The knock came just past midnight—soft, deliberate, barely audible.Catelyn had been lying awake, staring at the ceiling, knowing the knock would come. Ned had gone to solar early midnight.
Knowing she should ignore it, bar the door, pretend to sleep.
Knowing she wouldn't.
She rose from the chair where she'd been sitting, pulled her robe over her nightgown—thicker than last night's, more covering, as if fabric could protect her from what was about to happen.
She opened the door.
Castor stood in the shadows, dressed for travel—boots, riding leathers, hair tied back. Leaving at dawn, as he'd said. This was goodbye.
"We should talk," he said quietly. "Before I leave."
"There's nothing to talk about." But she stepped aside anyway, let him in, closed the door with a soft click that felt like sealing her fate.
He moved to the window, looked out at the winter night. Stars cold and distant above Winterfell's walls. "You did well today. At the signing. Supporting the betrothal publicly."
"I did what you forced me to do." Her voice was bitter.
"Did I?" He turned to face her, and in the dim moonlight his eyes were almost silver. "Force you? You could have refused at any point, Cat. Could have told Ned everything. Taken your chances with truth and scandal."
"You threatened—"
"I gave you an excuse." He stepped closer. "A reason to do what part of you already wanted."
"I didn't want to damn my daughter—
""Didn't you?" Closer still. "Think carefully before you answer. You supported the betrothal not just because you feared exposure. You supported it because you liked the idea. Liked knowing I'd be coming back. That this thing between us isn't over."
"You're mad—"
"Am I?" His hand came up, cupped her face. She should pull away. Didn't. "You've been thinking about it all day. About what we did. How it felt. Your body remembers even if your mind protests."
"No—" But it was a weak protest, unconvincing even to herself.
"Your body doesn't lie, Cat." His other hand found her waist, pulled her against him. She felt his cock already hardening through the leather. "And neither does mine. We both know why you're awake at midnight. Why you opened the door."
She meant to push him away. Meant to tell him to leave, that this was wrong, that she wouldn't betray her family again.
Instead, she kissed him.
Desperate, hungry, hating herself but unable to stop. Her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer while her mind screamed at her to stop, to run, to do anything except this.
He kissed her back, brutal and claiming, one hand tangling in her unbound hair. When they broke apart, both breathing hard, he looked at her with dark satisfaction.
"Say it," he commanded. "Say what you want. No more pretending."
"I want..." She couldn't. Couldn't voice the shameful desire burning through her.
"Say it or I leave. Right now, tonight. And I never touch you again. You'll watch me court Sansa for four years, always wondering what you gave up."
The threat of that—never feeling this again, never having this darkness that made her feel alive—terrified her more than anything.
"I want you to..." She swallowed hard. "To bed me. Like before. I want to feel it again."
"Feel what?"
The tears came then, shame and arousal mixed together. "What you made me feel. What Ned never—" She couldn't finish."
Say it clearly. I want to hear you admit it."
"You made me feel pleasure!" The words burst out, anguished. "Real pleasure, not just dutiful acceptance. You made me come like I never have in fifteen years of marriage. And I've been thinking about it constantly. At the signing, at dinner, lying beside my husband—I've been thinking about your hands on me, your cock inside me, the way you made me scream. I'm damned for wanting it and I don't care anymore. Just... please..."
"Good girl." He smiled, approving. "Finally honest."
She stripped herself this time, quickly, desperately, beyond shame now. Let the robe and nightgown fall in a puddle of fabric. Climbed onto the bed and spread her legs without being told, without hesitation.
"Please," she heard herself beg. "I've been aching for this all day. Couldn't stop thinking about it. Every time I looked at you I remembered—"
He shed his clothes efficiently, and she watched hungrily—pale skin, lean muscle, that cock she'd been dreaming about standing hard and thick.
He knelt between her thighs, positioned himself, but didn't enter yet. Just looked at her spread and ready and begging.
"Tell me what you did today," he said. "Tell me how you convinced your daughter to marry the man who fucked her mother."
"I told her—please—I told her you were courteous, capable—gods, please—that she'd be lucky—"
"While thinking about my cock?"
"Yes." The admission came out as a sob. "Yes, I thought about you inside me while I praised you to my daughter. I'm a terrible mother. I gave her to you while wanting you for myself.
""You're a practical mother." He pushed in slowly, filling her, and her back arched. "Ahhh~" The sound tore from her throat, need and relief mixed.
"You saw reality and adapted. That's not weakness. That's intelligence."
