he'd been lying, papers scattered on the desk, his clothes draped over a chair. Intimate. Private.
Catelyn turned to face him, pulling her cloak tighter like armor. "I know what you are."
"Do you?" He leaned against the door, arms crossed over his bare chest. "Tell me what I am, Lady Stark."
"A predator." Her voice shook slightly. "A Bolton through and through, dressed up in courtesy and gifts. I saw how you looked at my daughter tonight—"
"How did I look at her?"
"Like—" She struggled for words. "Like you were planning something. Like she was prey."
"I complimented her needlework and spoke respectfully about her interests." Castor tilted his head. "Is that predatory? Or are you seeing threats where none exist?"
"Don't patronize me." She took a step forward, anger overwhelming caution. "You want to marry her. You came here planning to manipulate my husband into offering you Sansa."
"And if I do?" He shrugged, the movement making muscles shift under pale skin. "Marriage alliances are how noble houses bind themselves together. Your own marriage to Ned was arranged for political purposes. Why is this different?"
"She's ten namedays —"
"And a betrothal now means marriage at fourteen or fifteen. Perfectly standard. You were, what, seventeen when you married Ned? Sansa would be older." His violet-grey eyes were calm, reasonable. "What's the real problem here, Lady Stark? That you don't trust me? Or that you know your husband might not listen to your concerns?"
Her face flushed—anger, frustration, something else. "Ned will listen to me."
"Will he?" Castor pushed off the door, began moving slowly toward her. "Or will he tell you you're being unfair? That old grudges need to end somewhere? That this young Bolton lord seems reformed, competent, exactly the kind of alliance the North needs?"
She backed up a step as he approached. "Stay back."
"You came to my chambers, Lady Stark. You wanted to talk. So talk." Another step. She retreated again. "Tell me what crime I've committed. What law I've broken. What offense I've given beyond being born a Bolton."
"I don't need proof to know what you are—"
"Yes, you do. That's exactly what you need." He kept advancing, slow and deliberate, herding her backward across the room. "Without proof, you just have instinct. Suspicion. And Ned Stark doesn't make decisions based on his wife's suspicions about honored guests."
Her back hit the wall. She jerked, surprised, and he was suddenly very close—close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes, close enough that she could see the slight smile playing at his lips.
"You can't stop this," he said softly. "You know it. That's why you're here. That's why you came alone, in the middle of the night, wearing your nightgown under that cloak." His gaze flicked down, back up. "That's why you're afraid."
"I'm not afraid of you." But her voice trembled.
"Liar." He braced one hand on the wall beside her head, caging her in without touching her. "You're terrified. Because you see exactly what I am, and you can't prove it to anyone who matters."
She tried to slide sideways along the wall. He mirrored her movement, blocking her path. Trapped.
"Let me go—"
"You came here to threaten me," Castor continued, voice low and almost gentle. "To warn me away from your daughter. To tell me that if I try anything, you'll—what? Tell Ned? Expose me? Ruin me somehow?"
Tears of frustration gathered in her eyes. "I'll make him see—"
"You'll try. And he'll pat your hand and tell you you're overreacting." His other hand came up, braced on the wall on her other side, fully caging her now. "He'll tell you that you're being unfair. That House Bolton deserves a chance. That his innocent daughter is in no danger from a polite young lord who spoke kindly to her at dinner."
"Stop—"
"And while you're arguing with him, while you're trying to explain instincts you can't articulate, I'll be positioning myself deeper into his trust. Into his household. Into his family." He leaned closer, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his bare skin. "By the time you convince him—if you ever do—it'll be too late. The betrothal will be signed. Sansa will be mine in everything but consummation. And you'll have to smile through it all."
A tear slipped down her cheek. "I hate you."
"Good. You should." His hand moved from the wall to her face, thumb brushing away that tear with shocking gentleness. She flinched but had nowhere to go. "Hate me all you want. It won't change anything."
"My husband—"
"Your husband wants to believe the best in people. It's his greatest strength and his fatal flaw." Castor's thumb traced along her jaw now, slow and deliberate. "And you? You want him to be right. You want to believe I'm wrong about this, that your instincts are mistaken, that everything will be fine."
"Take your hand off me." But she didn't try to move away.
"Why?" His voice dropped lower, intimate. "You came here. To my chambers. Alone. After midnight. If you wanted to stay safe, Lady Stark, you would have sent a guard with a message. You would have confronted me publicly. Instead, you came here." His thumb moved to her lower lip, pressed slightly. "Why is that?"
"I wanted to warn you privately—"
"You wanted to see." His other hand left the wall, found her waist through the cloak. She gasped. "You wanted to know if you were right. If I'm really as dangerous as your instincts scream that I am."
