This story draws from both the ASOIAF novels and the GoT TV show adaptation. Based upon Iwan Rheon's portrayal in the TV show mixed with a few details from the books (for example, Myranda doesn't exist.)
This is my first fanfic, I would be very grateful for any comments and reviews.
A huge thankyou to DaenerysTargary3n and GoodyGumDrops for taking their time to beta this chapter! Shout out to GoodyGumDrops for inspiring me to write this, if you want another Ramsay fix I highly recommend their story 'I Exist Alone In Your Bed.'
Warnings: Contains smut, kink and some violence. Ramsay is his own warning.
(Eira: Pronounced Eye-ra, meaning snow in Welsh.)
Eira eyed the half-frozen stones of the Weeping Water cautiously as she edged alongside the river. She was weary from the long journey from Karhold and was making her way further South until she reached long days of sunshine and sweet summer wine. The light was growing dim and her stomach knotted in dread. She had hoped to reach the Sheepshead Hills by nightfall to set up camp. The woods were no place to be after dark. Wolves, massive elk and even the occasional shadow cat roamed freely- lighting a fire would be a beacon to easy prey such as herself. Already, her breath was vapour and left thick, ghostly clouds as she exhaled.
She was a tall and wiry girl with long sinewy limbs. Her skin was as pale as milkglass and her dark hair framed a serious, pensive face that made her look older than she ought. She was attractive, with full ruby lips and doe eyes that were a little too large for her heart-shaped face. But she wasn't desirable in the same way carefree girls were, who laughed bawdily at japes and flashed sultry smiles. She was as glacial and impenetrable as her namesake. Boys didn't pursue her during adolescence, she grew increasingly isolated as she reached womanhood, focusing solely on hunting and the mundane chores that permeated her commoner life.
The Dreadfort loomed in the distance beyond the bank of the river. The triangular merlons on the thick castle walls looked like sharp stone teeth in the twilight. Rows of torches jutted out of the battlements held by skeletal human hands, bathing the castle in demonic red light. It was a cursed place that offended even the gods. The townsfolk all knew the flayed human skin of their enemies decorated the walls. Eira would rather risk the elements than seek shelter or stray too near to the perimeter but with any luck she might find a friendly miller who might offer her a place to sleep in their grain barn in exchange for the last few rusty halfpennies that lay in the pockets of her furs.
Deep in thought, she lost her foothold and hit the damp ground with a moist thud, the bag containing the game she had hunted for her supper rolling precariously towards the embankment. Cursing her foolishness, she gingerly tried to stand up but her foot gave out beneath her. She tried to quell the sickening panic rising in her stomach as she took her boot off to assess her swollen ankle. It was rapidly growing into an angry purple plum. She bit her lip hard, refusing to submit to the tears which threatened to spill down her cheeks. Succumbing to defeat meant death and she had come too far for that.
The area was fairly desolate; she hadn't crossed paths with townsfolk for miles. But perhaps fortune favoured her today, she thought as she heard the steady approach of a horse. She looked up to see a giant mare approaching her. The rider wore a leather jerkin, a black velvet doublet and coat of thick fur. His belt held a scabbard that sheathed a long sword and in his left hand he held a long bow. His dark, wavy hair had fallen slightly over one eye, but even through the obstruction she could see the piercing gaze of vivid blue eyes.
Eira stood up, biting back the pain and withstanding the pressure on her foot. It would be foolish to reveal weakness to a complete stranger. She had only survived this long as a lone woman because she was clever and often underestimated, giving her an advantage that she was always quick to make use of. Her shoulders were squared, her head held up in defiance as she clenched the dagger in her pocket tightly.
"Greetings, Ser," she said confidently, not allowing her voice to waiver.
"You are trespassing. These woods and all within it belong to me," he declared as he averted his gaze pointedly to the leather bag which contained the rabbits she had skilfully ensnared.
"You will address me as Lord Bolton," he continued in a lilting tone more gentle than she expected.
Eira furrowed her brow in realization- she knew exactly who this man was. His proclivities were only spoken of in hushed voices far from the ears of strangers whose loyalty you couldn't ensure. But from the tales she had imagined an ugly monster with sallow skin and small dark pebble eyes, not a handsome youth with deep blue pools for eyes, who even beneath the layers and furs you could see was muscular and lean. She couldn't refrain from eyeing him appreciatively, even though every part of her screamed to hold his gaze evenly. She shouldn't show such weakness or superficiality.
