***
Catelyn woke to grey dawn light and the sound of Ned breathing beside her. For a moment she lay still, staring at the ceiling, feeling the ache between her legs—the reminder of what had happened in Castor Bolton's chambers.
She'd come back here afterward. Washed herself with shaking hands in water gone cold. Changed her nightgown—the old one reeked of sex and sin. Climbed into bed beside her sleeping husband and lain awake for hours, mind spinning with shame.
He forced me. He threatened my family. I had no choice.
Except some traitorous part of her whispered otherwise. She'd kissed him back. Moved beneath him. Her body had welcomed his invasion, slick and eager despite her mind's protests.
The flesh is weak. Even the maesters teach so. Bodies respond to touch regardless of the heart's desires.
But her body had done more than respond—it had betrayed her utterly. Opened for him. Clenched around him. Found pleasure in violation that Ned's gentle coupling had never drawn from her in fifteen years of marriage.
The shame of that burned worse than anything else.
She pressed her thighs together, felt the answering warmth, and wanted to weep.
Seven above, what's wrong with me? What kind of wife am I? What kind of mother?
Ned stirred, opened his eyes. "Cat? You're awake early."
"Couldn't sleep." True enough.
He propped himself on one elbow, concerned. "Are you unwell? You seemed distant yesterday evening."
"Just tired from hosting. So many duties." She managed a smile that felt like cracking ice.
Ned kissed her forehead, familiar and gentle. "You've been a perfect lady as always. Lord Bolton has been most impressed with Winterfell's hospitality."
The name made her flinch. Ned didn't notice, was already rising, reaching for his clothes.
"I need to speak with you today," he continued, pulling on his tunic. "About the future. About Sansa."
Catelyn's stomach dropped. "Sansa?"
"She's growing up, Cat. Nearly ready to flower. We need to consider her prospects, make arrangements." He buckled his belt. "But later. First, breakfast. Our guest leaves tomorrow—we should send him off well."
Our guest. The man who'd spent himself inside her last night while threatening to destroy her family if she spoke.
"Of course," Catelyn heard herself say, voice steady despite the churning in her gut.
***
The Great Hall was warm and busy with morning activity. Servants setting tables, guards changing shifts, the household waking to another day. The smell of fresh bread and bacon filled the air—normal, comforting, a mockery of how wrong everything had become.
The Stark family gathered at the high table—Ned at center, Catelyn beside him, the children arranged by age. Robb and Jon talking quietly about swordwork. Sansa perfect and poised as always, auburn hair elaborately braided. Arya already fidgeting, earning sharp looks from her septa. Bran chattering about climbing. Little Rickon fussing in his nurse's arms.
Normal. Safe. Everything Catelyn's life had been before a Bolton with violet eyes had walked through their gates and corrupted everything he touched.
Then he entered.
Lord Castor Bolton, dressed simply in black wool and leather, hair tied back, looking fresh and rested like he'd slept perfectly. Which he probably had. Monsters didn't lose sleep over their crimes.
"Lord Stark, Lady Stark." He bowed, proper and courteous. "Good morning."
"Lord Bolton. Please, sit." Ned gestured to the place of honor. "You leave tomorrow—we'll miss your company."
"You're too kind, my lord." Castor settled into his seat, accepted bread and salt with appropriate solemnity, looked completely at ease.
His eyes flicked to Catelyn. Just once. Just long enough for her to see the satisfaction there, the knowing amusement.
She looked away quickly, felt heat rise in her face.
The meal began. Bacon, porridge, fresh bread, winter berries preserved in honey. Catelyn picked at her plate, appetite gone, throat tight.
"Lady Stark, are you well?" Castor's voice, all false concern. "You've barely touched your food."
Everyone looked at her. She forced a smile. "I'm well enough, my lord. Thank you for your concern."
"Good. I'd hate to think Winterfell's hospitality had... exhausted you in any way." His tone was perfectly innocent.
The hidden meaning was clear. Catelyn gripped her cup hard enough that her knuckles went white.
Ned chuckled, oblivious. "The Dreadfort Black was stronger than most expected last night. Several lords were quite worse for wear this morning."
"It has that effect," Castor agreed smoothly. "One must be careful with it. Too much, and control slips away entirely. One might do things one wouldn't normally do."