He began moving, slow deep strokes that made her gasp with each one. "Ah~ gods ~ah~ yes ~mmm~"
"Your husband thinks you're virtuous," Castor continued, fucking her steadily. "Honorable. Dutiful. But here you are, spreading your legs for me the night after you signed away your daughter. What does that make you?"
"Ahh~ damned ~nnh~ sinful ~sevens~" She was sobbing and moaning together now. "I'm everything the septas warned about ~ahh~ weak flesh ~mmm~ base desires ~oh~"
"You're honest." He picked up the pace, drove deeper. "Most people lie to themselves about what they want. You've stopped lying."
His hand found the pearl between her legs, rubbed circles, and she screamed—"AHHH~!"—hips bucking wildly.
"That's right. Come for me. Show me what Lord Stark's dutiful wife looks like when she betrays everything she claims to believe."
"AHH~! YES~! OH GODS~!" She came hard, walls clenching, pleasure crashing through her like a wave.
He didn't stop. Just fucked her through it, kept the pressure on her pearl, drove her higher.
"Too much~! Can't—ahh~!—please—nnh~"
"You can. And you will." Relentless. "Come again."
"AHH~! AHH~! SEVEN SAVE ME~!" The second orgasm tore through her, even stronger, leaving her shaking and incoherent.
Only then did he let himself finish—buried deep, cock pulsing, flooding her with his seed while she trembled beneath him.They lay tangled afterward, sweaty and satisfied, both breathing hard.
"When you visit," she said quietly after her heart slowed, "to court Sansa..."
"Yes?"
"Come to my chambers. At night. Ned sleeps heavily—he won't know." The words came easier now, shame giving way to pragmatism. "You'll have me whenever you visit."
Castor laughed softly, almost fondly. "You're propositioning me. Planning adultery in advance."
"I'm being practical." She turned to face him, met his eyes. "You get Sansa in four years. Until then... until then you have me. Whenever you want. However you want."
"And what do you get, Catelyn?"
She flushed, but held his gaze. "This. What Ned can't give me. What I..." She swallowed. "What I need now. What I crave."
"Say it clearly.".
"I need you to fuck me." The crude word felt strange on her tongue, but fitting. "Regularly. Properly. The way you have. Because now that I know what it can be like... I can't go back to not knowing. I can't pretend Ned's gentle coupling is enough anymore."
He stroked her hair, almost tender. "You understand what this makes you?"
"Yes." Tears gathered but didn't fall. "Your whore. Your accomplice in my daughter's fate. A traitor to my marriage vows and my family. An adulteress."
"But?"
"But I can't stop wanting it." The admission broke something in her, some last piece of resistance. "You corrupted me. Showed me pleasures the septas said were sinful. Made my flesh crave what my honor forbids. And now I'm yours in this—in this one terrible way."
He kissed her then, surprisingly gentle. "You'll have years of this, Catelyn. Secret meetings when I visit. Me in your bed while your husband sleeps unknowing. And when I finally take Sansa to the marriage bed... you'll remember that you helped make it happen. That every time you spread your legs for me, you were sealing her fate."
"I know." She closed her eyes. "The gods will judge me for it. I'll burn in seven hells or wander as a restless spirit. But I can't... I can't give this up. What does that make me?"
"Human," he said simply. "Honest about your desires instead of hiding behind false virtue."
He left before dawn, slipping through dark corridors like a shadow. No one saw him leave her chambers. No one would ever know.
Catelyn lay alone afterward, feeling his seed leak from her, and tried to understand what she'd become.
She should feel destroyed. Victimized. Broken.
Instead, she felt awake. Alive. More herself than she'd been in years of dutiful marriage and motherhood.
And when she imagined the next four years—Castor visiting to court Sansa publicly while fucking Catelyn privately—part of her trembled with anticipation rather than horror.
The septas were right. Women's flesh is weak. We fall easier than men, crave sin more deeply.
But maybe that wasn't weakness. Maybe it was just... truth.
She rose, washed herself thoroughly, changed the bedding, erased all evidence of what had happened. Then she climbed back into bed beside Ned, who slept on peacefully, never knowing his wife had just sealed a bargain with the devil.
***
Dawn came cold and grey, frost painting the windows in delicate patterns. The Bolton column assembled in the courtyard—fifty soldiers in perfect formation, horses stamping and breathing steam, wagons loaded, pink banners stirring in the wind.
The Stark family gathered to see them off, bundled in furs against the morning chill. Ned in his lord's grey and white, children beside him in order of age, Catelyn standing slightly apart as was becoming her habit.
