***
The courtyard was empty when Castor returned after the hour of bat.
Training had ended. Soldiers ate in the barracks, their voices carrying faintly across cold stone. The assassins had vanished into whatever corners they occupied. Guards walked their routes on the walls, torches marking progress. The Dreadfort settled into evening rhythms—quieter, darker, more his.
Castor stood alone in the center of the yard, breath misting. Above, stars appeared between clouds. He closed his eyes and reached out with that sense he still couldn't fully name. The gift. The thing that made him different.
Come to me.
Something answered. A presence circling in darkness above, drawn by his will like iron to lodestone. Wings cutting through cold air, sharp eyes seeing heat on stone. Thoughts that weren't words—just hunger and instinct and the endless search for food.
The raven descended in a tight spiral, landing on the stone edge of the well with a flutter of black feathers. It cocked its head, regarding him with one obsidian eye that caught torchlight.
Castor approached slowly. The bird watched but didn't flee. They'd done this enough times now that it recognized him, associated his presence with safety rather than threat. Building familiarity was the foundation. Trust came later, if at all.
He extended his hand. The raven hopped onto his leather glove, talons gripping. Its weight was negligible, body hollow-boned and built for flight. It made a soft croaking sound—acknowledgment, not speech.
Castor stroked the bird's back with one finger, feeling sleek feathers, the rapid heartbeat underneath. The raven tolerated the touch. More than tolerated—it leaned into the contact slightly, enjoying it.
Good. Now let's see what you can show me.
He took a breath, centered himself, and pushed.
His consciousness pressed against the raven's mind like a hand against a door. There was resistance—instinctive rejection, the animal's sense of self defending against foreign intrusion. He didn't force it. Forcing led to panic, to shattering. Instead he coaxed, finding the gaps in awareness, sliding in like water through cracks.
The world lurched.
For a heartbeat Castor existed in both places—standing in the courtyard AND perched on his own hand, seeing himself from outside while simultaneously seeing the raven from within. The duality was nauseating, impossible to maintain.
Then the human body faded.
***
[RAVEN]
Castor was the raven.
The shift was total. His human form stood motionless in the courtyard below, eyes rolled back to whites, barely breathing. But his consciousness was HERE, in this small light body with its alien senses.
Vision sharpened immediately—movement stood out with crystal clarity. Every flickering torch, every rat scurrying along the walls, visible in perfect detail. But colors were muted, washed to variations of grey and blue. The world looked different through these eyes. Flatter in some ways, sharper in others.
Smell was less important but still present. Blood from the kitchens where they'd butchered pigs. Wood smoke. Cold stone. Night air carrying scents of the village beyond the walls.
And the hunger. Gods, the constant gnawing hunger that never went away. The raven had eaten twice today but its metabolism burned fast. Always hungry. Always searching for the next meal.
Fly
Castor spread wings—HIS wings—and launched from the leather glove. Three powerful downstrokes and he was airborne, climbing away from the frozen human body below. Wind caught under his primaries, lifting him higher with each wingbeat.
The sensation was intoxicating.
This wasn't riding something that flew. This WAS flight. Every adjustment of wings and tail, every shift in air currents, the constant dance of staying aloft—it was instinctive and perfect. The raven's body knew exactly what to do. He just had to direct where they went.
The castle. Show me what happens when people think they're alone.
Castor circled upward on a thermal rising from warm stones, then glided toward the castle proper. The walls rose massive and dark, windows glowing with firelight. He landed on a third-floor ledge, talons gripping stone.
Inside, lamplight revealed a room he knew—his mother's chambers.
Bethany sat at her desk, pregnant belly prominent beneath her shift. She was writing something, quill scratching across parchment. Inventory lists probably, or household accounts. She'd taken to managing domestic affairs with surprising efficiency.
Mine. She carries my child. Completely devoted now.
The thought felt natural, felt RIGHT.
Territory
Possession
His
No. Wait. That's the raven's instinct bleeding through. I need to stay separate.