"No—"
"Yes." He pulled her away from the wall slightly, enough that he could move closer, enough that their bodies were almost touching. "And now you know. I am exactly what you feared. And there's nothing you can do about it."
She tried to push him away. He caught her wrists easily, slammed them back against the wall on either side of her head. She cried out—surprise more than pain—and suddenly they were pressed together, his bare chest against her cloak-wrapped body, faces inches apart.
"Let go—"
"No." He held her wrists pinned, watching her struggle uselessly. "You wanted to see the monster. Here I am."
"Ned will—"
"Ned will never know. Because you won't tell him." Castor leaned in, lips brushing her ear. "Want to know why?"
She was trembling now, full-body shakes. "Because you're going to tell him how I came here. How I dressed. How I was alone with you, and he'll wonder what his faithful wife was really doing in another man's chambers."
"You wouldn't—"
"Try me." He pulled back enough to look into her eyes. "I'm sixteen years old and already running one of the most powerful houses in the North. I've built roads and armies and innovations your husband never dreamed of. When I speak, people listen. When you accuse me? They'll ask why you were here. And what answer will you give that doesn't make you look guilty?"
Fresh tears spilled. "Please..."
"Please what? Please stop?" His grip on her wrists tightened slightly. "Please let you go back to your comfortable life where you pretend your husband's honor will protect you from everything?"
"Please don't hurt my daughter—"
"I'm not going to hurt her." Castor's voice was almost soothing. "I'm going to marry her. Bed her. Fill her with children who'll have both Stark and Bolton—and Targaryen—blood in their veins. She'll be the Lady of the Dreadfort, and she'll thank me for it. Because by the time I take her maidenhead, she'll be convinced it's love."
Catelyn sobbed, and he felt it through her whole body pressed against his.
"But you," he continued softly, "you'll know the truth. Every time you see us together, every time she smiles at me, every time she bears my children—you'll know exactly what I am. And you won't be able to say a word."
"I hate you," she whispered.
"I know." His mouth was very close to hers now. "But hatred isn't enough, is it? You need power to back it up. And you have none."
She tried to knee him. He shifted, blocked it, and in the struggle their faces ended up even closer. She was breathing hard, eyes wild, trapped like an animal.
And he kissed her.
She made an outraged sound, tried to bite, but he controlled it completely—one hand releasing her wrist to grip her hair, holding her head still, while his mouth claimed hers with brutal precision. His tongue forced past her lips, invading, dominating.
"Mmph—!" She tried to protest around the kiss, but it came out muffled and helpless.
She fought for maybe five seconds. Then something broke.
Her body went soft against his. Her mouth opened with a small surrendering sound—"mmm~"—and she kissed him back, desperate and furious. Her free hand came up and gripped his shoulder, nails digging in hard enough to leave crescents.
He released her other wrist and it fell to her side, didn't push him away, just hung there uselessly while she kissed him like she was drowning.
When he finally broke the kiss, they were both breathing hard. She stared at him with something like horror.
"No," she whispered. "No, I didn't—I wouldn't—"
"You did." He released her hair, and she didn't run. Just stood there, trembling. "Your body knows what it wants even if your mind won't admit it."
"You forced—"
"I kissed you. You kissed me back." His hand slid down to cup her breast through the nightgown under the cloak. She gasped, but again—didn't move away. Her nipple was hard under his palm. "See? Your body doesn't lie."
"This is wrong—"
"Everything about this is wrong." He squeezed gently, watched her eyes flutter. "But that's not stopping you, is it?"
"My husband—I love my husband—"
"I'm sure you do." His other hand found the clasp of her cloak, undid it. The heavy fabric fell to the floor with a soft sound. Now there was just thin nightgown between his hands and her skin. "But love and desire aren't always the same thing, are they?"
She was crying again, but she wasn't fighting. Just standing there while he touched her, while his hands explored her body through silk.
"When's the last time Ned touched you like this?" Castor asked softly. "Really touched you? Not dutiful coupling to make more heirs, but actually made you feel wanted?"
"Stop—ah! " She gasped when his hand cupped her breast, thumb circling the hardened nipple through fabric.
His other hand slid down her belly. "Your body is starving for this."
His hand reached the junction of her thighs, pressed firmly through the nightgown.
"Ahh~!" She couldn't stop the moan, hips jerking forward involuntarily.
"That's right." He rubbed slowly, feeling heat and wetness soaking through the fabric. Her breathing became ragged—"ah... ah... please..."