Bastard. Catelyn stared at her plate, jaw tight.
Sansa, innocent of all subtext, addressed Castor shyly. "Will you truly leave tomorrow, my lord? So soon?"
"I'm afraid so, Lady Sansa. I have duties at the Dreadfort that have languished in my absence." He smiled at her, warm and appropriate. "But I've enjoyed my time here immensely. Your hospitality has been exceptional."
The girl blushed, pleased. "Perhaps you'll visit again?"
"I hope to, with your father's permission."
Ned nodded. "You're always welcome, Lord Bolton. In fact, I was hoping we might speak privately today. About the future and how our houses might work more closely together."
Castor's expression showed just the right amount of interested surprise. "I'm honored, my lord. Whenever suits your schedule."
"This afternoon, then. After I've heard petitions."
They finished breakfast with light conversation. Robb asked eager questions about training methods. Jon listened quietly, offering occasional observations. Arya complained about needlework lessons until Catelyn silenced her with a look. Normal family chaos.
And through it all, Catelyn felt Castor's presence like a weight pressing on her chest. Every time she glanced his direction, he was watching someone—Ned with calculation, Sansa with predatory patience, her with barely concealed triumph.
When the meal ended and people dispersed to their duties, Ned touched Catelyn's arm. "Walk with me?"
She followed him through the castle to the godswood, where the heart tree's carved face watched them with red eyes.
"I'm going to offer him Sansa," Ned said without preamble.
Catelyn's world tilted. "What?"
"A betrothal. Marriage when she's flowered and grown—say her fourteenth nameday." Ned's face was serious but satisfied. "It's a good match, Cat. Bolton is powerful, wealthy, and the boy seems genuinely reformed. Binding our houses this way... it ends centuries of mistrust. Makes the North unbreakable."
"Ned, he's a Bolton—"
"And she's a Stark. Together, they unite the two most powerful houses in the eastern North." He took her hands.
"I know you have concerns. History weighs heavy. But I've watched him these past days. He's not like the Bolton lords of old. He's thoughtful, capable, respectful. Sansa could do far worse."
Sansa could do far worse. The words echoed in Catelyn's head while images from last night flashed behind her eyes—Castor's hands on her body, his cock driving into her, his seed marking her while he threatened everything she loved.
"What if she refuses?" Catelyn managed, voice barely above a whisper.
"She won't. She'll do her duty, as you did when your father arranged our match." Ned squeezed her hands. "And I need your support in this, Cat. You're her mother. If you object, she'll be frightened, resistant. If you support it, she'll accept more easily. Will you help me with this?"
The trap closed around her like iron jaws snapping shut.
She could refuse. Could tell Ned everything—how Bolton had come to her, forced her, violated her in the very chambers Ned had provided as hospitality.
But then what?
Ned would demand details. Would ask why she'd gone to Bolton's chambers alone at midnight. Would wonder why she hadn't screamed, called for guards. And Castor would claim she'd come willingly, had propositioned him, and who would Ned believe? His wife with no witnesses, or the young lord who'd been nothing but courteous and respectful in public?
Even if Ned believed her, what then? Scandal. Shame. Whispers spreading through every castle in the North. Sansa and Arya growing up hearing about their mother's dishonor. The boys defending her name in fights and duels. The family torn apart by questions and doubt.
And beneath all the rational calculations, a darker truth she barely dared acknowledge: part of her didn't want to tell. Part of her wanted this to continue, wanted Castor to return, wanted to feel again what he'd made her feel.
The septas warn that women's flesh is weak. That we're more susceptible to sin, more easily led astray by base desires. I always thought it was just fearful talk. Now I know better.
"I need time," she whispered. "To think about this."
Ned's face softened. "Of course, my love. But Cat..." He pulled her close, held her against his chest. "This is good for our family. For the North. Trust me."
She nodded against him, felt tears gathering, forced them back.
I'm sorry, Sansa. I'm so sorry.
But even as she thought it, that darker voice whispered: *He made you feel things Ned never has. Maybe he'll be good to her. Maybe this isn't the disaster you think.
She shoved the thought down, horrified at herself.
But it didn't disappear.
It festered.
