Author's Note: Hello, readers! I've decided to write a story centered on a Bolton OFC (original female character, for anyone unfamiliar with the term). I was inspired by darkwolf76's fic Defying Demons, which I highly recommend.

Despite the fact that I have not labelled this a tragedy (because, in the traditional sense of the genre, it isn't), I feel I should give you all fair warning: to paraphrase Lemony Snicket, if you're interested in stories with happy endings, you would be better off reading some other tale. In this story, not only is there no happy ending, there is no happy beginning, and to be frank, there are few happy things in between. What else would you expect of a tale about the Boltons?

That being said, I still haven't decided on a pairing for Bryghyd, so if you have any suggestions, let me know.

***WARNINGS: This story will feature: mature themes; coarse language; character death(s); graphic violence including scenes of corporal punishment, torture, and abuse; and sexual content, including attempted sexual assault and mentions of rape. Reader discretion is advised.

All right: without further ado, let me introduce you to our protagonist.

PRONUNCIATION:

Bryghyd: bree-id

BRYGHYD THE BLOODY

CHAPTER I: Leeches, Lessons, and Lethality

Tybald's voice trembled as he spoke.

"The babe...it's a girl, my lord."

Pale gray eyes fixed the Maester with a stare, cold and shrewd.

"A girl," repeated Roose Bolton, his tone impassive, the words a hair's breadth above a whisper.

The Maester gave a jerky nod. "Yes, my lord. It was a difficult birth, but although the Lady Bethany is in a weakened state, she is not in any immediate danger, and your daughter is in good health." He shuffled his feet nervously. "Pardon me, but by your leave, I'll return to the birthing chamber, my lord. I may still be needed there."

Lord Bolton quirked one dark, thin brow, fully aware of the Maester's desire to escape his presence. He found his fear mildly amusing, if a little irritating. Roose let the request hang in the air for a long moment—relishing the opportunity to watch Tybald squirm—before giving the slightest inclination of his head. After all, the man's reasoning was sound enough. Best to let the Maester aid Bethany's recovery; Roose only had two children, at the end of the day, and only one was male. He needed his wife's body to heal properly so that she would be able to bear him the desired "spare" to complement his heir, the young Domeric.

Unable to stifle a sigh of relief, the Maester made a curt bow and turned away from his lord, hastening toward the open doorway of the solar.

"Oh, but Tybald?"

The Maester froze mid-stride. Then, slowly, he twisted his body so as to face Roose Bolton once more, trying his best to hide the anxiousness that had gripped his heart.

"When you've finished cleaning the babe and she has been fed, you will bring her here to me," ordered the Lord of the Dreadfort. "And now, Tybald, you may go."

The Maester bowed one last time and promptly fled the room.

Some time later, Tybald kept his word and carried the infant to her father, who summarily dismissed the Maester as soon as he had his newborn daughter settled securely in his arms. Sitting behind his desk, surrounded by tomes and letters of correspondence, Roose stared down at the girlchild resting against his bicep.

The babe's complexion was a ruddy pink, as was the case with most newborns, and the crown of her head featured a smattering of brown ringlets. Interestingly, she almost seemed to be returning his scrutiny, gazing up at him steadily with Bethany's blue eyes.

Yes, that much was clear; in colouring, the girl definitely took after her mother. Roose's feelings about this revelation were ambivalent: on the one hand, he was displeased that he could not see more of himself or of the Bolton line in the girl, but on the other hand, the prospect of how she might look when she was of marriageable age was of some consolation.

Certainly, he mused, if she grows up to be as attractive as her mother, I might be able to use her to make an alliance with one of the greater houses. It may be for the best, then, that she takes after Bethany, even if it chafes at my pride.

There was, however, something else that struck him about the child, a detail that Tybald had blurted amid a sea of inane ramblings and that had lingered with the Lord of the Dreadfort.