Castor checked his horse's tack with practiced hands, spoke briefly with Hareth and Jeren about the journey home, then approached the Starks for formal farewell.
"Lord Stark, thank you for your hospitality." He clasped Ned's arm in the warrior's grip. "This visit has been more fruitful than I dared hope. You've shown me what true Northern honor looks like."
"You're family now, Castor. Or will be soon enough." Ned's smile was genuine, warm. "Visit again when spring comes. As my future goodson, these gates are always open to you."
"I will, my lord. Perhaps next time? I'd like to bring my mother to meet Lady Sansa formally. She will want to know her future gooddaughter."
"We'll look forward to it."
Robb stepped forward, trying to match his father's lordly bearing. "Next time, you'll show me your training methods properly, yes? Let me drill with your men?"
"Absolutely." Castor grinned. "Though I warn you, they're well-trained. You'll have to work hard to impress them."
The challenge in his voice made Robb's eyes light up. "I will. I'll make you proud, goodbrother."
Jon Snow offered a respectful nod from slightly behind his trueborn siblings. "Safe travels, Lord Bolton."
"Jon." Castor acknowledged him warmly. "Remember what we discussed. You have more worth than your birth suggests. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
The bastard's face showed surprise and gratitude in equal measure. Another small kindness that would be remembered, treasured.
Then Sansa approached, shy and nervous, clutching a small cloth bundle. Her septa hovered behind her, ensuring propriety.
"My lord, I... I made this for you last night. To remember Winterfell by." She held out the bundle with trembling hands.
He unwrapped it carefully—a handkerchief, exquisitely embroidered. The Stark direwolf and Bolton flayed man intertwined in silver and grey thread, surrounded by winter roses. Delicate work that must have taken her hours by candlelight.
"Lady Sansa, this is beautiful." He seemed genuinely moved, which made the performance perfect. "I'll treasure it always. Thank you."
Her face lit up with pleasure. "Will you write to me? As you promised?"
"Every fortnight without fail. I'll tell you about the Dreadfort, about my work rebuilding and reforming. And you must write back—tell me about your studies, your interests, what you're reading and learning." He bowed over her hand with courtly grace. "Four years will pass quickly, my lady. And then we'll begin our life together."
"I'll be ready," Sansa said with shy determination. "I'll learn everything I need to know to be a good Lady of the Dreadfort."
"You're already everything you need to be." He released her hand, stepped back proper distance. "Kind, graceful, intelligent. I'm the one who must prove worthy of you."
Catelyn watched this interaction from several paces away, arms crossed, expression carefully neutral. He was perfect with Sansa—courteous, appropriate, kind. Everything a betrothed lord should be.
Because he was a perfect predator who knew exactly how to play his prey.
Finally, he turned to Catelyn. Bowed formally, the gesture of a guest to his hostess.
"Lady Stark, thank you for your hospitality and wisdom. You've welcomed me into your home and your family with grace I don't deserve."
Their eyes met. Just for a heartbeat. And in that moment, a whole silent conversation passed between them.
I own you now. In ways your husband never will.
I know. Gods help me, I know.
I'll return soon.
I'll be waiting.
Then the moment passed and she said aloud, voice steady: "You're always welcome here, Lord Bolton. Safe travels."
"Thank you, my lady."
He mounted his horse in one fluid motion, settled into the saddle, took up the reins. Raised his hand in farewell.
The column began moving—soldiers in formation, wagons creaking, banners streaming. Professional and disciplined, a display of Bolton power wrapped in courtesy.
Sansa waved enthusiastically until they were out of sight. Robb and Bran watched the soldiers with admiration. Jon stood quiet and thoughtful. Ned looked satisfied, proud of his diplomatic achievement.
And Catelyn stood apart, watching the gates close, feeling the ache between her legs and the warmth of his seed still inside her from last night.
The gates closed with a heavy thud.
"Four years seems so long," Sansa said wistfully. "Until I see him again."
They went inside, returning to normal routines—breakfast, lessons, duties. Life continuing as it always had.
Only Catelyn lingered in the courtyard for a moment longer, staring at the closed gates.
She should be horrified. Should be planning how to stop this, how to protect Sansa, how to confess everything to Ned and beg forgiveness.
Instead, she was counting days. Days until Castor Bolton returned to Winterfell. Ninety nights until she felt his hands on her again, his cock inside her, his whispered corruption in her ear.
What have I become?
She went inside, ready to play the dutiful wife and mother for another day.
While counting the hours until she could be something else entirely.
***
CHAPTER END