"Your body says yes." He increased the pressure and she moaned louder—
"Ahhh~ no, don't—mmm~"
"That's not—"
"Isn't it?" His hand pressed through the nightgown. She gasped, hips jerking forward involuntarily. "Your body is starving for this. For someone who sees you as something other than the mother of the Stark heirs. For someone who wants you, not your womb."
"Please..." But she wasn't asking him to stop. Her hips rolled against his hand, seeking more pressure.
"That's right." He rubbed slowly, feeling heat and wetness through the fabric. "Your mind says no. Your honor says no. Your love for Ned says no. But your body?" He increased the pressure and she moaned. "Your body says yes."
He backed her toward the bed, hands never leaving her body, keeping her off balance with touch and words and the sheer overwhelming presence of him. When the backs of her legs hit the bed frame, she stumbled. He caught her, lowered her down onto the furs.
"Don't," she sobbed, even as she lay back. "Please don't make me—"
"Make you?" He knelt over her, hands finding the hem of her nightgown. "I'm not making you do anything, Lady Catelyn. You came here. You stayed. You kissed me back. Every choice has been yours."
"You manipulated—"
"I offered. You accepted." He pulled the nightgown up slowly, revealing her legs, her thighs, the dark red hair between them. "Now you get to live with it."
He pulled the nightgown off completely. She lay naked beneath him, beautiful in the firelight—fuller-figured than the servant girl earlier, shaped by bearing children, pale skin marked here and there with silvery lines from pregnancy. A woman's body. A mother's body.
Ned Stark's wife's body.
And Castor was about to defile it in the very chambers Ned had provided as hospitality.
"You're beautiful," he said, and meant it. "Wasted on a man who only sees duty when he looks at you."
"Ned loves me—"
"I'm sure he does." Castor stripped off his own sleeping trousers, knelt between her legs. His cock stood hard and thick, and her eyes widened seeing it. "But I'm about to show you the difference between love and lust."
He spread her legs, positioned himself. She turned her face away, squeezing her eyes shut.
"Look at me," he commanded.
"No—"
"Look at me, Catelyn."
She did, reluctantly, and he held her gaze as he pushed inside.
She was wet—gods, so wet, despite everything, despite her protests and tears and hatred. Her body had betrayed her completely, and he slid in easily, filling her in one long slow thrust.
"Aaahhh~!" The cry tore from her throat—something between a sob and a moan as he filled her completely. Her back arched, hands flying to his shoulders. "Oh sevens—oh mother—"
She was wet—gods, so wet. He slid in deep, stretching her, and she made broken sounds with each inch—"ah~ no—mmm~ too much—ahh~"
"Feel that?" He stayed buried deep, letting her adjust to his size. "That's not force. That's not manipulation. That's your cunt welcoming me in because your body knows what it needs."
"Shut up—" She tried to turn her face away again.
He caught her jaw, held her facing him. "No. You're going to watch. You're going to feel every second of this. And tomorrow, when you see your husband across the breakfast table, you're going to remember what I did to you."
He began to move—slow, deep thrusts that made her gasp with each one. Not brutal like he'd been with Kyra, but deliberate, skillful, hitting angles that made her body respond despite her mind screaming.
"Ah~ no—ah~ I don't—ahh~" Each thrust punched little sounds from her lungs.
"Your body disagrees." He felt her walls clenching around him, felt the wetness increasing. "You're getting wetter with every thrust, Catelyn. Your cunt is squeezing me like it never wants to let go."
The wet sounds of their coupling filled the room—slick, slick, slick.
"Stop talking—"
"Why? Because it's true?" He picked up the pace slightly, watched her face contort. "Because you can lie to yourself in your head, but you can't lie to me when I'm inside you?"
His hand slid between them, found her pearl, began rubbing in slow circles. She cried out, back arching off the bed.
"There it is." He kept the rhythm steady—cock driving deep, fingers working her pearl. "That's what you needed. What Ned never gives you because he's too honorable to really learn what a woman wants."
"I hate you—I hate you—"
"Hate me all you want." He felt her getting close, felt her body tightening. "But you're about to come on my cock anyway."
"No—" But her hips were moving now, rising to meet his thrusts, seeking more.
"Yes." He increased the pressure on her pearl, thrust harder. "Come for me, Catelyn. Show me what a faithful wife looks like when she betrays everything she believes in."
"AHHH~!" She cried out, back arching sharply off the bed. "Oh—oh sevens—no—"
"There it is." He kept the rhythm steady. "That's what you needed."
"Ah-ah-ah~" Short, sharp gasps with every thrust now. "Please—ahh~—I can't—mmm~—oh sevens—"
"Nya~" She shattered with a wail, body convulsing, walls clamping down on him so hard it almost hurt. He watched her face as she came—watched the pleasure and shame and horror all mixed together, watched her dissolve into sensation despite everything.