But it was hard. The longer he remained in the bird, the more its thoughts felt like his thoughts. The boundary blurred.
Bethany looked tired—shadows under her eyes, one hand rubbing her lower back. Pregnancy was taking its toll. But she seemed content. Maybe even happy. Like bearing his child gave her purpose.
Castor hopped along the ledge, getting a better angle. She was beautiful in the lamplight—auburn hair falling loose, the curve of her pregnant belly, the way she bit her lip while concentrating on her writing.
I should return to her tonight. She'd welcome it. She always welcomes it now.
He launched from the ledge, climbing higher. Another window showed Greta's chamber on the fourth floor. She was brushing her hair before bed, humming something soft under her breath. The movements were practiced, meditative. She looked peaceful. Content in a way she hadn't been before.
Another successful claim. She serves willingly now.
Again that possessive satisfaction. Again Castor had to remind himself which thoughts were his.
Focus. Don't lose yourself in the bird.
He circled the castle, searching. Found the narrow window on the east side—Kyra's small chamber in the servants' wing. The shutters were pulled mostly closed against cold, but there was a gap.
Castor landed on the sill, peering through.
Kyra sat on her bed mending a torn dress by candlelight. Her fingers worked the needle automatically, but her expression was distant. Thinking about something. About someone.
Me. She's thinking about what I did to her. What I keep doing.
And there it was—that dark satisfaction at having marked her, claimed her. That wasn't the raven's instinct. That was pure Castor Bolton.
Good.
Let her think about it. Let all of them think about it. They're mine now.
A sound from below. Voices in the courtyard—someone calling his name. Concern in the tone.
How long have I been out?
Time was difficult to track while in the raven. What felt like minutes might have been much longer.
Need to return. Before they panic.
***
Castor tried to pull his consciousness back. Found resistance. The raven's mind had wrapped around his, comfortable and warm. Why leave? Why return to cold heavy flesh?
Here everything was simple.
Here he was free.
Because I'm not a bird. I'm Castor Bolton. Lord of the Dreadfort.
He pulled harder, fighting the comfortable fit. The raven's instincts screamed confusion at the separation—loss, rejection, abandonment.
Castor yanked his awareness back with force.
The world inverted.
He gasped, his human body jerking violently. His legs buckled and he crashed to his knees on stone. The impact jarred through bones that felt impossibly heavy after the raven's hollow grace. Hands caught his fall, palms scraping rough surface.
Warmth on his face. Blood streaming from both nostrils. His head pounded like someone had driven spikes through his skull.
"M'lord!" Footsteps running. Hareth appeared, grabbing his arm. "Gods, I've been calling—you weren't responding—"
"I'm fine." Castor's voice came out rough.
"You're bleeding. Your eyes were—" Hareth looked genuinely frightened. "M'lord, what happened?"
"Nothing." Castor pulled his arm free, wiped blood from his face with his sleeve. "I was concentrating. Lost track of time."
"You've been standing here for half an hour. Didn't move, didn't blink. Your eyes were rolled back completely."
Half an hour.
Felt like ten minutes.
"I said I'm fine." Castor's tone went cold. "Help me up, then leave me."
Hareth hesitated, clearly wanting to ask more questions. Then thought better of it. He helped Castor stand, steadying him when his legs proved unsteady.
"Should I fetch the maester, m'lord?"
"No. I need wine and quiet. Dismissed."
"M'lord, if you're ill—"
"Dismissed, Hareth." The command was final.
Hareth bowed and retreated, glancing back once with concern before disappearing into the castle.
Castor stood alone in the courtyard, legs slowly remembering how to support weight. The headache was brutal but fading gradually. Above, the raven circled once more, then flew off into darkness.
Still connected. I can feel it distantly, like a thread pulled thin.
Interesting. The link persisted even after separation. That was new.
Need to practice more. Learn to maintain the boundary better. Stay aware of self while in the animal. Can't afford to lose myself.