"She hasn't made a single sound, my lord," Tybald had told him. "She didn't cry out when she was born—nor before she was fed, although she must have been hungry. Your daughter seems to be a quiet one, Lord Bolton."

As he marked the eerie stare and tranquil silence of the infant in his arms, that same Lord Bolton found himself agreeing with the Maester.

"Well, young Bryghyd," he murmured, his icy eyes never leaving hers, "you may have some Bolton blood in those veins, after all."

At age 6

"Father, what are those things?"

It was a girl who posed the question, her high, solemn, little voice wavering, frightened and repulsed as she was by the black, wriggling, worm-like creatures in the jar that the Maester had retrieved from his storeroom and brought into the infirmary.

"They're called leeches, Bryghyd," Lord Bolton replied calmly. "They draw out bad blood to prevent illness. Leechings are good for one's health. When you reach Domeric's current age, you'll have them too. He underwent his first leeching a fortnight ago."

Despite her youth, Bryghyd knew better than to defy her father; it had only taken one experience with a studded strap for the girl to learn that lesson, and she had taken it to heart. As such, even though the idea of suffering the bloodsuckers was repellent to her, Bryghyd gave a timid nod, conveying her understanding and acceptance of the lord's will. "Yes, Father," she replied.

Bryghyd's mother, however, who was also present, did no such thing.

"Roose," Lady Bethany uttered sharply, her blue eyes flashing, "it is bad enough that you made Domeric suffer the little beasts! I'm telling you now, my lord, you will not force these disgusting creatures on my daughter."

That same daughter flinched at her mother's harsh tone and open defiance, knowing no good would come of it.

Silence descended and the girl's anxiety rose.

"Bryghyd," her lord father intoned, the usual quietness of his voice now chillingly sinister, "you will go to my solar, find my cane, and bring it back here. Now."

The girl's eyes widened and she gnawed at her lip, but despite her obvious trepidation, she immediately turned and ran to do as her lord father demanded. She knew that disobeying him now would only make things worse for her mother.

Bryghyd scurried through the halls of the Dreadfort as quickly as her stubby legs would carry her, aware that it was best not to keep her father waiting. She made it to the solar in record time, bursting through the door in her urgency. Her head whipped back and forth as she searched for the cane, before her gaze settled on the red chest behind her father's desk. She darted over to it, undid the clasps that kept it shut, and, using all of the strength in her little body, managed to throw the lid open with enough force that it swung on its hinges and fell back against the wall behind it, leaving the contents of the chest available for Bryghyd's perusal.

The girl reached out a small hand—taking care to avoid the razor-sharp blades of the many knives her father kept therein, only some of them sheathed—and pulled a long, thin, black cane from the depths of the chest. For a brief moment, she eyed it fearfully, unable to stop herself from imagining the myriad of terrible things it could do to a person...that it very well might to do her mother.

Sighing with a sort of weary resignation that she shouldn't have known at her age, Bryghyd shook herself from her thoughts and pulled on the side of the lid, jumping out of the way as it swung shut with a great thud. Hastily, she crouched down to refasten the silver clasps before she straightened and spun on her heel, making for the infirmary at a fast-paced jog. Within minutes, she was back in her parents' presence, red-faced and chest heaving.

"Here...it is...Father," she panted, holding up the black cane for the lord. "But, please..." she begged, bending over and gasping as she tried to slow her breaths and speak simultaneously, "Please, Father...don't hurt Mother. She...she didn't mean...to make you angry. I'll...I don't mind...the leeches. I'll be good. I...promise."

Roose watched the girl's efforts with no shortage of amusement. "No need to worry, daughter," he told her, his voice soft and his pale eyes gleaming oddly as he reassured her. "The cane isn't for your Mother. But thank you for retrieving it so quickly," Lord Bolton acknowledged, taking the cane from her grip.

"Now, catch your breath, Bryghyd, and then stand up straight and hold out your hands, palms up."

