The Blood Of The Dragon (IV)

Dawn came grey and cold

Castor woke alone—Bethany had slipped away before first light as planned, returning to her chambers via hidden passages to maintain appearances.

Evidence of their coupling stained the furs: blood from torn tissue, mixed fluids, the scent of sex and nightbloom oil still heavy in the air.

He rose, washed in cold water from a basin, dressed in clean blacks.

Then he descended via the hidden passages to the main keep, emerging in a deserted corridor.

Servants were just beginning morning routines—banking fires, preparing breakfast, the quiet industry of a household coming to life.

Castor found Jeren, one of his five core servants—the network's captain, a thin man of thirty with clever eyes and a talent for poisons learned from a disgraced maester.

They met in a storage alcove, conversation too quiet to carry.

"It's time," Castor said simply.Jeren nodded once.

No questions, no hesitation.

Loyalty bought through years of careful cultivation. "The lord's morning leech treatment. Maester Wendimer always prepares the infusion personally, but I can access the ingredients. What's your preference?"

"Something that mimics natural causes. Heart failure. He's been complaining of chest pains for weeks—everyone knows leeching weakens the heart eventually. Make it look like the strain finally broke him."

"Widow's blood mixed with essence of nightshade," Jeren suggested. "Tasteless in wine, kills within hours. Symptoms present as cardiac arrest. The maester will see what he expects to see."

"Do it. And ensure the goblet is destroyed afterward. I want no traces."

Jeren melted back into the shadows.

Castor continued to the great hall, where a subdued breakfast was being laid out—far simpler than the feast, just bread and cheese and cold meats for those guests still trapped by the storm.

Roose appeared at his usual hour, looking no different than always: pale, composed, quietly commanding.

He nodded to his son, took his seat, and began eating.

A servant brought his special morning infusion—wine fortified with leech blood and herbs, supposedly vitalizing.

Castor watched his father drain the goblet, forced his expression to remain neutral.

Three hours later, shouts echoed from the lord's solar.

By midday, Maester Wendimer had pronounced Lord Roose Bolton dead of natural causes—heart failure brought on by excessive leeching and the strain of winter cold.

The body was laid out in the great hall, the flayed man banner draped across his chest.

Castor stood beside the bier, expression set in appropriate grief, accepting condolences from shocked bannermen and guests. Inside, he felt nothing but cold satisfaction. One obstacle removed.

Lady Bethany appeared, veiled in black, playing the grieving widow to perfection. But when their hands touched in a gesture meant to appear comforting, her fingers squeezed his, nails digging in—a silent message of complicity and desire.

The rites were conducted swiftly.

Northern custom demanded burial before the body froze.

By the Hour of the Eel, Roose Bolton lay in the Dreadfort's crypts beside his ancestors, and Castor was summoned before the gathered bannermen.

"As eldest son and heir," Lord Cerwyn intoned, speaking on behalf of the assembled lords,

"Castor Bolton is named Lord of the Dreadfort and Warden of this stretch of the North. All oaths sworn to Lord Roose now transfer to Lord Castor.

Do any here dispute this succession?"

Silence.

Castor met each lord's eyes in turn, saw calculation rather than challenge.

He was young, but he'd been trained. Tested.

The succession was clean.

"Then kneel, lords, and swear your oaths anew."

One by one, they knelt.

Pledged their spears and shields.

Promised loyalty.

Castor accepted each oath with grave courtesy, cementing his rule.

When the last lord had risen and departed, Castor stood alone in the empty hall—no, not alone.

Bethany materialized from the shadows, her veil lifted, violet eyes luminous.

"My lord," she murmured, and the title carried layers of meaning.

He pulled her close, kissed her hard, tasting tears—relief, grief, mad joy. "It's done. The Dreadfort is ours. The North will be next."

"And if I'm pregnant?" Her hand covered her belly, hope and fear warring on her face.

"Then our dynasty begins now." He covered her hand with his. "I'll claim the child as mine. Let them whisper. Fear keeps them obedient."

She shivered, but nodded. "What now?"

"Now," Castor said, eyes distant, seeing a future written in blood and fire, "we build an empire. One seduction, one conquest, one bloody step at a time."

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