"I ought to sling you over the back of my mare and take you back to my castle to be punished for stealing from a highborn lord." His crystal blue eyes sparkled mischievously when he said 'punished'. It didn't conjure images of skin being peeled slowly from her bones, but something infinitely more erotic. As he smirked delightedly, she could tell he was enjoying his position of power and perhaps the sheer luck of finding a new amusement which fell into his lap.
She tightened her grasp on the dagger and wondered whether she should strike while he was unprepared for the assault. But even if she could topple him off his horse and gain the advantage, to what end? She would be hunted down as a murderous, thieving lowborn girl by the might of the Bolton force. She would still be injured and without shelter in the savage woods.
"You can have the rabbits I poached from your land but let me be on my way." She was careful to avoid words which made it sound like a plea. Throwing herself at his mercy would weaken her in his eyes but she couldn't afford outright insubordination. It was a dangerous game to play.
"How far do you think you will get on that injured foot?" he laughed.
She groaned inwardly. He had noticed that her ankle was threatening to buckle under her weight.
"The concern is appreciated Lord Bolton, but I'll manage just fine."
"Please, call me Ramsay..." he trailed off, awaiting her introduction.
"Eira."
"A beautiful name for a Northern girl," he replied.
She felt ashamed at the red glow which flushed her cheeks at the compliment. A sensation was spooling deep in her belly which she could only identify as longing. She wondered what his body would feel like pressed against her own delicate frame. But she hadn't lost all reason, entrusting her life to a notoriously cruel lord was complete madness.
He held out his hand to help her up onto the horse and by the look he gave her she knew better than to make any further protest. If she declined, she had no chance of survival; it was wiser to bide her time and plan an escape when she had a better opportunity. Eira wrapped her legs tightly about the horse as Ramsay sat behind her, placing his arms firmly around her waist as he held the reins. He spurred the mare into a fast gallop and she felt alive as the biting wind lashed at her face, enjoying herself despite her reservations.
The light had faded entirely and Ramsay slowed the horse to a steady trot. He held the reins with one hand and used the other to gently trace lines over what little skin was exposed outside the thick layers of rough-spun wool and fur. He smelt faintly of wine spiced with cloves and nutmeg, boiled leather and crisp pine leaves.
"A girl is meant to ride side-saddle, Eira. It is considered immodest for a maiden to have something between her legs before she is wed," Ramsay whispered in a low voice as his hand found her breast which he roughly fondled above her coat.
Eira exhaled sharply, undeniably aroused in spite of herself. She wondered whether her maidenhead would be taken in his unholy castle, a place the gods had long-abandoned. She wondered whether she might enjoy it and what he might do with her once he had taken his pleasure. She had never been kissed or touched intimately and she couldn't recall the last time she had been embraced or pecked tenderly on the cheek. Her kin were long-dead. The small cottage she had inherited with livestock and a modest garden had been little comfort to a girl left orphaned. Perhaps I should have been more content with it though, she thought with regret, rather than abandoning it for the promise of adventure and Southern warmth.
He skilfully unbuttoned her coat with one hand and unwound the tight layers beneath the cloak. He ripped off her undergarment roughly, exposing her breasts to the cold night air, making her nipples grow into hardened peaks. She trembled with both anticipation and anxiety as he rubbed his fingers lightly over the areolas and kneaded the soft mounds gently. His warm hands felt like fire lashing against her icy skin.
As he toyed with her, she couldn't help but omit a small girlish squeak. Her breath had slowed into a steady pant and she felt a strange dampness between her legs at the sensuous touch. The rhythmic movement in her nether regions felt delicious, acquiring a forbidden quality to it after his vulgar taunt about the appropriateness of it. Ramsay didn't utter a word as he continued to absent-mindedly squeeze, press and pinch her sensitive nipples pausing only to slap at her breasts lightly. It felt as though something unspeakable was on the horizon, but just out of reach. Something was missing from the damp throbbing spot between her legs. There wasn't enough friction, she thought dejectedly.
