The Great Hall of Winterfell was everything the Dreadfort's wasn't: warm, loud, alive with conversation and laughter.
Torches burned bright, the high table was laden with food, and lower tables filled with household members, visiting lords, soldiers.
Castor entered to respectful silence. He'd changed into formal attire—black leather and silver, the flayed man prominent on his chest. His pale hair was unbound now, falling past his shoulders, and those strange violet-grey eyes scanned the room with calm authority.
He looked like what he was: young, beautiful in an unsettling way, dangerous despite the courtesy.
The high table seated him as an honored guest—Ned at center, Catelyn beside him, Castor positioned near Ned's right. Beyond him, Robb and Jon. On Catelyn's side, Sansa and Arya, then the younger boys.
As servants filled cups and brought the first course, Ned stood.
"Lords and ladies, honored guests. We welcome Lord Castor Bolton to Winterfell. House Bolton has served the North for thousands of years, and tonight we celebrate the bonds between our houses."
Polite applause. Castor rose, raised his cup.
"Lord Stark, Lady Stark, you honor me with your hospitality. House Bolton has prospered under Stark leadership, and I look forward to many years of continued service to the North and to Winterfell."
He sat, and the feast began.
The food was good—venison, fresh bread, winter vegetables in cream, baked fish from the White Knife. Northern fare, hearty and filling. Castor ate with proper manners, engaging in light conversation, playing the perfect guest.
But his real attention was on observation.
Catelyn's warmth toward her children, except for Jon—every time the bastard spoke, her face closed slightly.
Exploitable
Robb trying desperately to seem mature, asking questions about warfare and training. Jon quiet but clearly intelligent, watching everything. Arya arguing with her septa about something, getting scolded. Bran asking a thousand questions about the soldiers he'd seen.
And Sansa.
She sat three seats away, perfect posture, perfect manners, stealing glances at him when she thought no one was looking. She'd dressed carefully—a dress of ice-blue that matched her eyes, her hair elaborately braided. Trying to look older, probably.
Castor waited until there was a lull in conversation, then addressed her directly. "Lady Sansa, I hear from Lord Stark that you're quite skilled with needlework."
She startled, face flushing. "I—yes, my lord. I enjoy it."
"What are you working on currently?"
"A, um, a banner for my father. With the direwolf sigil." Her voice was soft, uncertain. "It's not finished yet."
"I'm sure it's beautiful. Art takes time." He smiled, warm and appropriate. "Do you enjoy other crafts as well?"
"I like singing, my lord. And reading stories."
"Stories. What kind?"
Her eyes lit up slightly. "Songs of knights and ladies. Tales of honor and courage."
Of course you do.
"Those are worth knowing," Castor said seriously.
"They teach us what we should aspire to be. A knight who fights for honor, a lady who exemplifies grace. These things matter, even in the cold North."
She smiled, really smiled, and it transformed her young face. "Most people think such things are silly."
"Most people lack imagination." He gestured vaguely. "The North can be hard, Lady Sansa. Sometimes beauty and grace are what remind us we're more than just survivors. Never apologize for appreciating them."
Catelyn was watching this exchange with narrowed eyes. Castor ignored her, focused entirely on Sansa, making her feel seen and valued in a way ten-year-old girls desperately craved.
"Thank you, my lord," Sansa said quietly. "That's... kind of you to say."
"I'm simply being honest."
He turned back to his meal, letting the conversation flow elsewhere, but he'd felt the hook set deeper. Sansa would think about that conversation. About the young lord who'd treated her like an adult, who'd valued her interests instead of dismissing them.
Robb leaned forward, clearly emboldened by wine. "Lord Bolton, is it true you've built a standing army? Father mentioned it."
"It's true. Two hundred men, permanently armed and trained."
"How do you train them? What formations do you use?"
Castor spent the next while discussing military tactics with Robb, treating the boy with respect but subtly demonstrating superior knowledge. Robb absorbed it like a sponge, clearly impressed.
So easy. Give him attention his father's too busy to provide, and he's yours.
