He led her through the hidden passages that honeycombed the Dreadfort's walls—ancient corridors his father had shown him, accessible only to those who knew where the panels were hidden.
She followed silently, one hand in his, breathing fast and shallow.
The eastern tower chamber was warm when they arrived, the hearth rebuilt from this morning's ashes, furs piled deep on the floor. Firelight danced on stone walls, making shadows writhe.
He closed the door. Barred it. Turned to face her.
She stood in the center of the room, arms wrapped around herself, looking at him with those wide, frightened eyes.
"I've never..." she started, then stopped.
"My husband is the only..."
"I know." He crossed to her slowly. "That makes this better."
He kissed her before she could respond—not gentle, not asking permission. Claiming. She made a small sound of surprise, hands coming up to his chest, but didn't push him away. After a moment, she kissed him back, tentative and desperate at once.
He pulled back, looked at her. "Tell me you want this."
"I—"
"Say it."
"I want..." She closed her eyes. "Seven help me, I want this."
"Good."
He unlaced her dress slowly, deliberately, watching her face the whole time. She trembled as each layer fell away—outer gown, inner shift, smallclothes. When she was finally naked, she tried to cover herself, arms crossing over her breasts.
He caught her wrists, pulled them away. "Don't hide."
"Please, I'm not—I'm not beautiful like—"
"You're beautiful enough." He circled her, looking at every part of her. She was slimmer than Bethany, less curved than Violet, but lovely in her own right. Pale skin. Small, pert breasts. A flat stomach. Hips that flared just enough.
She shivered under his gaze, goosebumps rising despite the warmth.
He stripped off his own clothes—shirt, breeches, boots—and watched her eyes widen when she saw him fully naked. His cock was already hard, thick and heavy, larger than she was used to.
"When's the last time your husband took you?" he asked.
"Months," she whispered. "He... he tries sometimes, but he's usually too drunk, and when he's not, it's..." She trailed off, face flushing.
"Fast. Unsatisfying. Over before you feel anything."
She nodded miserably.
"Then let me show you what it should be."
He guided her down onto the furs, positioned himself between her legs. She was tense, nervous, thighs pressed together. He ran his hands up her legs, slow and firm, feeling the muscles jump under his touch.
"Relax," he said. "This will hurt less if you don't fight it."
"I'm trying..."
He pushed her thighs apart, settled between them. She was barely wet, body not ready despite her mind saying yes. He spit on his fingers, slicked them, then reached between them and began working her—circling her pearl, dipping fingers inside, stretching her gently.
She gasped, hips jerking. "What are you—"
"Getting you ready." He watched her face as he worked, noting every hitch in her breath, every small moan she couldn't suppress. Her body responded despite her nervousness, slickness gathering, walls beginning to relax.
When he finally judged her ready, he positioned himself and pushed in slowly.
She cried out—not quite pain, not quite pleasure. He was bigger than her husband, and it had been months since she'd been touched. He felt her walls stretch around him, felt the moment she went from resisting to accepting.
"Breathe," he commanded.
She did, shaky and uneven, and he slid deeper.
By the time he was fully seated, she was trembling, nails digging into his shoulders, eyes wide and glazed.
"Gods," she breathed. "You're—"
"I know." He pulled back, thrust in again, setting a slow rhythm.
"Tell me how it feels."
"Full. Too full. I can't—"
"You can." He angled his hips, hitting deeper, and she sobbed. "Your body knows what to do even if you don't."
He fucked her slowly at first, letting her adjust, watching her face shift from fear to confusion to something like reluctant pleasure. Her breathing changed. Her hips started moving with his instead of against. The small sounds she made became less panicked, more needy.
"That's it," he murmured. "Stop thinking. Just feel."
He picked up the pace, driving deeper, harder. She clung to him, gasping, clearly overwhelmed but no longer fighting. He reached between them, found her pearl, rubbed in firm circles.
She shattered with a shocked cry, walls clenching around him, back arching off the furs. He felt her orgasm ripple through her, felt the exact moment she stopped being Medgar Cerwyn's dutiful wife and became something else entirely.
He didn't let her recover. Just kept moving, kept working her, until she was sobbing and begging him to stop, to keep going, to—she didn't even know what she wanted anymore.
When he finally let himself finish, he pulled out and spent himself across her stomach, face and breasts, marking her with thick ropes of seed. She lay there, dazed and trembling, covered in him.
"Clean yourself," he said, tossing her a cloth from beside the furs. "Then come back. We're not done.
"Her eyes went wide. "My lord, I can't—"
"You can. And you will."
He took her three more times that night. Each time different. Each time pushing her further, teaching her exactly how much her body could take when someone actually knew what they were doing.
By the time he finally let her rest, she was limp and exhausted, covered in sweat and seed and the evidence of what they'd done.
"Your husband will never know," he said quietly, stroking her hair. "But you will. You will never let him touch you. You'll remember this."
She turned her face into his chest and wept tears of joy.
They left after breakfast. Medgar looked grey and miserable, holding his head like it might split open. Alysanne was composed—dressed, braided, face carefully neutral.
She curtsied to Castor when they met in the yard. "Thank you for your hospitality, my lord.""Safe travels, Lady Cerwyn." He kept his voice formal, polite. "I hope we'll have the chance to meet again.
"Something flickered in her eyes—fear, longing, shame, obsession all mixed together. "Perhaps, my lord."
Medgar managed to grunt his thanks, accepted a package of ale samples to take with him, and climbed onto his horse with visible effort.
As they rode out, Castor caught Alysanne looking back once. Just once. Then she turned forward and didn't look again.
Jeren appeared at his side. "They seemed... pleased with their visit."
"They were," Castor said. "Cerwyn will spread word that House Bolton is prosperous and civilized. And his wife..." He smiled slightly. "She'll remember who showed her what she was missing."
"And now, my lord?"
"Now we prepare for Winterfell." He turned back toward the keep. "Gather Hareth, the quartermaster, and the stable master. I want fifty mounted soldiers ready to ride in two days. Full kit, polished armor, Bolton banners. And prepare wagons—gifts for Lord Stark. Ale, soap, preserved foods. I want to arrive looking powerful and generous at once."
"Yes, my lord."
Castor climbed the steps back into the Dreadfort, already thinking three moves ahead.
Ned Stark wanted to see a loyal bannerman. He'd give him one.
Charming, competent, everything a lord should be.
And while the Warden of the North was busy being reassured, Castor would be seducing his daughter.