Ramsay leaned in and tenderly kissed the flesh on her slender neck. He ran little rivulets with his tongue and pressed his hot mouth roughly against her frigid skin. When he bit down hard she cried out in shock.
"You are a very wicked girl, Eira," he murmured.
"Good girls cry and plead. What I hunt in these woods is a different kind of animal and they rightly fear their lord," he continued.
This was her opportunity. He was distracted and unguarded. She could feel his hardness pressing into her back as he cruelly whispered in her ear, his hot breath tickling her ear. Eira turned and gave him a hard shove in one rapid movement. Ramsay fell off the horse in a heap and she kicked the animal to spur it into a canter. Attraction or not, she had decided to chance the woods rather than be taken back to his castle. Not there.
She couldn't resist looking back at the expression on his face, feeling like the fabled Vaenys who had been transformed into a pillar of salt when she turned to view the Doom of Valyria. She had imagined it clouded with anger and fury, ready to try shooting her down with his arrows in the quiver. But instead she saw the hint of that smirk, with eyes that sparkled in admiration. She was not going to bore him like the others before her.
She rode the horse furiously into the dark horizon and tried to plan her next move. She was nearing the Dreadfort. She couldn't go back; the Weeping Water was perilous at night. She was likely to slip into the dark depths and drown in the freezing water. She couldn't go into the forest; the horse was likely to lose footing and bolt. She couldn't go to the castle...
The whizz of an arrow interrupted her frantic thoughts and the horse let out a panic-stricken neigh. Time slowed down as she slipped from the saddle, the horse collapsing in a great heap. Gravity took over as she bounced and rolled away from the mare, she was grateful she wasn't pinned beneath or kicked unconscious. The ground was soft and muddy, enveloping her body in mire, her head throbbing in pain and everything whirling in dizzy circles as she heard the approach of boots rustling in the grass.
"I would have had you flayed raw if that had been my red stallion, Blood," said Ramsay evenly, with a look of bemusement as he extended a hand for her to latch onto once more.
Eira clutched at his broad shoulders and leaned into his body lest she fall back down. In a swift flourish, he scooped her up into his arms and held her little frame close to his body as he carried her into the distance towards the castle. She felt twelve again- like a small, foolish child who had been scolded by her father for scaling a tree from which she couldn't climb down.
The rest was all a blur as he took her up to his chambers and laid her muddy, bruised body on his bed, dismissing his servants and guards. She quickly fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, exhausted both mentally and physically.
Eira woke groggily, the room slowly coming into focus. The bed was an expansive black, its four cast-iron posters framed with curtains of parted red silk. The rest of the furniture was comprised of a writing desk peppered with pots of ink and feather quills, a leather upholstered chair and an intricately carved wardrobe. A bearskin rug was placed over the stone floor and a few tapestries decorated the walls. They were quite horrific- mouths hung open in wide screams and flayed, decapitated bodies on burning crosses adorned the textiles. They made her shiver uncomfortably.
A figure beside her moaned and stirred beneath the furs. Ramsay rolled over and pulled her on top of him effortlessly. She was still wearing her soiled, ripped clothes and the dried blood on her face had crusted into streaks over her face and arms. Her ankle throbbed painfully- a sharp reminder of her ill-fated night. Ramsay was as naked as his nameday, his body as hard and pale as white marble. His muscular chest was etched deep with long scars that cut into the hard lines of his abdomen. She couldn't tell if they were from battle or the bedroom. The bedding was bunched around his lower body and she flushed with shame when she realized that she wanted to inspect him further. He looked like a demi-god with his pale skin, eyes of blue ice and dark hair that was ruffled from tossing and turning in the featherbed.
Eira had never seen a man naked. As an only child and a loner, she had never bathed with siblings or friends. Innocent exploration of adolescence had been superseded by the cold reality of supporting herself from a relatively young age. On an intellectual level she knew the mechanics of lovemaking, how women made squalling babes and what laid between a man's legs. But she had never seen it laid out before her.
"I don't think you deserve to have a nice hot bath, Eira. I extended to you the offer of hospitality after you poached from me and you returned my benevolence by stealing my horse and causing its death. The mare was shot down by my arrows. I might prefer you to stay in these filthy rags and be my dirty penitent while you learn your lesson," he mumbled somewhat sleepily in a low menacing growl as he eyed her disheveled appearance.
