Blood And Gold (1)

The Weeping Water ran cold and clear beside the column, its voice a constant murmur beneath the creak of wagon wheels and the steady rhythm of hooves on hard-packed earth.

Two days from Winterfell, and Castor Bolton felt the satisfaction of a campaign well executed settling into his bones like the warmth of good wine.

Fifty men rode with him, veterans all, their faces weathered and hard beneath steel helms. They'd witnessed things in Winterfell's halls—things that would never be spoken of, not if they valued the skin on their backs.

Lord Eddard Stark thought his daughter courted by a reformed young Bolton. Lady Catelyn thought her shame buried in darkness and wine.

Both lived in their comfortable delusions while Castor carried away the prizes he'd claimed.

The wagon creaked particularly loud over a rough patch of road. Inside, hidden behind leather curtains, Kyra huddled among the supply casks.

The serving girl from Winterfell had climbed into that wagon at his command after he'd taken her maidenhead in a shadowed alcove, her blood still wet on her thighs.

She'd said nothing when he'd whispered his instructions.

She'd only nodded, eyes wide and frightened, and disappeared into the transport bound for the Dreadfort.

Another possession acquired, another piece moved on the board.

"My lord." Jeren guided his mount closer, the lieutenant's scarred face impassive as always. "We'll make the eastern ford by nightfall if we maintain pace."

"No." Castor's gaze had fixed on the river, on something that had caught his attention leagues back and grown more pronounced with each passing mile. "We're changing course."

Jeren's eyes narrowed fractionally—the only sign of surprise the veteran ever showed. "My lord?"

Castor dismounted in one fluid motion, boots splashing into the shallow edge where the Weeping Water spread across smooth stones.

The water ran clear over gravel bars, white stones worn smooth by countless years of current. But there, catching the afternoon light—that faint yellowish tint that didn't belong.

He knelt, the cold water soaking through his breeches, and picked up a stone. Turned it in his palm. Flecks of gold caught the sun, tiny but unmistakable.

His heart hammered against his ribs even as his face remained perfectly calm.

In his previous life, he'd read about this—placer deposits, gold worn from source veins and carried downstream.

The books never mentioned the Lonely Hills held wealth, but then, the books never mentioned most of what made men truly rich.

"Hareth." He called to the scarred veteran without looking up. "Where does this river begin?"

The grizzled soldier urged his horse closer to the bank. "The Lonely Hills, my lord. Two, maybe three days north. Barren lands. No holdfasts, no villages. Just rock and wind."

"And why does no one settle there?"

Hareth shifted in his saddle. "Old stories say they're cursed. Men who venture deep don't come back. Animals avoid the heart of them. It's dead land, my lord."

Castor smiled, though his back was turned so none could see. Fear kept people away better than walls. If the hills were truly empty, truly avoided...

"We're going north."

"My lord?" Jeren had dismounted as well, standing at respectful distance. "The Dreadfort—"

"Will still be there in a week." Castor straightened, the gold-flecked stone clutched in his fist.

"I'm surveying these lands. For iron deposits." The lie came smooth as silk.

"The North will need more steel if winter comes hard as the maesters predict. If these hills hold ore, House Bolton will be the one to exploit it."

He could see them processing this—Jeren, Hareth, the others close enough to hear.

It made sense.

It was prudent.

It was exactly what a reformed young lord thinking of his house's future would do.

None of them knew what gold looked like in raw form.

None of them would question.

"Walton."

The senior man-at-arms rode forward.

"Take ten men ahead. Scout the terrain. We follow the river north into the hills. Anyone who speaks of this journey to anyone outside our company will be flayed. Slowly. Make sure the men understand."

"Aye, my lord." Walton's voice carried no emotion. He'd served House Bolton long enough to know that threats were never idle.

The column turned north, leaving the road for rougher ground that paralleled the Weeping Water upstream. Castor remounted, his mind racing behind calm eyes.

If the source vein was rich enough, if he could extract it in secret, if he could convert it to usable wealth without questions... The possibilities stretched before him like an unrolled map.

In the wagon, Kyra remained silent.

She'd learned quickly that silence was survival.

That suited Castor perfectly.

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