Castor walked slowly toward the castle, each step more steady than the last. His chambers beckoned—fire, wine, warmth.
And Mother.
***
The fire burned low when she entered.
Castor sat in his chair, wine cup half-empty, staring into flames. The headache had faded to a dull throb. The nosebleed had stopped. But he felt drained, like the warging had pulled something essential from him.
Bethany closed the door softly behind her. She'd changed from her shift into a sleeping gown that clung to her pregnant curves. Her auburn hair was loose, falling past her shoulders.
"I felt you watching earlier," she said, settling onto the edge of his bed. "A raven at my window."
Castor studied her. "How did you know it was me?"
"I didn't, not for certain. But I sensed... something. A presence that wasn't hostile. Just observing." She smiled slightly. "And I thought, 'that's Castor.'"
He said nothing, just drank more wine.
Bethany stood and moved behind his chair. Her hands settled on his shoulders, beginning to knead the tense muscles there. Her touch was warm, practiced.
"You pushed too hard tonight," she said softly. "I can see it. The exhaustion. The blood on your sleeve."
"I needed to practice."
"And you did. But you also need to rest." Her hands worked lower, finding knots in his shoulders and working them loose. "The gift is powerful, but it takes a toll. You can't use it constantly without breaking yourself."
Castor let his head fall back, accepting the massage. Her touch felt good—not sexual, just comfortable. Familiar.
"Come to bed," Bethany murmured after a moment. "You're exhausted. You need sleep."
"I need other things first."
She smiled, understanding immediately. Her hands slid from his shoulders to his chest, leaning over him from behind. "Always hungry," she whispered. "I shouldn't be surprised."
Castor stood, turning to face her. Even heavily pregnant she was beautiful—the fullness of her body, the way motherhood had changed her curves. He cupped her face, kissed her slowly.
She responded eagerly, pressing against him despite the belly between them. Her hands worked at his clothes with practiced efficiency—belt, tunic, smallclothes. He undressed her in turn, carefully pulling the sleeping gown over her head.
Naked, Bethany was stunning. Breasts fuller and heavier with pregnancy, belly swollen with his child, hips wider. She looked fertile. Claimed. His.
He guided her to the bed, laying her down carefully. She spread her legs without prompting, making room for him. The pregnancy made certain positions difficult, but they'd adapted.
Castor settled between her thighs, entering her slowly. She was wet already—pregnancy had made her constantly aroused, constantly ready. She gasped as he filled her, back arching slightly.
"Gods, yes..."
He moved carefully at first, mindful of the baby. But Bethany pulled him deeper, nails digging into his back.
"Don't treat me like I'm fragile," she breathed. "I won't break."
Castor gripped her hips and thrust harder. She moaned, wrapping her legs around him as much as the belly allowed. The bed creaked beneath them, firelight casting shadows on the walls.
This was different than fucking Greta or Kyra. With them it was domination, conquest, breaking them down. With Bethany it was... partnership. She wanted this as much as he did. Welcomed it. Craved it.
"Harder," she gasped. "I need—gods, harder—"
He obliged, pounding into her with force that made her cry out. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, his back, his hair. She was close already, trembling beneath him.
"Come for me," Castor growled.
Bethany shattered, crying out his name. Her body clenched around him, pulling him deeper. The sensation was exquisite—wet heat and tightness and the knowledge that she was completely his.
Castor followed moments later, spilling inside her with a groan. His hips jerked against hers, emptying himself deep.
They stayed locked together for long moments afterward, breathing hard. Finally Castor withdrew carefully and collapsed beside her.
Bethany curled against him immediately, head on his shoulder, one hand resting on his chest. Her pregnant belly pressed warm against his side.
"I love you," she murmured.
Castor didn't respond to that. He never did. But he stroked her hair absently, and that seemed enough for her.
They lay in comfortable silence while the fire burned lower.
"Tell me about the warging," Bethany said eventually. "How far did you go tonight?"
