The eastern tower chamber was Castor's private sanctuary, hidden from the main corridors and accessible only through passages his father had shown him years ago.
Here, away from servants' eyes and maesters' knowing glances, he could indulge without pretense.
Dawn light filtered grey through narrow windows. The hearth burned low, casting the room in amber and shadow. Furs covered the floor three deep, soft as sin beneath bare skin. And on those furs, three women moved in practiced rhythm around their lord.
Greta knelt between his legs, dark hair spilling across his thighs as her mouth worked his cock with the desperate skill of someone who had learned quickly that pleasing him meant surviving him.
A week in the Dreadfort had stripped away her defiance, replaced it with hollow-eyed obedience. Her lips stretched around his girth, throat working as she took him deeper, gagging slightly but not stopping. She had learned not to stop.
Myranda—the kennel master's daughter, wild and vicious as the dogs she tended—straddled his chest, grinding her cunt against his mouth. She was lean and lithe, with dark curls and eyes that promised violence.
Unlike Greta, Myranda loved this. She thrived on it. She rode his face shamelessly, one hand braced on the wall behind him, the other tangled in his hair to hold him close.
Violet—a girl he'd found near White Harbor, pale and delicate with eyes like bruised flowers—lay curled beside him, lips wrapped around his nipple, sucking and biting while her hand roamed lower to cup his balls, rolling them gently as Greta's mouth slid up and down his shaft.
Violet was soft where Myranda was sharp, broken where Greta was bending. She lived for his touch, for the degradation he offered as affection.
Three women servicing him at once. A tableau of depravity that would have scandalized any sept and made most Northern lords avert their eyes.
And watching from a cushioned seat near the hearth, wrapped in furs despite the warmth, sat Lady Bethany Bolton.
Her violet eyes tracked every movement with something between pride and hunger. Her hand rested on the swell of her belly—nearly a month pregnant now, visible enough that she had stopped hiding it.
The other hand disappeared beneath her nightgown, moving in slow circles between her thighs as she watched her son drowning in flesh and pleasure.
"That's it, Greta," Bethany murmured, voice low and approving. "Take him deeper. Show him you're learning."
Greta's eyes flicked up—shame and hatred burning there—but she obeyed, relaxing her throat, letting Castor's cock slide until her nose pressed against his stomach. She choked, tears streaming, but held herself there until he allowed her to pull back with a wet gasp.
"Good," Castor growled against Myranda's cunt. He rewarded Greta by pulling back slightly, letting her breathe, then gripped her hair and fucked her mouth in earnest—sharp, brutal thrusts that made obscene wet sounds echo in the chamber.
Myranda came first, grinding down on his tongue with a wail, thighs trembling. He drank her down, then shoved her aside carelessly. She tumbled onto the furs, boneless and satisfied, watching him with predatory adoration.
Violet took her place, straddling his hips this time, sinking down onto his cock with practiced ease. Greta fell back, coughing, face streaked with spit and tears. She didn't move away—knew better—just knelt there, watching with dead eyes as Violet began to ride.
Castor gripped Violet's hips, controlling the pace, making her work for it. Her head fell back, silver-blonde hair cascading, breasts bouncing as she rose and fell. "My lord—please—"
"Beg properly," he commanded.
"Please let me come, my lord. Please fill me—breed me like the others—"
He laughed, dark and low, then pulled her down hard, grinding deep. She shattered with a scream, walls clamping around him.
But he wasn't done.
He lifted her off—she whimpered at the loss—and turned to Greta. "On your back. Legs open."
She hesitated. Only a heartbeat, but he saw it.
"Now, Greta. Or I send a raven to Crow's Rest asking how your husband's leg is healing."
She lay back, legs spreading mechanically. No desire there, just fear and compliance.
Castor mounted her, thrust in without preamble. She was dry, unwilling, and he groaned at the tight drag of it. He fucked her hard and cold, watching her face twist—not with pleasure, but with the knowledge that she was utterly owned.
Myranda crawled closer, eyes glinting. "Let me taste her, my lord. While you use her."
"Do it."
Myranda buried her face between Greta's legs, tongue finding her clit even as Castor hammered into her. Greta cried out, confusing pleasure warring with violation. She tried to squirm away, but Castor pinned her hips, forcing her to take both of them.
When he felt his release building, he pulled out and came across her stomach and breasts, marking her with thick ropes of seed. She lay there, shaking, covered in his spend.
"Clean her," he told Myranda and Violet.
They descended on Greta like worshippers at an altar, tongues lapping his cum from her skin, sucking it from her nipples. Greta closed her eyes and endured.
From the chair, Bethany shuddered through her own quiet climax, fingers slick, watching her son's harem service each other under his command.
"Beautiful," she whispered. "My dragon. My perfect boy."
Castor rose, crossed to her, kissed her deeply. She tasted herself on his lips—another woman's pleasure—and moaned into it.
"Tonight," he promised against her mouth, "it's your turn."
She smiled, radiant and ruined. "I'll be waiting."
He left them there—tangled together on the furs, three women broken and remade in his image—and went to prepare for the day.