***
The Great Hall filled with witnesses for the oath ceremony—Northern tradition demanded that fealty be sworn publicly, with lords and household members present to bear witness. It lent weight to words, made them binding not just before the gods but before men.
Catelyn stood beside Ned's high seat, watching servants arrange the space. The Stark direwolf banner hung above the dais, grey on white ice. Torches burned bright despite the afternoon light streaming through high windows. Everything formal and proper, the way such ceremonies had been conducted for thousands of years.
Castor entered in full Bolton regalia—black leather and silver, the pink flayed man prominent on his chest, his pale hair loose around his shoulders like a northern prince from the Age of Heroes. He looked like something from an old story. Beautiful and terrible at once.
The hall quieted as he walked forward, boots echoing on stone, and knelt before Ned's chair. He bowed his head, placed one hand on his sword hilt—the ancient gesture of a bannerman offering his blade.
"Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North." His voice carried through the hall, clear and strong. "I, Castor of House Bolton, come before you and these witnesses to renew the oaths my father swore. To pledge my sword, my house, and my loyalty to Winterfell and to the protection of the North."
The traditional words. Spoken hundreds of times over centuries by countless lords kneeling where Castor knelt now.
But then he continued, and Catelyn heard the subtle additions woven through standard phrasing.
"I swear to bind my house to yours in service that lasted generations. To forge ties of blood and alliance that can never be broken. To ensure that Bolton and Stark stand together as one against all threats, now and in all the years to come. This I swear by the old gods and the new."
Ned stood, placed his hand on Castor's head—the acceptance. "Lord Bolton, I accept your oath and pledge House Stark's protection and partnership in return. Rise as a true bannerman and friend to Winterfell."
They embraced as tradition demanded, and Northern lords murmured approval. A good ceremony. Proper. The young Bolton showing respect and wisdom beyond his years.
Catelyn watched Castor's face over Ned's shoulder. Watched him smile—satisfied, victorious, like a hunter who'd just closed the trap on unsuspecting prey.
The ceremony continued with formal declarations from other lords present—minor bannermen reaffirming their oaths to Winterfell, words of alliance and mutual protection. But Catelyn barely heard it.
She was watching Castor watch Sansa.
Her daughter stood near the back with her septa, hands folded gracefully, posture perfect. Ten years old and already beautiful—auburn hair shining in the torchlight, blue Tully eyes wide and innocent, everything a highborn lady should be.
And when Castor's gaze found her during the oath, Sansa blushed and looked down, pleased and flustered by the attention.
She has no idea. No idea what she's blushing for. What he is. What he'll do to her.
After the ceremony, lords approached to congratulate Castor, welcome him formally into the Northern alliance. He accepted with perfect courtesy, making friends, building alliances with every word.
"Lord Bolton!" Robb pushed through the crowd, eyes bright. "Your men drill so precisely—I watched them this morning. Could I observe their training methods before you leave?"
"Of course, my lord. I'd be honored." Castor clapped him on the shoulder like they were old friends. "Perhaps we could even spar, if you're interested? I'd welcome the chance to test myself against Winterfell's heir."
Robb beamed, completely won over. Another Stark claimed.
Jon Snow lingered at the edges of the gathering, watching as bastards did—present but apart. Castor noticed, gestured him forward. "Jon. Good to see you."
The bastard looked surprised at being acknowledged publicly, in front of lords who usually ignored his existence. "My lord."
"I meant what I said in the godswood. A man's worth isn't measured by his birth, but by his choices." Jon flushed with pleasure at the respect, the recognition. Catelyn saw it happen—saw him being won over, just like Robb, just like everyone.
He's so good at this. Knows exactly what each person needs to hear.
Then Sansa approached, shy and nervous, her septa trailing behind. "My lord, that was... the oath was very beautiful. The words about generations and alliance."
"Thank you, Lady Sansa." He bowed slightly, appropriate deference. "Though beauty is a subject I should defer to you on. You looked like a winter rose during the ceremony—fair and graceful."
She practically glowed. "You're too kind, my lord."
"I'm honest, my lady." He gestured toward a window. "Would you like to see the courtyard from this vantage? The view is quite fine from here—you can see all the way to the godswood."
They walked to the window together, Castor pointing out something in the distance, Sansa listening attentively, nodding. A perfectly innocent interaction between betrothed-to-be, entirely proper.