"I'm getting blood and dirt on your bedding, Ramsay," she blurted out, embarrassed.
"You're so precious. Worried more about your lord's sheets than what I intend on doing with you," he laughed merrily, pleased with her dismay.
"I've heard of your amusements, Ramsay. A girl would be mad to not fear the castle the townsfolk would only dare jape about in Southern inns," she replied matter-of-factly.
"You desire me more than you fear me, blushing that way like a maid. When was the last time such heat touched that icy little face of yours?" he murmured, stroking her face softly.
He rocked against her, pressing firmly against her sex as she straddled him. The pressure caused a little moan to escape her lips as she instinctively met his thrusts. The spot between her legs grew damp once more- the same familiar feeling that had stirred when they were riding and he had played with her breasts and suckled on her neck. His member was growing hard and she could feel it pressing teasingly against her, only a thin cotton sheet and her clothes separating them.
"Take off your clothes, Eira."
She started to remove the layers, lifting herself off him and cowering on the other side of the bed trying to comply modestly but he grabbed her with a firm hand- "Not in my bed. Stand in the middle of the floor and face me."
She inhaled slowly, trying to compose herself. Taking off her furs, rough-spun wool and finally her thin cotton smallclothes, she met his lidded gaze confidently despite the urge to use her hands to shield her mound and flat belly. Her breasts were covered by her long, dark ebony hair which she ruefully thought were inadequately small. She wasn't curvy and voluptuous like the bed-warmers men typically desired. She had an elongated and girlish frame, standing almost at equal height to Ramsay himself.
"Come back up on the bed and get on all fours."
When she complied and saw him drop to his knees behind her she bit her lip in anticipation of the sharp, sudden intrusion into her virgin cunt, her maidenhead to be broken in one violent thrust. But instead she felt a strong hand come crashing down on her rounded bottom. He continued to spank mercilessly with a steady rhythm as she clenched down hard on the bed sheets in a desperate attempt to lessen the pain. She refused to whimper or cry out, even when, in-between the smacks, he grabbed handfuls of reddened flesh which he kneaded roughly.
"Have you learnt your lesson, Eira? Are you going to be a good girl for me?" he demanded, without stopping his assault.
"Yes... Ramsay... I swear it" she raggedly gasped out in punctured breaths.
"Convince me," he replied.
The swats echoed on the chamber walls and her lithe body jerked under the force of his blows. She gave into him and let herself go. All the pent-up emotion that she held at bay unravelled itself in this cruel, beautiful Lord's bed. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she thought of all the sights, smells and tastes she had conjured in her fantasies that she would never get to see without freedom. The blood orange groves of Dorne, Myrish firewine and the temples of Volantis. She thought of her dead parents and the candles she had lit faithfully in the Godswood. Her chest rose and fell as she took in gulps of air greedily. The sobs felt cathartic and purifying, washing away all the pain.
He took her in his arms, the tears had moistened the dried muck on her face and little droplets spilt murky, red pools on the bed. "Shhhhh," he soothed calmly, stroking her raven hair as he laid her out on his lap. He kept stroking her gently, tracing soft lines in her skin. He whispered sweet nothings in her ear, placating her like a small injured pet. He kissed her all over, licking the blood off her face and pressing his warm lips against her wet cheek- her taste like copper and salt. Ramsay leaned in and brushed his lips with hers. He clutched her hand and pulled her closer to him as he crashed his mouth upon hers. She could feel the warmth of his skin and his muscular body pressed intimately against her own. She began to match his pace and kissed back with more fervour. She parted her lips and he sucked gently on the lower, probing her mouth with his tongue and snaking it inside. He tasted of rich blackberry wine, cloves and honey- an intoxicating combination.
He continued to ravage her mouth and thrust his tongue deep into her own. She briefly tried to wrestle for dominance and push back, but she soon submitted to his ruthless, demanding mouth. Eira ran her hands lustfully over his hard muscles and thumbed the scars which marred his chest. They kissed as though they were starving- forceful and unquenched.