He kept moving through her orgasm, didn't let her come down, just drove her higher. She was sobbing and moaning at the same time, hands clutching at the furs, at his shoulders, not sure if she was trying to push him away or pull him closer.
"Again," he commanded, fingers still working. "Come again."
"I can't—too much—"
"You can." And he proved it, bringing her over the edge a second time while she screamed.
"No—no—I don't—ahh~—I can't—AHHH~!"
She shattered with a wail—"AAAHHHHH~!"—body convulsing, walls clamping down on him. Her voice broke into helpless sounds: "Ah~! Ah~! Mmm~! Oh~! "
He watched her face as she came, kept thrusting through it. She was sobbing and moaning simultaneously—"hahh~ oh sevens ~ahh~ what have I—mmm~"
"Again," he commanded, fingers still working her oversensitive pearl.
"Too much~! I can't—ahh~! Please—nnh~!"
"You can."
"AHHH~! OH~! SEVENS~!" She screamed the second time, louder, body thrashing beneath him. "Yes~! No~! Ahh-ahh-ahh~!" Her words dissolved into incoherent moaning.
Only then did he let himself go—"Fuck~"—burying deep, cock pulsing inside her.
She felt it, made a broken sound: "Oh~ no—mmm~—you're—ahh~—inside—"
"Haa~" He groaned, grinding deep, making sure every drop filled her. The wet sounds of his seed flooding her were obscene in the quiet room.
She sobbed quietly, little helpless sounds: "hahh~... hahh~..." as she felt him marking her completely.
He stayed inside her for a long moment, both of them breathing hard, sweat-slicked skin pressed together. Then he pulled out slowly, watched his seed leak from her onto Ned Stark's furs.
She lay there, destroyed, staring at the ceiling with empty eyes.
Castor rose, found a cloth, cleaned himself with calm efficiency. Then he dressed, every movement deliberate, while she lay motionless on his bed.
"Get up," he said finally. "Get dressed."
She moved like a puppet, mechanical, pulling her nightgown over her head with shaking hands. Her face was blank, shock setting in.
He picked up her cloak, draped it over her shoulders. His hands rested there for a moment.
"You'll say nothing," he said quietly. "Because if you do, I'll tell Ned you came here willingly. That you propositioned me. That you confessed you were unhappy in your marriage and sought comfort elsewhere." He leaned close, lips near her ear.
"He'll believe me. Because why else would his honorable wife be in another man's chambers after midnight? Why else would she have come alone?"
Fresh tears slipped down her cheeks silently.
"And even if he didn't believe me—even if he took your side—what then? A scandal. Whispers. Every lord in the North knowing that Ned Stark's wife was alone with a young visiting lord. Your daughters would grow up hearing about it. Your sons would defend your honor in fights and duels. Your family would be destroyed by the questions, even if you told the truth."
She was trembling violently now.
"So you'll say nothing. Tomorrow at breakfast, you'll smile. You'll be the perfect lady. And when Ned asks your opinion of me, you'll tell him what a fine young lord I am. You'll support the betrothal when he proposes it. You'll help convince Sansa that it's a good match." He turned her to face him, lifted her chin.
"Won't you?"
She nodded, barely, defeated utterly.
"Good girl." He almost sounded affectionate. "Now go. Back to your chambers. Wash. Change your nightgown—it smells like sex. Climb into bed beside your husband and pretend to sleep. And in the morning, we'll all pretend this never happened."
She stumbled to the door. He unbarred it, opened it, checked the corridor. Empty. Everyone asleep, as they should be.
Catelyn fled without looking back, cloak billowing behind her.
Castor closed the door, barred it again, and returned to bed.
He could still smell her on the sheets—perfume and sweat and the musk of sex. He'd just fucked Ned Stark's wife in Ned Stark's castle, in chambers Ned had provided as hospitality. And tomorrow, Ned would thank him for being such a gracious guest.
Perfect.
Castor lay back, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling with satisfaction.
Lady Catelyn Stark—proud, protective, fiercely loyal—was now thoroughly compromised. She'd spend the next few days in silent terror, waiting for him to expose her, complying with everything to buy his silence. By the time she realized he'd made her complicit in her own daughter's betrothal, it would be far too late.
First the wife. Soon the daughter. And Ned would hand them both over with his blessing.
The North would be his. Not through conquest. Not through the old Bolton way of terror and flaying.
Through seduction. Through corruption. Through making them all complicit in their own destruction.
And they'd thank him for it.
He fell asleep smiling, dreamless and satisfied, already planning tomorrow's moves.
The game was proceeding perfectly.
***
CHAPTER END