Catelyn watched them and felt sick.
"Cat?" Ned appeared at her side, pleased and satisfied. "Come. I need to speak with Lord Bolton privately about the betrothal. Then we'll talk to Sansa together."
It's happening. It's really happening. And I can't stop it.
She followed Ned toward his solar, feeling like she was walking to her daughter's execution.
***
Ned's solar was warm, fire crackling in the hearth, late afternoon sun slanting through windows. Maps covered the walls, weapons hung in places of honor—Ice in its place above the mantle. The lord's private space, where real decisions got made away from public eyes.
Castor settled into a chair with easy confidence, like he belonged there. Ned poured wine from a southern vintage, handed him a cup.
"Lord Bolton—Castor—I wanted to speak frankly with you, man to man."
"Please, my lord. I appreciate directness." Castor sipped his wine, perfectly at ease.
Ned sat across from him, considered his words. "The North is vast and often harsh. Our houses must work together to keep it strong and stable. Old grudges... they weaken us. Make us vulnerable to threats from within and without."
"I agree completely, my lord." Castor leaned forward slightly, engaged. "That's why I've worked so hard to reform House Bolton's reputation. The past shouldn't chain us forever. We can be better than our fathers were."
"Exactly my thinking." Ned smiled, warming to the subject. "You're young still. Unmarried. Have you considered what alliances might strengthen your position? Help cement the changes you're making?"
Catelyn stood near the window, silent and still, listening to her husband offer their daughter like a prize in a tourney.
Castor paused, as if considering carefully. "I have, my lord. But marriage is... sacred. Permanent. I'd want a match that serves the North, not just my own ambition. Someone raised properly, who understands duty and honor. Who could stand beside me and help build something worthy of the North's trust."
"What qualities would you seek in a wife?" Ned asked.
"Intelligence first. A pretty face fades, but a clever mind lasts." Castor's voice was thoughtful, measured. "Grace and courtesy—a lady who can manage a great household. Bravery, too, in her own way. The strength to face hard winters and harder choices." He paused. "And someone who understands that honor and duty matter more than comfort or pleasure. Someone raised in Northern traditions."
Every word described Sansa. Ned heard it, saw the possibility.
"My daughter Sansa is young still," Ned said slowly. "Only ten, not yet flowered. But in a few years... a match between our houses would bind Bolton and Stark in ways nothing else could. End centuries of mistrust. Make the North truly united."
Castor's eyes widened—perfectly performed surprise, just the right amount of honor and disbelief. "My lord, I... I hadn't dared hope for such an honor. House Stark offering alliance through marriage?"
"You've impressed me, Castor." Ned's voice was warm with conviction. "You're not like the Bolton lords of old—cruel and feared. You've brought honor back to your house. My daughter would be fortunate to marry such a man. And the North would be stronger for it."
"My lord, I..." Castor seemed to struggle for words, as if overwhelmed. "Lady Sansa is a jewel of the North. Fair as a winter rose, graceful as a hart, kind in ways that shame lesser lords. I would count myself blessed among men to call her wife. To protect her and cherish her all my days."
Fair words from a foul heart, Catelyn thought bitterly. But who will believe me if I speak against him?
Ned leaned back, satisfied. "Betrothal now, marriage when she's reached her fourteenth nameday and flowered properly. Four years to let you both prepare, to court her properly. Does this suit you?"
"More than I can express, my lord." Castor's voice was thick with false emotion. "I swear I'll be worthy of this trust. I'll spend the next four years proving myself, building something she can be proud of."
They stood, clasped arms in the warrior's grip. The agreement sealed between men, as it had been done for thousands of years.
Ned turned to Catelyn, still standing by the window like a ghost. "Cat? Your thoughts on this?"
This was the moment. The moment she could object, refuse, demand they reconsider.
She opened her mouth. Felt Castor's eyes on her—not threatening, just waiting. Knowing she wouldn't speak. Knowing he'd already won.
And she thought about the alternatives. Scandal and shame. Questions she couldn't answer. Ned's trust destroyed. Her daughters' futures ruined by whispers.
More than that—she thought about last night. How her body had responded to Castor in ways it never had to Ned. How some dark part of her had awakened, hungry for things she'd never known she wanted.
