The feast stretched on for hours, as Northern feasts always did—endurance tests disguised as hospitality.
Bards sang of the Age of Heroes, of the Red Kings who'd ruled from the Dreadfort before the Starks bent them to submission.
Songs of flaying and blood and winter that never ended.
The guests grew progressively drunker, voices rising, laughter becoming raucous.
Lord Cerwyn had to be helped from the hall by his squire, his pretty wife trailing behind with a martyred expression that Castor filed away for future exploitation.
As midnight approached, the guests began retiring to chambers prepared for them—guest quarters in the outer keep, far enough from the family's private wings to ensure privacy.
The ladies departed first, citing exhaustion from the cold journey.
Then the lords, one by one, until only the most dedicated drinkers remained hunched over the tables.
Roose rose smoothly, a signal that the feast was officially concluded. "Thank you all for honoring my son's nameday," he said in that quiet, carrying voice.
"The storm shows no sign of breaking. You're welcome to remain as long as necessary."
Translation: You're trapped here, and I'm watching you.
The remaining guests mumbled thanks and staggered off.
Roose turned to Castor, laying one pale hand on his son's shoulder—the closest thing to paternal affection he ever displayed.
"Sixteen. A man grown, by Northern law.
You've done well, son.
Better than I'd hoped. We'll speak tomorrow about expanding your responsibilities.
There are... projects... that require supervision."
The flaying chambers, Castor understood. He's going to start training me in the family art.
"I'm honored, Father. I'll be ready."
"Good." Roose's eyes slid to Bethany, who stood gracefully, smoothing her skirts. "Wife. To bed. The hour is late."
She inclined her head obediently. "Of course, my lord."
Roose departed without further ceremony, two guards flanking him as he disappeared into the private corridors.
His chambers were in the lord's tower, three levels up, accessible only by a single staircase easily guarded.
Secure. Isolated.
Exactly where Castor needed him to be.
The hall emptied.
Servants moved efficiently, clearing tables, banking fires to embers.
Castor remained at the high table, nursing the last of his wine, projecting the image of a young lord reluctant to let his nameday end.
In truth, he was counting heartbeats, calculating timing.
Bethany lingered near the hearth, ostensibly warming her hands, but her eyes kept flicking to him.
The flush had spread from her cheeks down her neck, disappearing beneath the bodice of her gown.
Her breathing was shallow, rapid. She was aroused just from proximity, from anticipation of what was coming.
Castor let the silence stretch until the last servant departed. Then he stood, crossed to her in three long strides, backed her against the stone mantle.
No one could see—the angle was wrong, the shadows too deep.
His hand slid up her side, thumb brushing the underside of her breast through velvet.
She gasped, eyes flying wide.
"Meet me," he breathed against her ear,
"In the old tower chamber. East wing, fourth level.
After the moon crests the eastern battlement—one hour from now. Wear the red silk. The one from Lys." His hand squeezed, possessive, then slid lower to her hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
"No shift beneath. And bring the oil. The warming kind."
Her breath hitched, a small desperate sound. "Castor... your father..."
"Will be asleep. Drugged, if necessary." He nipped her earlobe, felt her shiver. "This is happening, Mother. Tonight, I claim what's mine. Tonight, I breed you."
The crude language made her whimper, thighs clenching beneath her skirts. She was already wet, he knew.
Already aching for it.
Four years of conditioning, of breaking down barriers and normalizing the unthinkable, had brought them to this moment.
"One hour," he repeated, releasing her abruptly and stepping back. "Don't be late. And don't make me hunt you down. You won't like what happens if I have to drag you there."
The threat was calculated, edged with dark promise.
Her violet eyes glazed with something between fear and lust—the perfect combination.
She nodded jerkily, hands fluttering to her throat where he could see her pulse hammering.
Then she fled, skirts rustling, disappearing into the corridors that led to the lady's chambers.
Castor smiled in the empty hall. Then he, too, departed—but not toward his own chambers.
Instead, he took a different route, one known only to the Boltons: a hidden panel behind a tapestry depicting th
e flaying of a Stark king, stone grinding on counterweights as it swung inward to reveal a narrow passage.
These tunnels honeycombed the Dreadfort, remnants of the Age of Heroes when the castle had been besieged for two years by a coalition of rival houses.
Secret ways to move unseen, to strike from unexpected angles, to escape if the walls were breached.
Castor used them now to reach the old tower chamber unobserved.
The chamber was a relic from an earlier time, long disused, its furniture shrouded in dust until Castor had spent the last month preparing it.
High in the eastern wing, overlooking the Wolfswood through narrow windows, accessible by a single spiral stair that saw no traffic.
Perfect privacy
Perfect isolation
He'd transformed it into a temple of depravity.
Braziers burned in the corners, fueled by scented wood imported from Essos—myrrh and musk and something darker, a scent that thickened the air and heated the blood.
Furs piled the floor three deep: shadowcat and bear and wolf, soft as sin beneath bare skin.
The massive four-poster bed dominated the center, its frame carved from ancient weirwood, pale and bloodstained from some long-forgotten sacrifice.
Fresh furs covered the mattress, and silken ropes—dyed the pink of flayed skin—coiled artfully around the posts, disguised as decorative trim but knotted in ways that would hold struggling weight.
Iron rings were embedded in the bedposts and floor, hidden by strategic fur placement.