This he could discuss with her. She was inner circle—one of the few people who knew his secrets.
"Just the castle. Observed you, Greta, Kyra. Tested how long I could maintain the connection." Castor's fingers traced idle patterns on her shoulder. "Half an hour before I had to pull out. Any longer and I'd have lost myself completely."
"That's improvement. Last time you could barely manage ten minutes."
"The more I practice, the easier it gets. But also more dangerous. The animal's instincts bleed into my thoughts. Their desires become mine. Stay too long and you forget which is which."
Bethany was quiet for a moment. "What's the goal? How far do you want to push this?"
"Multiple animals. A network across the North." Castor stared at the ceiling, mind already planning.
"Ravens in every major holdfast's rookery. Rats in the walls. Dogs in kennels. Eventually wolves running the forests. My eyes and ears everywhere. No conversation truly private. No plot hidden."
"That's..." Bethany lifted her head to look at him. "That's incredibly ambitious. And dangerous. If anyone discovered what you could do—"
"They won't. Animals are invisible. No one suspects the raven on the ledge or the rat in the corner." Castor's smile was cold. "That's the advantage. I can observe anything, anywhere, and no one will ever know."
"What about other wargs? Could they sense you in the animals?"
"Maybe. But there aren't many of us left, and most don't know what they are. The gift is dying out." He pulled her closer. "I'm probably the only active warg in the North right now. Which gives me an advantage no one else has."
Bethany settled back against his shoulder, thinking. "You watched me writing tonight. Could you hear what I was saying? Or just see?"
"Both. The raven's hearing is sharp. I could hear your quill scratching. If you'd been speaking, I would have heard every word."
She shivered slightly. "That's violating."
"It's power."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive." But she didn't sound angry. Just thoughtful. "I suppose I should get used to never being truly alone. You could be watching through any animal at any time."
"Would that bother you?"
Bethany considered. "No. I have nothing to hide from you. Everything I do is in service to you anyway." She kissed his shoulder. "But others might feel differently. Especially if they're plotting against you."
"That's exactly the point." Castor's hand moved to her pregnant belly, feeling the swell of it. "Let them plot in 'private.' Let them think their sealed rooms and trusted guards keep their secrets. Meanwhile I'll know every word. Every plan. Every betrayal before it happens."
"And the wolves you mentioned? What's the purpose there?"
"Combat. Intimidation." His fingers traced the curve of her belly. "Imagine sending a pack of six wolves into an enemy camp at night. No commands needed, no risk of betrayal. Just direct control. They'd tear through men like paper."
Bethany was quiet, absorbing that. "You're building something terrifying."
"I'm building something unstoppable."
She laughed softly. "Same thing."
They fell silent again. The fire had burned down to embers now, room growing colder. Bethany pulled furs over them both, nestling closer to his warmth.
"When will you practice again?" she asked sleepily.
"Tomorrow night. Need to let my mind recover between sessions. Push too hard too fast and I'll break something that can't be fixed."
"Good. You're no use to anyone if you fry your brain."
Castor smiled despite himself. "Such tender concern."
"I'm carrying your child. If you die or go mad, that makes my position significantly more precarious." But her tone was teasing. "So yes, I'm concerned about your health. Purely for selfish reasons."
"Of course."
Bethany yawned, exhaustion finally catching up. "Sleep, Castor. The empire-building can wait until morning."
He wanted to argue, to get up and plan more. But the warging had drained him more than he wanted to admit. And Bethany's warmth was comfortable against his side.
"Fine. But only because I'm tired."
"Whatever you need to tell yourself."
Castor closed his eyes, one hand still resting on her pregnant belly. Above in the darkness, the raven settled on a tower ledge to sleep. He could still feel it distantly—that thread connecting them, thin but unbroken.
Tomorrow I'll push further. Test new animals. Build the network one creature at a time.
And no one will ever know what's coming until it's far too late.
He smiled in the darkness and let sleep take him.
***
CHAPTER END