The column left the Dreadfort at dawn, when frost still clung to the stones and breath steamed in the grey air.
Fifty mounted soldiers in black leather and mail, pink banners hanging limp in the still morning, wagons creaking under their loads of gifts and provisions.
Castor rode at the head, alone with his thoughts while Jeren and Hareth managed the column behind him.
The road south toward Winterfell was one of the old ones, packed earth that turned to mud in spring and froze hard as stone in winter. His own new roads didn't extend this far yet, but they would.
Everything would extend, given time.
Time
That was the key to all of it.
He had two years before Robert Baratheon would ride north and drag Ned Stark into the game that would kill him. Two years to position himself so perfectly that when the realm tore itself apart, House Bolton would be ready to take what it wanted.
And it started with Sansa Stark.
Ten years old. Too young to bed, but old enough to shape. Four years of careful grooming, and by the time he took her maidenhead on their wedding night, she'd think it was love. She'd thank him for it, the way women always did when you made them think they'd chosen you.
The best part?
Ned would give her to him willingly.
The honorable fool would see a reformed young lord, modern and competent, everything House Bolton could be if it just moved past old hatreds.
He'd see an opportunity to bind his most powerful—and historically most dangerous—bannerman through marriage.
He'd never see the predator behind the courtesy.
Ned Stark, you magnificent idiot.
You're going to hand me your kingdom and your daughter, and you'll smile while you do it.
"My lord." Jeren rode up beside him, pulling Castor from his thoughts. "We'll reach Winterfell by midday if the weather holds."
"Good. When we're an hour out, have the men form up properly. Full formation, banners high. I want to look like we could ride to war tomorrow if called."
"Yes, my lord." Jeren hesitated. "The gifts?"
"Displayed prominently. Make sure the ale barrels are visible—I want everyone to see the quality of what we're bringing. And the soap, the preserved foods. Every detail matters."
"Trying to impress Lord Stark?"
Castor smiled thinly. "Trying to make him comfortable. Impressed men are cautious. Comfortable men make mistakes."
Jeren absorbed that, nodded, and fell back to relay orders.
The landscape rolled past, empty and white.
They passed a few villages, people stopping to watch the Bolton column with wary eyes. Not hostile, not exactly. Just careful. The way Northerners looked at Boltons had looked for a thousand years.
That would change. Not through fear this time, but through something more insidious. Through roads that made their lives easier. Through granaries that kept them fed. Through a lord who seemed reasonable and modern instead of cruel and archaic.
They'd learn to depend on him. And dependency was just another word for ownership.
By the time the sun reached its weak zenith, the towers of Winterfell appeared on the horizon.
Grey stone rising from snow, smoke from the hot springs making the castle look like it was breathing. Larger than the Dreadfort, more sprawling, but less defensible in some ways.
All that warmth made people soft.
"Form up!" Hareth's voice carried back through the column.
The soldiers moved with practiced precision, falling into perfect formation. Two columns flanking the wagons, banners raised, spears held at identical angles. Professional. Disciplined. Everything a modern military force should be.
Castor straightened in his saddle, checked his appearance. Black leather and wool, well-made but not ostentatious. The pink flayed man on his chest, because he was Bolton and wouldn't pretend otherwise. His hair tied back, violet-grey eyes calm.
He looked like exactly what he was pretending to be: a young lord, competent and confident, coming to renew his oaths.
The gates of Winterfell opened as they approached.
And the game began.