That was the last night she saw Ramsay. He had sent her to the kitchens shortly after the kiss to work washing dishes and preparing small simple meals for the serving girls. It wasn't particularly pleasant, but it wasn't anything to complain about in light of what he could have done to her. Though tending to her own gardens and livestock had surely offered more independence, she thought ruefully. She had even less sunshine here than she had before in her isolated cottage. Her dreams of escaping to Dorne and the Summer Isles where she could thaw her Northern blood seemed like a foolish girl's dream, far out of reach and immaterial. She was always watched carefully and rarely spoken to, but she liked it that way. She was never touched by the men or even subjected to flirtation or innuendo, perhaps Ramsay had threatened to have them flayed otherwise.
Eira slept in private quarters off the kitchen, guarded by faceless, armoured men who peered watchfully out of their midnight black helms. Ramsay had stayed true to his threat and she hadn't been permitted to bathe since that fateful night that she met him in the twilight. She tried to make the best of it, even when she grew self-conscious as the other servants began to wrinkle their noses, not straying within arm's reach of her. She told herself that it was surely better than when she had bathed in the hot springs in the wild. There, lifting her naked body out of the temperate water into the frigid air almost sent her into shock.
Ramsay felt unnerved. A new sensation that he couldn't identify filled him with discomfort. What had occurred on the night he met the little Northern girl Eira had rattled him. He had never comforted someone in his arms like that unless it was a part of a greater scheme to unhinge the ignorant creature further, to gain their trust before hurting them more so he could watch the light in their eyes go out as they realized there was no end to his games. It was delightful and the only real pleasure he had ever known deep in his core. It was better than sex. Sex felt good- but it was like relieving oneself; it had no true dimension other than to perform a bodily function which was only sweetened if he could use it to manipulate or degrade.
He didn't know what was different with this girl and he would rather have her out of his sight so he didn't have to think about it too deeply. She was unremarkable in many ways. Pretty yes, and with a certain spirit- but nothing earth-shattering. Nothing he couldn't seek out if he cared to. Maybe it was because she truly desired him. He was attractive physically to maids, but their base fear of him took over in many ways. It was a primitive, primal response to monsters such as himself. Eira had never shuddered with repulsion and terror in that same way. He had never been kissed like that, with overwhelming need and a want to have him inhabit every part of her body. It fulfilled a narcissism that had laid dormant until now.
So he preoccupied himself with his little amusements as his father called them. He kept her safely in his possession- he didn't want to release her but he didn't call on her either. He didn't feel the usual perverse enjoyment at the prospect of hurting and defiling this innocent. Not if it meant he took her in his arms afterwards and petted her like a weak, repentant sinner. Would he for the first time feel a twinge of remorse if he tore the skin from her pretty body? He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer or face the last fragment of his humanity, as small of a sliver as it was.
Eira was chopping vegetables in the kitchen when she was commanded to take a plate of breakfast to Lord Bolton's room by the aging matron of the kitchen. Her face was round and plump and she had long hair with silvered streaks that ran down her back. But she had a hardness to her close-set eyes which resembled dirty chips of obsidian.
"It is Abbey's task but she's caught a fever and the other girls have already scurried out to serve at the dais," she sighed contemptuously.
Eira took the wooden plate of blood sausage, buttered herb encrusted mushrooms, fried eggs cooked with onions and fiery Dornish peppers through the halls. The smell made her stomach grumble and howl with hunger as she lightly pattered along the dark passages. Her ankle still twitched slightly in discomfort. When she eventually reached his chamber after making a few wrong turns, the door was opened after a few knocks by a startled Ramsay. After the moment of initial shock by her unexpected intrusion into his quarters passed, his eyes flickered with a red-hot rage.
"Those incompetent cunts were told to keep you in the fucking kitchens," he screamed as he launched into an angry tirade, his words peppered with curses and threats. He took her by the arm and dragged her in the room like a ragdoll, the plate of food clattering to the floor in a greasy discarded pile. He flung her on to the floor and she fell against the stone cobble in a crumpled heap.
"When was the last time you bathed, Eira? You reek. You're wearing those same filthy rags. Have you been touching food with those hands?" he demanded, surveying her like an enraged bull ready to charge.
