The small dining chamber off the lord's solar was warm, intimate, meant for family rather than bannermen. A table of dark oak, high-backed chairs, silver platters of bread and bacon and cheese. Steam rose from a pitcher of mulled cider.
Castor sat at the head, fully dressed now in black wool and leather, looking every inch the young lord. His hair was tied back neatly. His expression was calm, thoughtful, betraying nothing of the depravity an hour prior.
Across from him sat Bethany, gowned in dark blue, her pregnancy evident but worn with dignity. She ate delicately, occasionally glancing at him with a small, secret smile.
And beneath the table, hidden by the heavy tablecloth, Greta knelt between Castor's legs.
His breeches were unlaced. His cock—half-hard again already—rested heavy in her mouth. She didn't suck, didn't move. Just held him there, warm and wet, a living sheath. He'd taught her this: to kneel silent and still while he conducted business, her only purpose to keep him pleasantly stimulated without distraction.
Mira stood beside the table, older and competent, holding a ledger. She'd been in his service long enough that the sight of her lord's slight shifts of breath, the way his fingers tightened briefly on his cup, told her everything she needed to know about what was happening beneath the table.
She didn't react. Just read.
"My lord, the grain storage reports from the last moon." She turned a page. "The new granary at Crow's Rest is complete. Stone walls, sealed with lime mortar as you specified. Capacity for eight hundred bushels. The headman reports it's already half-filled from the autumn stores they'd kept in the old wooden barn."
"Good." Castor's voice was steady. Beneath the table, Greta's tongue moved slightly—whether intentional or reflex, he couldn't tell. He tapped her head once in warning. She stilled. "And the others?"
"The facility near the Weeping Water crossing is three-quarters done. They'll finish before the next snowfall. The one on the Lonely Road junction..." She hesitated. "Behind schedule. The foreman says the ground is harder than expected."
"Send another work gang. I want it operational before winter deepens." He took a sip of cider, casual. "What else?"
"Census data from the eastern villages. Totals are up by forty-three souls since the last count—mostly births, though two families returned from White Harbor." Mira's eyes flicked across numbers. "We've lost sixteen to age and sickness. Normal rates for winter."
"Any clusters of death?" he asked. "Fever, accident, anything unusual?"
"No, my lord. Spread evenly. Maester Wendimer says it's within expected norms."
Bethany looked up. "You track deaths closely," she observed mildly.
"Patterns matter," Castor replied. "A sudden spike in one village could mean disease, bad water, or an overseer working people too hard. All fixable if caught early."
Beneath the table, he felt Greta shift slightly, trying to ease her aching knees. He pressed his boot against her thigh—gentle pressure, but clear instruction: Stay still.
She froze.
"The road work?" he asked Mira.
"Progressing well. Another mile laid with gravel and stone base. Drainage ditches dug on both sides. Ser Rodrik says carts move twice as fast on the completed sections."
"Revenue from tolls?"
"Modest, my lord. Three silver stags this moon. Merchants are starting to prefer the new route despite the slight toll. They save more on broken wheels and time."
Castor nodded. The tolls weren't about profit yet—just establishing precedent. In five years, when the road was complete and indispensable, he could raise rates and they'd pay without complaint.
"Bridge repairs?"
"Completed on the Weeping Water span. The masons used your lime mortar for the supports. They say it's the strongest work they've done."
"Then use the same method for the next three bridges on the list." He paused, feeling the faint flutter of Greta's breath against his skin. His cock twitched. She adjusted minutely, taking him slightly deeper by reflex.
He took another slow sip of cider and continued as if nothing had changed. "Anything else?"
"One last item." Mira's voice was carefully neutral. "A request from Lord Cerwyn. He asks permission to visit the Dreadfort within the fortnight. Says he wishes to see the new construction methods for himself."
"Interesting." Castor leaned back slightly. The motion pushed his cock deeper into Greta's throat. She gagged silently, swallowed, held. "He can come. Assign him guest quarters in the outer keep. I'll give him a tour of the granaries and roads. Make him think I'm generous with my knowledge."
Bethany's eyes glinted with understanding. "And learn what he's really after while he's here."
"Exactly." Castor smiled at his mother. "He doesn't care about lime kilns. He cares about what I'm building and whether it threatens him. Better to let him see, let him think he understands, than have him imagine worse."
"You're clever," Bethany said softly.
"I learned from the best." He met her gaze, and the heat between them was palpable even across the table.