Jon Snow spoke less, but when he did, his comments were sharp and observant. Castor made sure to address him as Ned's son rather than highlighting bastard status—a deliberate choice that didn't go unnoticed. Jon's guarded expression eased slightly.
Another piece positioned.
Midway through the feast, servants brought out barrels of Dreadfort Black. The hall's noise level dropped as people tasted it, then rose again with appreciative murmurs.
"Seven hells," one of Ned's bannermen called out. "This is strong!"
"Three times normal potency," Castor confirmed. "One cup of that is worth three of regular ale. Makes it economical for winter stores."
"Makes it dangerous for feast nights," another lord laughed.
"Then drink carefully," Castor suggested with a slight smile.
The ale was a success. By the end of the meal, half the hall was singing its praises, and the other half was too drunk to sing anything.
As entertainment began—singers, a storyteller—Castor caught Sansa looking at him again. This time, when their eyes met, he didn't look away immediately.
Just held her gaze for a three-count, something unreadable in his expression, before turning to speak with Ned.
She blushed furiously and stared at her plate for the next ten minutes.
Two years, little dove.
Just two years and I'll have you on your back in the Dreadfort, screaming my name while your father's corpse rots wherever the game leaves it.
And you'll think it's love.
_________________________________________
After the feast, Castor excused himself for air.
The hall was too warm, too loud, and he needed to think.
The godswood was silent and cold, ancient weirwoods standing like sentinels in the dark. The heart tree loomed before him, bone-white bark, blood-red leaves, that face carved deep. Watching. Judging.
He stood before it, breath steaming.
"Do you pray, Lord Bolton?"
Castor turned. Jon Snow stood at the edge of the clearing, looking uncertain.
"No," Castor said simply. "Do you?"
"Sometimes. When I don't know what else to do." Jon stepped closer, cautious.
"The gods don't seem to listen much."
"They don't. Either they're not there, or they don't care." Castor looked back at the tree. "I prefer to rely on myself."
Jon absorbed that, clearly unsure how to respond to such casual blasphemy. "You're... different from what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"A Bolton." Jon shrugged. "Cruel. Dangerous. Like the stories."
"I am dangerous," Castor said calmly. "Just not in the ways stories talk about. Cruelty for its own sake is wasteful. I prefer efficiency."
"That's still not reassuring."
"It's honest." Castor turned to face him fully. "You're a bastard. That means you understand what it's like when circumstances of birth limit you. I'm a Bolton. Same problem, different reason. Our ancestors' choices haunt us."
Jon looked surprised. "You're comparing being a Bolton to being a bastard?"
"Why not? Both mean people judge us before we speak. Both mean we have to work harder to prove ourselves." Castor tilted his head. "But here's what I've learned: circumstances don't define capability. What you do with what you're given—that's what matters."
"My father says something similar."
"Your father is a wise man. He sees worth where others see only circumstance." Castor paused deliberately.
"Not everyone is that generous."
Jon's face tightened. He knew exactly who Castor meant—Catelyn, who'd never accepted him, never would.
"Lady Stark has her reasons," Jon said quietly.
"I'm sure. But they're her reasons, not yours. You didn't choose to be born." Castor's voice was almost gentle.
"Never apologize for existing, Jon Snow. You're here. Make that mean something."
For a moment, Jon just stared at him. Then, hesitantly: "Thank you. That's... no one's ever put it like that."
"Most people don't think clearly about these things. They react emotionally." Castor smiled slightly. "I prefer logic."
They talked for a while longer—about training, about duty, about the Wall where bastards sometimes went to find purpose. Castor said all the right things, treating Jon with the respect the boy craved, making him feel seen and valued.
Another piece positioned on the board.
When Jon finally left, Castor stood alone in the godswood for a few minutes more, reviewing the day's work.
Ned: Impressed and cautiously hopeful.
Robb: Admiring and eager to learn.
Jon: Grateful for respect.
Sansa: Smitten in a childish way.
Catelyn: Suspicious but unable to articulate why.
All proceeding perfectly.
He returned to his chambers thinking about tomorrow. The oath ceremony. More conversations. More positioning.
And then the night took an unexpected turn.