"You haven't given them leave to have me bathed, milord," she whispered up softly from the floor. Her stubborn little face jutting out determinedly despite her low tone.
He didn't respond and his face was unreadable as he scooped her up and took her to an adjacent room that had an oversized claw-foot tub in the centre and a fireplace crackling in the corner. The air was thick and warm with steam that rose languidly from the scalding water. Her nose tickled at the scent of fragrant lily and rosewater. It had been prepared earlier for his morning bath, she thought idly, her nose tickling at the sweet, aromatic smells. She had never laid eyes on such a splendid, ornate room. The walls were decorated with rich tapestries of bathing water nymphs in gold gilded frames with delicate filigree.
He stripped her off and eased her into the bath, she felt all the muscles in her body relax into the water. He picked up a washcloth and ran it over her, thoroughly scrubbing some areas and gently gliding it over others. Ramsay massaged her head and poured sweet oils from a glass flute bottle into her hair, washing it carefully. She moaned as his fingers descended from her head further down her neck, finally reaching their intended destination at her small breasts. He tugged at her round pebbled nipples and kept his other hand roaming freely. When he reached her sex he parted her folds gently and swirled little circles around her sensitive nub. His fingers teased her entrance without penetrating her. Eira moaned lowly and arched her back, causing some of the water to splash out of the overfilled tub.
Ramsay laughed delightedly at how sensitive she was. He lowered himself into the tub beside her and lifted her light frame onto him. Her skin was flushed and hot from the water, her lips scarlet and slightly parted. She noticed that he had grown hard and she experimentally took his long, wide girth in her small delicate hand. She couldn't bite back the small nervous giggle that escaped her lips as she held it unsure of what to do with it next or how hard to grasp. Ramsay looked at her, thoroughly amused by her virginal demeanour.
"My sweet maid," he whispered against her neck before nipping it with his teeth. Not enough to leave marks but hard enough to make her cry out. He stood up in the bath and lifted himself out, sprawling next to the fireplace to dry on a large, soft rug. She followed demurely, the gentle patter of her feet leaving pools of water in her wake.
"Lay down, Eira," he commanded gently. All his rage from earlier dissipated by blind lust.
As she complied, he parted her legs and bent her knees so he was at the right angle to lean in closely to her sex. She could feel his hot breath against her tender flesh and she tried to close her legs tightly as she felt herself grow wet and damp. She didn't know what this sensation meant and her cheeks flushed red in shame as she felt something starting to trickle down her thighs.
"Open up for me, Eira," he requested coolly and swatted playfully at her thighs.
His tongue lapped the juices from her thighs and cunt as he chuckled and chided her for being so needy and wet. Although it pleased him immensely he couldn't resist the urge to tease and humiliate her. He parted her folds with his tongue and traced patterns into her glistening lips before probing her entrance and thrusting it inside her. He fucked her with his tongue roughly until she whined and pleaded.
"Ramsay, please," she begged, unsure of what exactly she was asking for. All she knew was the desperate emptiness between her thighs that cried out to be filled, wanting release. A microcosmic crescendo on the brink of release.
Obliging her, he positioned his cock at her entrance and drove it into her sex in one quick thrust. She expected pain as he took her virginity, but she cried out in pleasure and grew accustomed to his girth quickly. He started out slowly, pushing his cock in deeply before withdrawing it slowly. His cock gleaned luridly with the ruby blood of her maidenhead.
She grew restless and bucked up wantonly against him, trying to get him to quicken his pace. He laughed and complied—pounding into her in a steady rhythm with abandon. She mewled and whimpered beneath him like a kitten. Her body was flushed and blotchy with patches of scarlet. She was unbearably tight and so wet that her cum had begun to saturate his legs.
"Seven hells, we will both be soaked, you filthy girl. Is this how you repay me for getting you clean?" he chuckled hotly in her ear.
She reddened with embarrassment and bit down hard into his neck in response. She clawed at his back and slapped his face and cruel mouth that bullied her. The blows reverberated on the walls. The more nonchalant he was about her slaps and her scratching that was hard enough to leave bloody streaks on his back, the angrier she got and the harder she hit. Instead of being enraged, he only laughed and slowed to an achingly teasing pace, leaving her to writhe helplessly against him in an attempt to increase the pressure, desperate for her release.