On a side table: a decanter of Arbor gold, finest vintage, stolen from his father's stores.
Two goblets of Myrish glass.
And a vial of Lysene oil, the expensive kind that warmed on contact, scented with essence of nightbloom—a flower that bloomed only under moonlight and was said to drive women into lustful frenzy.
The windows were shuttered against the storm, but snow still hissed against the wood, wind keening like a chorus of the damned.
Castor stripped methodically, folding his clothes and setting them aside.
Naked, he was a work of art sculpted in pale marble—every muscle defined, scars from training crisscrossing his torso like a warrior's resume, the V of his hips pointing downward to his cock, which hung heavy and thick even soft, promising brutal size when roused.
He poured himself wine, drank, let the warmth spread through his veins.
Then he waited, standing near the hearth, firelight painting his body in shades of gold and shadow.
Anticipation was a drug more potent than any poppy.
His mind wandered through possibilities: positions, degradations, the exact words he would use to break down her last resistances.
Would she cry?
Beg?
Fight at the last moment, forcing him to pin her down and take what was his by right?
The thought sent a pulse of heat to his groin, cock beginning to stir.
Footsteps on the spiral stair—hesitant, stopping once, then continuing. The door creaked open.
Bethany slipped inside, cloaked in heavy wool against the cold.
Snowflakes dusted her silver hair like a crown of diamonds, melting as she stepped into the warmth.
She pushed back her hood, violet eyes wide and wild, cheeks flushed, lips parted.
With trembling hands, she barred the door—a heavy oaken beam sliding into iron brackets, ensuring absolute privacy.
Then she turned and let the cloak fall.
Castor's breath stilled.
She'd obeyed perfectly.
The red silk clung to her body like liquid sin, so sheer it might as well have been mist—every curve visible, every shadow revealed.
The gown plunged between her breasts nearly to her navel, held by a single silver chain, the fabric draping over her nipples but doing nothing to hide their dark peaks, already pebbled hard.
Slits ran from ankle to hip on both sides, baring the pale length of her legs with each breath, and at the apex of her thighs... nothing.
No shift, no smallclothes. Just smooth, bare skin and the shadow of her sex, glistening faintly in the firelight.
She'd shaved as he'd commanded weeks ago—he could see the complete absence of silver curls, her cunt lips puffy and exposed, a trail of arousal already slicking the inside of her thigh.
Around her neck, on a delicate chain, hung the vial of warming oil, nestled between her breasts like an offering to obscene gods.
"Castor," she whispered, his name a prayer and a plea.
He crossed the chamber in three strides, silent as a hunting cat, and seized her throat—not choking, but claiming, thumb pressed to her pulse so she felt his control over her life.
She gasped, head tilting back automatically, exposing her neck in submission.
"You're late," he growled, though she wasn't. "Did you hesitate? Think about running?"
"N-no. I... I had to wait for the guards to change—"
He squeezed, cutting off her words. "Lies. I can feel your pulse. Racing. You hesitated."
His other hand slid down, cupping her breast roughly through the silk, thumb scraping her nipple until she whimpered.
"Part of you still thinks this is wrong. Still thinks the gods will strike you down for letting your son fuck you."
Tears welled in her eyes—not from pain, but from the brutal accuracy. "I... I'm trying..."
"Not hard enough." He released her throat, grabbed the chain holding the oil vial, and yanked.
It snapped, vial tumbling into his palm.
Oil spilled across her breasts in a warm, slick stream, soaking the silk, making it cling even tighter as the liquid dripped down her belly to pool at her slit.
The scent of nightbloom exploded, thick and cloying, and he watched her pupils dilate as the aphrodisiac properties took hold.
She swayed, hands coming up to grip his arms for balance. "Gods... what..."
"Just oil. To make you slicker." He smeared it across her breasts with rough hands, pinching her nipples viciously, twisting until she cried out.
"Though you hardly need help, do you? Already dripping for me. Already aching for your son's cock."
"Yes," she sobbed, the admission ripped from her.
"Yes, gods help me, yes."
He spun her, slammed her front against the rough stone wall beside the hearth, her cheek pressed to cold rock.
The red silk tore under brutal hands—rent from neckline to hem, shreds fluttering to the floor like ruined dreams.
Naked now, fully exposed, she arched instinctively, ass pushing back toward him.
Castor palmed her ass cheeks, spreading her wide, exposing both holes.
Her cunt gaped slightly, pink and swollen, slick arousal coating her inner thighs.
Above it, her puckered rosebud twitched, virgin tight. He gathered saliva and spat directly on that forbidden hole, watched it slide down.
She jolted, gasping. "Not—not there—"
"Everywhere," he corrected, one oil-slick finger circling her rim, pressing just enough to threaten. "Every hole. Every part of you. Mine to use."
He didn't breach her ass—not tonight, that corruption would come later—but the threat made her moan, made her cunt clench on nothing.
"Turn around," he ordered, stepping back.
She obeyed shakily, turning to face him, back pressed to stone.
Her eyes dropped to his cock—now fully hard, jutting from his groin like a weapon. Nine inches of thick, veined flesh, the head flared and angry purple, already weeping clear fluid.
Too big for her, probably. It had been years since Roose had touched her, and even then, his father's cock was smaller, less imposing.
This would hurt. And that was exactly how Castor wanted it.