Mira cleared her throat delicately. "Will there be anything else, my lord?"
"No. That's all. Leave the ledger. I'll review the numbers this afternoon."
She bowed and departed, closing the door behind her.
The moment she was gone, Castor pushed his chair back. Greta, still on her knees, looked up at him with glazed, resentful eyes.
"Finish," he ordered.
She worked him with her mouth, faster now, no longer passive. He tangled his hand in her hair and fucked her face with sharp thrusts until he came down her throat. She choked, swallowed convulsively, took it all.
When he was done, he tucked himself away and gestured dismissively. "Go. Clean yourself up. Be ready tonight if I call for you."
She stumbled to her feet and fled without a word.
Bethany watched her go, then turned back to Castor. "She hates you."
"Yes."
"Will that be a problem?"
"No." He stood, crossed to her, bent to kiss her temple. "Hate is just another kind of chain. As long as she's more afraid than angry, she'll stay."
Bethany caught his hand, pressed it to her belly. "And when this one is born? What will you tell them?"
"The truth," he said simply. "That they're mine. That their blood is fire and ice. That they'll inherit an empire."
She shivered, though the room was warm. "I love you," she whispered.
"I know." He kissed her once more, then straightened. "I have work. I'll see you tonight."
He left her there, one hand on her pregnant belly, the other clutching her cup, violet eyes distant and dreaming of dragons.
The new granary near the Weeping Water stood solid and grey against the snow-dusted landscape. Castor walked its perimeter slowly, Jeren trailing behind with a wax tablet for notes.
The structure was simple but effective: thick stone walls, narrow ventilation slits high up, a sloped roof designed to shed snow and rain. The door was heavy oak, barred with iron, and the foundation was raised on stone piers to keep moisture and vermin at bay.
Inside, the air was cool and dry. Grain sacks were stacked neatly, each marked with village of origin and date. Castor ran his hand along the wall—smooth lime mortar, no cracks, no damp.
"How much can this hold at capacity?" he asked.
"Thousand bushels, my lord," the foreman replied. He was a thick man with stonemason's hands, proud of his work. "Maybe more if we stack tight."
"And the ventilation works? No condensation?"
"None so far. Air moves through proper. Grain stays dry."
Castor nodded, satisfied. This was the fourth completed granary. Three more in progress. By next year, he'd have eight distributed across his holdings—enough to store surplus from good harvests and redistribute during bad ones.
Centralized storage meant centralized control. Control meant power.
"Good work," he told the foreman. "You'll get a bonus when the last three are done. And I'll want you to train apprentices. I have plans for more construction."
The man's face lit up. "Aye, my lord. Gladly."
Outside, Castor stood looking south toward where the Weeping Water curved lazily through the landscape. Jeren followed his gaze.
"What are you thinking, my lord?"
"A harbor," Castor said.
Jeren blinked. "My lord?"
"Here." Castor pointed to where the new stone road would intersect with the Lonely Road, barely a mile from the river. "The Weeping Water flows to the Shivering Sea. The Shivering Sea connects with White Knife which flows to White Harbor. Right now, we move everything by cart. Slow. Expensive. Limited by how much a wagon can carry."
"But boats—"
"Boats can carry ten times what a cart can," Castor interrupted. "And they don't need roads. Just a place to load and unload." He turned to Jeren. "I want you to start surveying this stretch of river. Find where the bank is stable, where the current is manageable, where we can build a dock."
"A dock," Jeren repeated, still processing.
"A small harbor," Castor corrected. "Nothing like White Harbor, but functional. A pier, a warehouse, space for flat-bottomed boats. We build it here, at the junction, and suddenly we can move grain, timber, whatever we want downriver to trade. And bring back goods from the coast without paying Manderly's tolls for every cart through White Harbor's gates."
Jeren's eyes widened as the implications sank in. "That would... change everything."
"That's the idea." Castor smiled slightly. "But it starts small. Survey first. Then I'll draw up plans. We'll build it in stages. By the time anyone realizes what we've created, it'll be too late to stop."
"When do you want the survey?"
"Soon as the ice breaks enough to see the banks properly. And quietly. I don't need every merchant in White Harbor hearing about it before we're ready."
"Aye, my lord."
They walked back toward the waiting horses.
Castor's mind was already three steps ahead: timber from the Wolfswood, stone from the Lonely Hills, trade routes that bypassed traditional power centers.
Infrastructure was boring.
It was also how you built empires while other men fought over crowns.