"You haven't earned an orgasm, Eira." And with that, he withdrew entirely, his wet cock slipping out with an obscene squelch. He knelt before her and finished himself off with his hand, spurting ropes of white over her pale skin as he came with a growl.
"Lick it up" he ordered.
She scooped up what she could with her dexterous fingers and licked the slightly bitter fluid curiously. The rest she rubbed into her skin which seemed to appease him greatly. He crashed his lips on to hers in a passionate kiss and dipped his tongue deep into her mouth, tasting himself on her. He felt sated and euphoric, completely entranced by his new favourite toy.
He couldn't think of why he wanted her out of his grasp to begin with. Surely she belonged here by his side. He couldn't tell at any moment if she was going to hit him or obey his orders like a good girl and it excited him. She might even try to escape or strangle him in the heat of passion and he would relish dealing out her punishments.
The days blurred into each other as Eira and Ramsay retreated into a world of their own private sexual games in their chambers. Ramsay only left to attend to his bitches in the kennel or to hunt in the woods for boar on Blood. He only attended feasts in the long hall of the keep when his father threatened him into compliance. He preferred to eat with Eira who had only grown wilder with the passing weeks, much to Ramsay's delight. She would placate him with her submission at times but she was also prone to tempestuous bouts of violence. She would throw her plate of food at him, demanding to be released or strike him in the face when he came inside her. He would respond by chaining her high up on the wall or something more degrading depending on his mood. He would stroke her softly afterwards and tend to her like a Maester with his skilful fingers- rubbing in balms and lotions or massaging her aching muscles.
He didn't believe she was being completely honest with herself when she screamed to be let free. She had never sought to escape and her violence towards him seemed more like a demonstration of her power and frustration than a serious attempt to cause him harm. He was never concerned giving her sharp utensils to eat with or a long razor to shave him clean. She melted under his touch and he would sometimes wake to gentle kisses being laid upon his bruised skin. He would keep his eyes closed, pretending to be asleep lest she stop. They were content even though neither of them would ever care to admit it.
Although the dark sadistic urges that bubbled beneath the surface had retreated into the dark womb of his chambers, the perverse microcosm didn't fill his appetite. He wondered how complicit he could make her in his acts of violence. He wondered if she would hunt alongside him for women and hand him a flaying knife when he wanted to make his enemies scream for mercy before they begged him to remove an appendage.
It was snowing outside when he first asked her if she loved him. The snowflakes were falling in a harmonious blanket, drifting occasionally to the stained glass window of their tower and smacking against it, melting and trickling down like tears.
"You don't know what that word means, Ramsay," she replied almost sadly, looking out of the brightly coloured panes into the distance.
"Don't play games with me, Eira."
"I thought you liked them."
"Not with you. I sometimes think about them though. I wonder whether I could make you fear me or whether you would have that stubborn little lilt of your chin even if I peeled the skin from your little finger. Whether your eyes would pierce through me till your dying breath," he confided in spite of himself. He felt vulnerable, despite the fact he was only asking her about her devotion to him because he wanted to use it as leverage to manipulate her.
"Fear isn't the same thing as respect. That's what you've always wanted, isn't it? Respect from Daddy who never loved you enough? We both know you are no Lord Bolton in title but a poor bas-"
He cut her off before she could speak the word.
She didn't know what had possessed her to goad him like that. An idle boredom had begun to take hold. Perhaps it was simply for a reaction. In Karhold she had run her own household- gathering eggs, feeding geese, sweeping the hearth and other domestic chores. After she had left, the practicalities of surviving on her own in the wild had taken all of her energy. But now she was waited on- she didn't even have to dress herself. She wasn't allowed wander the grounds on her own, let alone leave his chamber. Her world had grown smaller and smaller until it threatened to implode.
"The last person who called me that had their tongue removed. Yours pleases me far too much to part with. You've languished for too long in my bed, you need fresh air to breathe. Your insolence is born from boredom. I, too, know that restless itch... So I'm going to take you on a hunt by my side. It's an honour I have never shared with a woman," he whispered conspiratorially.
She didn't like the look of childish glee that spread over his face. She felt as though she had been played.