"If this is what's best for the North," Catelyn heard herself say, voice steady despite the screaming in her mind,
"then I support it. Lord Bolton has been... courteous and capable during his visit. He's reformed his house, built prosperity. Sansa could fare worse."
Could she? Could she truly fare worse than this?
But the words were spoken. The betrayal complete.
Ned beamed, crossed to embrace her. "Thank you, Cat. I knew you'd see the wisdom in this. You've always understood duty."
Over his shoulder, she saw Castor smile—not triumphant, not mocking. Just satisfied. Like everything was proceeding exactly as he'd planned.
Because it was.
"We'll tell her together," Ned said, releasing Catelyn. "Tonight. Give her time to accept before we formalize it publicly."
"As you think best, my lord." Castor bowed.
"I'll await your summons."
As he left the solar, he paused beside Catelyn, spoke low enough that only she could hear: "Thank you, my lady. For your wisdom."
Then he was gone, leaving her hollow and damned.
***
They found Sansa in her chambers, sitting by the window with her needlework. The last light of day made her auburn hair glow like embers, and she looked so young, so innocent, that Catelyn's heart cracked.
She's a child. My baby girl. And I'm about to give her to a monster.
"Father? Mother?" Sansa set aside her needlework, saw their serious faces, and her eyes went wide. "Is something wrong? Has something happened?"
"No, sweetheart. Nothing's wrong." Ned sat beside her, took her small hand in his. "We need to talk to you about something important. About your future and your duties as a daughter of House Stark."
Sansa's breath quickened slightly. "My future?"
Catelyn sat on her other side, wanted to hold her daughter tight and never let go. Instead she said quietly: "You're growing up, Sansa. Soon you'll flower and become a woman. And highborn women have certain duties to their houses."
"What kind of duties?" Small voice, worried.Ned squeezed her hand gently. "Marriage, sweetheart. Alliances. Strengthening the North through bonds between great houses. It's what my father did for me, what your mother's father did for her. It's the burden and blessing of being born to great houses."
Understanding dawned slowly on Sansa's face. "Am I to be married?"
"In four years, yes. When you've flowered and grown into a woman. When you're four and ten." Ned's voice was gentle. "To a good man. A powerful lord who'll protect and cherish you."The words hung in the air. Sansa looked between them, processing, and Catelyn saw the exact moment fear and curiosity mixed on her face.
"Who?" Barely a whisper.
"Lord Castor Bolton."
Silence.
Sansa stared at them, mouth slightly open.
"The Lord Bolton?" she finally asked. "The one who's been visiting? Who spoke to me about my needlework?"
"Yes. I offered him your hand, and he accepted it." Ned's thumb stroked her hand comfortingly. "The betrothal will be formalized before he leaves tomorrow. In four years, you'll wed and become Lady of the Dreadfort."
Sansa's face went through a dozen expressions—shock, confusion, fear, and then... something else. Not quite pleasure, but not displeasure either.
"He's... he's not what I expected," she said slowly. "When you said Bolton, I thought... the stories say they're cruel and frightening. But Lord Castor is young. Handsome. He spoke so kindly to me, said my needlework showed true artistry."
"He'll make a good husband," Ned said with conviction he had no right to feel. "He's reformed House Bolton, built prosperity, trained armies. He's thoughtful and capable. You'll be well cared for, Sansa. I promise you that."
Sansa looked at Catelyn, seeking reassurance from her mother. "Mother, what do you think? Truly?"
This was it. The moment where Catelyn could plant doubts, express concerns, warn her daughter that something was wrong even if she couldn't say what.
Instead, she heard herself say: "Lord Bolton has been very courteous during his visit. Your father believes this match serves the North." She swallowed hard. "And... he is accomplished for his age. Well-spoken and educated. You could fare worse, Sansa. Some girls are married to lords three times their age, to men who view wives as breeding stock and nothing more."
Why am I saying this? Why am I helping him?But the words kept coming, betrayal flowing from her mouth like poison.
"He's only sixteen himself—barely older than you in the great scheme of things. He'll visit to court you properly. You'll exchange letters. By the time you marry, you'll know each other well. It won't be like the old days, when bride and groom met at the altar."
