Back in his solar, Castor spread maps across the table.
Not political maps showing houses and borders, but military ones: terrain, roads, river crossings, defensive positions.
The North was vast. Defending it required men scattered across impossible distances.
The traditional levy system—lords calling their peasants to war when needed—worked for short campaigns but collapsed under sustained pressure.
He needed something better.
Jeren, Hareth the guard captain, and Maester Wendimer stood around the table, waiting.
"Current strength?" Castor asked.
Hareth spoke first. "We can muster eight hundred men if we call every village. Mix of spears, bows, some mounted. Mostly levy—farmers who drill twice a year."
"How many could fight tomorrow if I needed them?"
"Maybe two hundred. The men here at the Dreadfort, plus those in villages within a day's march."
Castor tapped the map. "Not good enough. If the Starks call a levy, fine. But I want a core force that's always ready. Professional. Trained. Loyal to House Bolton first, not to their village headman."
"A standing army?" Wendimer's tone was skeptical. "My lord, the cost—"
"Is manageable." Castor cut him off. "I'm not talking about thousands. I want two hundred men permanently under arms. Housed here at the Dreadfort or in barracks at key locations. Paid a wage, not just fed during campaigns. Drilled weekly. Real soldiers."
Hareth leaned forward, interested despite himself. "Foot or horse?"
"Both. A hundred infantry—pike and bow. Fifty cavalry. Fifty in reserve for rotation and training." Castor traced lines on the map. "Station them here, here, and here. Close enough to respond to trouble fast, spread enough to cover the territory."
"And the levy?"
"Still exists. We call them when we need numbers. But the standing force is the backbone. They hold the line while the levy forms up. They guard key points. They put down trouble before it spreads."
"Men will grumble about the cost," Wendimer warned.
"Men grumble about dying too," Castor replied. "I'd rather pay for soldiers who know which end of a spear to use than watch farmers run the first time they see real fighting." He looked at Hareth. "Can you train them?"
"Aye, my lord. Give me six moons and I'll have them moving like a proper unit."
"You have three," Castor said. "We don't have six." He didn't explain why—didn't mention that he knew wars were coming, that the realm would tear itself apart soon enough. "Start recruiting. I want volunteers first. Men who want the wage and don't mind the discipline. Fill gaps with conscripts if you must, but I'd rather have willing men."
Hareth nodded. "I'll start tomorrow."
"One more thing." Castor looked at the river again. "Eventually, I want boats. Not just for trade. War boats. Flat-bottomed, fast, able to move men and supplies downriver faster than marching."
Silence.
"A navy?" Wendimer sounded faint.
"A small one," Castor said. "Ten boats, maybe fifteen. Nothing like the royal fleet. Just enough to control the Weeping Water and the White Knife if we need to." He shrugged. "But that's future work. First, we get the standing army in place. Then the harbor. Then the boats."
Jeren was scribbling notes furiously. "Anything else, my lord?"
"Armory inventory. I want to know what we have and what we need. If we're keeping two hundred men in the field, they need proper equipment. And I want a smithy at the Dreadfort producing our own weapons instead of buying from White Harbor."
"The cost—" Wendimer started again.
"Will be offset by not paying Manderly prices," Castor finished. "Iron's cheap. Labor's cheap. Finished swords are expensive. Do the math, Maester.
"Wendimer closed his mouth.
"That's all," Castor said. "Get started. I want progress reports weekly."
They filed out, leaving him alone with his maps.
He stared at the Dreadfort's position: eastern edge of Stark territory, close to the Lonely Hills, controlling access to the river. It was a strong position. With proper infrastructure, a professional army, and river transport, it would be unassailable.
And when the wars came—when the Starks marched south and the realm burned—House Bolton would be ready.
Not to save anyone. To take what it could while everyone else bled.
_________________________________________
Mother's chambers were warm, the hearth banked high, furs piled on the bed. She'd dismissed her handmaids hours ago. Now she waited, wearing only a thin shift of Myrish silk that clung to her swollen belly and heavy breasts.
When Castor entered through the hidden door, she turned, smiling.
"You're late," she said
"I was working." He crossed to her, hands finding her waist, pulling her close. The swell of her pregnancy pressed between them.
"You're always working." She tilted her head up, and he kissed her—slow, deep, tasting wine on her tongue.
"Building an empire takes time," he murmured against her lips.
"And what am I building?"
"The future." His hand moved to her belly, splaying wide. "This child is the first stone. There will be more."
She shivered. "You're so sure."
"I'm always sure." He guided her toward the bed, eased her down onto the furs. She lay back, watching him undress with hungry eyes.
When he was bare, he knelt beside her, ran his hands over her body—worshipful, possessive. Her breasts were fuller now, sensitive. She gasped when he sucked a nipple into his mouth, bit gently.
"Castor—"
"Shh. Let me take care of you."
He made love to her slowly, carefully, aware of the child growing inside her. None of the brutal claiming he'd done to Greta this morning. This was different. This was his mother, his partner, the woman who'd given him everything.
She came twice, softly, clinging to him. When he finally spilled inside her—adding his seed to the child already quickening—she wept with something that might have been joy.
After, they lay tangled together, her head on his chest, his hand on her belly.
"Do you ever regret it?" she asked quietly. "What we've become?"
"No." His answer was immediate. "Do you?"
She was silent for a long moment. Then: "No. Gods help me, no."
"Good." He kissed her hair. "Because there's no going back. Only forward."
"Forward to what?"
"To everything," he said. "To a North that answers to us. To dragons, if I can find them. To a legacy that will outlast the Starks and their honor."
She pressed closer. "I believe you," she whispered. "My dragon. My king."
He smiled in the darkness.Outside, snow began to fall. Inside the Dreadfort's grey walls, plans layered upon plans, and a young lord who'd died once and learned never to waste a second chance shaped the future with careful, ruthless hands.
Winter was coming.
But Castor Bolton was ready.