The letter arrived on a grey morning when snow fell in lazy spirals that wouldn't settle.
Castor broke the grey wax seal—Stark direwolf pressed deep into it—and read by the window of his solar while Mira stood nearby with the day's other correspondence.
Lord Castor Bolton,
Word has reached Winterfell of your father's passing and your succession. The bonds between our houses have held for hundreds of years through winter and war. It would please me to see those bonds renewed in person.
When the roads permit safe travel, come to Winterfell. Bring such men as suits your station. We will speak of your oaths and the future of the North.
Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North
Castor read it twice, face expressionless.
Mira waited, knowing better than to speak before he did.
"When did this arrive?" he asked.
"Dawn, my lord. The raven from Winterfell."
He set the letter on his desk, stared at it. Not a request. A summons dressed in courtesy, which was how men like Ned Stark gave orders to bannermen they didn't entirely trust.
Come. Kneel. Remind me you're loyal.
Perfect.
"Send a reply," Castor said. " Tell Lord Stark I'm honored by his invitation and will depart for Winterfell within the fortnight, weather permitting." He paused, thinking.
"And remind Jeren that Lord Cerwyn arrives today. Make sure the guest quarters are prepared. The good ones, not the drafty chambers in the north tower."
"Yes, my lord." Mira made a note on her tablet. "Anything else?"
"Tell the kitchens to serve the new ale tonight. The strong batch. And make sure the barrels are clearly marked—I want Cerwyn to know exactly what he's drinking."
She nodded and departed, leaving him alone with the letter and his thoughts.
Castor looked out the window at the Dreadfort's walls.
Grey stone, grey sky, pink banners hanging limp in the still air.
Below, in the training yard, he could hear Hareth shouting at the new recruits—his professional soldiers, learning to hold formation, learning to fight as a unit instead of a mob.
Winterfell. The seat of Stark power. Where the real game would begin.
He'd spent months building roads and granaries, creating infrastructure that made him valuable.
Now it was time to become indispensable. And the way to do that wasn't through threats or displays of strength.
It was through marriage.
Sansa Stark. Eleven years old, beautiful if the rumors were true, raised on songs about knights and ladies.
She'd be easy to charm.
Even easier to mold.
And through her, he'd have a legitimate claim to Winterfell itself when the time came.
The door opened. Bethany entered, one hand resting on the swell of her belly—four months now, visible even under the layers of wool and velvet. She closed the door behind her, moved to his side.
"What does Stark want?" she asked quietly.
"To see if I'm my father's son." He handed her the letter. "To decide if I'm a problem or a tool."
She read it, lips pressing thin. "And what will you show him?"
"A loyal bannerman. Reformed. Modern. Everything Ned Stark values." He turned to face her, one hand coming to rest on her belly. "But first, we have a guest to entertain."
"Cerwyn." She'd read the day's schedule already. "Why is he coming?"
"To see the construction. To talk about trade." Castor smiled slightly. "And because I need him spreading word that House Bolton is prosperous and stable. When I go to Winterfell, I want every lord between here and there to have heard how impressive we are."
"And his wife?"
"Will be an opportunity, if she's as unhappy as the reports suggest."
Bethany's violet eyes searched his face. "You're planning something."
"I'm always planning something." He kissed her forehead. "Go. Rest. Tonight will be tedious—formal dinner, business talk. You don't need to sit through it if you're tired."
"I'm not tired," she said, but there was relief in her voice. She hated entertaining guests, especially Northern lords who looked at her Valyrian features and whispered about foreign blood and Dreadfort strangeness.
"Then watch from the gallery if you like. But don't feel obligated."
She nodded, squeezed his hand, and left.
Castor returned to the window. Lord Cerwyn would arrive within hours. A minor lord, not particularly powerful, but well-connected and prone to gossip. Exactly the kind of man whose opinions traveled.
This would be easy.
Lord Medgar Cerwyn arrived in the early afternoon with a small retinue: a handful of guards, two servants, and his wife. They rode through the Dreadfort's gates looking cold and tired, snow dusting their cloaks.
Castor met them in the yard, Jeren at his side, a dozen of his household guards standing at attention in neat formation. A calculated display—not threatening, just professional. Organized. The kind of thing that made visitors remember House Bolton had resources.
"Lord Cerwyn," Castor said, stepping forward. "Welcome to the Dreadfort. I hope the journey wasn't too difficult."
Medgar dismounted, grunting slightly.
He was a broad man in his forties, grey-bearded, with the weathered face of someone who spent too much time riding in bad weather.
"Lord Bolton. Good of you to invite us." His eyes flicked around the yard, taking in the neat formation of guards, the well-maintained walls. "You've made... changes since your father's time."
"Some," Castor agreed. "I'll show you tomorrow, if the weather holds. For now, let me introduce my steward, Jeren. He'll see to your quarters and anything you need."
Jeren stepped forward, bowing. "My lord, my lady. If you'll follow me."
It was then that Lady Cerwyn dismounted, and Castor got his first real look at her.
Lady Alysanne Cerwyn was younger than her husband by at least a decade—maybe thirty, perhaps less.
She had the dark hair and grey eyes common in the North, but there was something finer about her features. High cheekbones. A straight nose. A mouth that looked like it had forgotten how to smile.
She wore traveling leathers under a wool cloak, practical rather than decorative, and moved with the careful grace of someone used to being watched and judged.
She curtsied when she saw him looking. "My lord. Thank you for your hospitality."
Her voice was soft, proper, exactly what a minor lady's should be. But her eyes—they flicked to his face for just a moment, widened slightly at whatever they saw there, then dropped immediately to the ground.
Interesting.
"Lady Cerwyn. I hope your journey was bearable." He kept his tone courteous, formal. "Jeren will show you to your quarters. There's hot water for bathing, and dinner will be in the great hall at sunset. Please, rest and warm yourselves."
She curtsied again, murmured something appropriate, and followed her husband and Jeren toward the keep.
Castor watched her go, noting the way she held herself—shoulders tight, steps measured, like someone perpetually braced for disappointment.
A second wife, almost certainly. Married off to secure an alliance or settle a debt. Trapped in a life she hadn't chosen with a man who probably barely noticed she existed.
Perfect.