Sansa's expression shifted from worry to something like cautious excitement. "Like in the books? He'll court me? Write letters?"
"Yes, sweetheart." Ned smiled. "You'll have time to grow into this. It won't be rushed or frightening."
"Will he... will he be kind to me? When we're... when we marry?"
The question hung heavy. Catelyn felt it like a knife in her chest.
No. He'll do to you what he did to me. He'll corrupt you, break you, make you crave things you should fear.
But she said: "Your father wouldn't give you to someone cruel, Sansa. He loves you too much for that."
It was a lie by omission. A betrayal wrapped in motherly comfort.
Sansa took a deep breath, squared her small shoulders. "Then I'll do my duty. For the North. For House Stark. I'll be brave, like the ladies in the songs."
Ned kissed her forehead. "That's my good girl. My brave girl."
After he left to attend to other matters, Catelyn stayed with Sansa. Her daughter looked at her needlework—the direwolf she'd been embroidering—then back up.
"Mother, are you truly all right with this? You seem... sad."
Catelyn forced a smile. "Not sad, sweetheart. Just... it happened quickly. I wasn't prepared to think of you as a betrothed woman yet. You're still my little girl."
"But it's a good match?" Sansa pressed. "Lord Bolton seems... he seems like he could be kind. Like he understands honor and courtesy. Don't you think?"
He understands manipulation and cruelty dressed as courtesy.
"Your father wouldn't have agreed if he didn't believe so," Catelyn said carefully. "And yes, Lord Bolton has shown himself to be... capable and courteous in public."
The qualifier—in public—was lost on Sansa, who smiled with visible relief.
"You'll help me prepare, won't you? Teach me how to manage a great household? How to be a good wife?"
"Of course, darling. Every day until you wed."
I'll teach you how to survive him. If I can figure that out myself.
Sansa hugged her suddenly, fierce and tight. "Thank you, Mother. I was so scared it would be someone old and cruel, someone from Father's generation. But Lord Bolton is... he's like a figure from the songs. Young and handsome with those unusual eyes. Maybe this won't be so terrible."
Catelyn held her daughter, breathed in the scent of her hair—rosewater and youth and innocence—and said nothing.
Because what could she say?
That monsters came in beautiful packages? That the figure from songs was actually a nightmare made flesh? That in four years, he'd claim her in ways that would destroy her innocence utterly?
She couldn't. Wouldn't.
So she just held her innocent daughter and felt the corruption spreading in her own soul like rot in good wood.
Because part of her—sevens forgive her, part of her—was already wondering what it would be like when Castor visited. When he courted Sansa publicly but came to Catelyn's chambers privately.
When she had to watch him be gentle with her daughter while knowing what he really was.
Part of her anticipated it with shameful hunger.
And that made her worse than him. Because he was a monster by nature.
She was becoming one by choice.
***
The next morning, Maester Luwin presented the formal betrothal contract in the Great Hall. Thick parchment, densely written in the maester's precise hand, terms laid out in language that left no ambiguity.
The hall was full again—these things required witnesses, publicity, the weight of community acknowledgment to make them binding.
Luwin stood before the high table, adjusted his collar with its heavy chain, and began reading in his dry, scholarly voice:
"By this oath, witnessed and sealed, Lady Sansa of House Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Stark neé tully is betrothed to Lord Castor of House Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort and rightful heir to all Bolton lands and titles."
"Marriage to take place upon Lady Sansa's fourteenth nameday, in the year three-hundred after Aegon's Conquest, or when the bride has flowered and is deemed fit for marriage by both families, whichever comes."
"Dowry of ten thousand gold dragons, to be paid in full at the wedding. Lady Sansa to bring her personal effects, clothing, jewelry, and household items as appropriate to her station. Lord Bolton to provide suitable quarters, household staff, and maintenance befitting the Lady of the Dreadfort"
"Lady Sansa to reside at the Dreadfort following marriage, with the understanding that she may visit Winterfell at her lord husband's discretion and with appropriate escort. Any children born of this union to be raised in both Stark and Bolton traditions, taught the ways of both houses."
Luwin continued through inheritance clauses, what would happen if either party died before the wedding, provisions for widowhood, the grim practicalities of noble marriage.
When he finished, Ned stood and signed first. His signature was bold and clear—the hand of a man confident in his decision.
Castor signed second. His handwriting was elegant, The signature of an educated man, cultured and refined.
Witnesses signed—Lord Karstark visiting from his keep, Lord Manderly's representative, Winterfell's castellan, several household knights. Each signature another chain binding the agreement.
When the signing was complete, Ned stood and his voice carried through the hall:
"House Stark and House Bolton are bound by more than oaths now. By this contract, witnessed by lords and sealed before the gods, my daughter Sansa is betrothed to Lord Castor Bolton. In four years' time, when she has grown into a woman, they will wed. Our houses will be joined in blood and alliance. Let no man here forget this bond."
Applause filled the hall. Congratulations, toasts, the noise of celebration.Servants brought out Dreadfort Black ale—how appropriate—and filled cups for a formal toast.
Castor approached Sansa with perfect formality, every eye on them. He bowed low, the courtesy of a lord to his future lady, and took her hand with exquisite gentleness.
"Lady Sansa," he said, voice carrying just far enough for nearby witnesses to hear, "you honor me beyond all measure. I will spend the next four years proving myself worthy of you and of the trust your father has placed in me."
He raised her hand to his lips, kissed it with appropriate reverence.
Sansa blushed furiously, eyes downcast. "I'll try to be a good wife, my lord. To be worthy of House Bolton."
"You're already worthy, my lady. More than worthy." He released her hand, stepped back proper distance. "I look forward to our letters. To learning your thoughts and sharing mine. To knowing you as you deserve to be known."
The watching lords approved. Young Bolton was courteous, appropriate, everything a betrothed husband should be.
Catelyn watched the entire scene and felt like she was watching a mummer's show. Everyone playing their parts perfectly while the real story—the dark, terrible truth—remained hidden beneath layers of courtesy and tradition.
Robb approached, clapped Castor on the shoulder like they were already brothers. "Welcome to the family, goodbrother! You'll have to visit often—we have so much to discuss about training methods!"
Jon Snow offered stiff congratulations from the sidelines, still aware of his place but clearly pleased that someone treated him with respect.
Northern lords approached one by one, offering congratulations, discussing the political implications, already calculating how this alliance would affect their own positions.
And through it all, Castor played his part flawlessly. Humble but confident. Honored but not arrogant. The perfect young lord, reformed and honorable.They all believe it. Every single one of them.
That night, Catelyn lay beside Ned in their chambers, unable to sleep yet again.
"This is good," Ned murmured drowsily, clearly satisfied.
"For Sansa. For the North. For everyone. I'm glad you supported it, Cat. Your wisdom in this means everything."
Wisdom. Is that what this is?
"Bolton will be family now," Ned continued, already half-asleep. "No more ancient grudges or suspicions. Just alliance and mutual strength. The North united as it should be."
United. If only you knew what unites us now.
Ned fell asleep quickly, the sleep of a man with clear conscience and satisfied mind.
Catelyn stared at the ceiling, thoughts churning like a storm-tossed sea.
Tomorrow Castor would leave. Return to the Dreadfort. And she'd have four years before the wedding. Four years to prepare Sansa for... what? Marriage to a monster? A fate she couldn't prevent?
Or maybe—and this thought came unbidden, shameful—maybe it wouldn't be so terrible. Maybe Castor would be kind to Sansa in ways he hadn't been to her. Maybe the girl would genuinely grow to love him, find pleasure in the marriage bed, bear his children happily.
I found pleasure. Despite everything, despite the force and fear, my body responded.
The memory made her flush with heat and shame in equal measure.
The septas teach that women's flesh is weaker than men's. More susceptible to sin and base desires.
I always thought it was just fearful talk meant to keep us humble. Now I know it's true. I'm weak. Sinful. Damned.
But knowing that didn't stop her body from remembering. From wanting.
From anticipating his return.
She pressed her face into her pillow, silent tears soaking the fabric.
What have I become? What kind of mother am I?
But she knew the answer. She'd become exactly what Castor had made her: corrupted, complicit, and craving more of the darkness he'd awakened in her.
Four years until he claimed Sansa.Four years of him visiting, courting the daughter while bedding the mother.
She should be horrified.
So why did part of her count the days until his return?
***
CHAPTER END