Bryghyd stilled, struck dumb by a bewildering, terrifying epiphany. Slowly, she straightened, her eyes downcast as she extended her arms, turning her hands palm-up and praying with all of her might that they wouldn't tremble.

"No," breathed her mother, who was staring at her husband with horror written all over her face. "You can't possibly mean to—"

"Oh, but I do," Roose contradicted her, his gaze focused on the weapon in his hands, following the path of his fingers over its cool, hard surface. "I won't stand for your insolence, Bethany," he told her quietly, his tone all ice and steel. "It's undisciplined and it warrants punishment. And, seeing as you have no regard for your own person, as we both know well enough, it's clear to me that caning you would not sufficiently render my point."

Lord Bolton rapped the cane against the back of one hand experimentally, his lips curving upwards as his skin reddened in response. He took a step toward his daughter, letting the cane fall to his side.

"No! Roose, please! Stop this madness. She's done nothing wrong," Bethany implored, clutching at her husband's arm, her face ashen with dread. Regret, fear, and resentment were all screaming in her bright blue eyes. "Please, Roose. Please! Anything but this!" she cried. "She's a good girl, she does as she's told!"

"Yes," Roose agreed coldly, "and because she has demonstrated her obedience, only her hands will suffer for your defiance, my lady, and not her buttocks as well." He turned his head and leveled his cruel stare upon his wife, immovable. "She will be able to sit and to lie down. That is her reward for her good behaviour and the extent, dear wife, of my mercy. Now, you will let go of my arm immediately, Bethany, or I will call some of the men to restrain you, and I'll double the number of strokes she receives."

Lady Bethany instantly jerked away from him, sobs racking her chest as she finally accepted her own helplessness. When Bryghyd met her mother's eyes and saw the brokenness of her spirit, she gave the Lady Bethany a tiny approximation of a smile, hoping it would offer her some reassurance.

I know you were trying to help, Bryghyd willed her to understand, even as her father inserted a thick strip of leather into her mouth. I love you, Mother, no matter what he does to me. I will be brave like you taught me. Brave like I've seen you be, when you're hurting and you try your best to hide it.

And Bryghyd was brave, indeed.

Her eyes streamed with tears by the tenth stroke, true, and her little teeth eventually met through the leather; but although her palms were swollen and striped with red welts after the twenty strokes her father deemed appropriate, throughout the entire ordeal, Bryghyd had not made a single sound.

At age 9

The smell of sickness was heavy and cloying.

"The Maester says it won't be much longer until the fever takes my mind, so I will say goodbye to you now, while I'm still myself," began Bryghyd's mother, her words hoarse and grating as they left her parched throat.

"But Mother, surely if you rest—"

"Hush, now. You will listen to me, Brygh," Lady Bethany chided. She gathered her daughter in her arms so that her cheek came to press against Bryghyd's sleek, brown tresses, so very like her own. The girl sank into her mother's embrace, turning her head so that her ear rested just above her bosom. She listened for her mother's heartbeat and was dismayed to hear that it was fast and faint like a hummingbird's rather than the steady, rhythmic thudding that had oft lulled Bryghyd to sleep.

"I have had words with your brother, and now I have some requests to make of you as well, dearest. Will you do these things for me?" Bryghyd's answer was a fervent nod. "Good girl.

"You must continue your sparring with Domeric, and in earnest. Promise me this. You must be able to fight, to defend yourself—do you understand me?"

"Yes, mother. I understand. I promise," Bryghyd replied, her girlish voice firm despite her welling tears.

"Good. But I haven't finished, child. You will continue to learn. Strategy above all, but anything else you can manage that's useful, too. You have a sharp mind; you must put it to good use."

Here, the lady paused. One of her frail hands shifted to lightly tap her daughter's head, prompting Bryghyd to settle her little chin on her mother's chest and look up at her wan visage.

Despite her pallor, Bethany Ryswell's blue eyes were as piercing as ever, perhaps even more so as she spoke her next words.

"Heed this well, my daughter," she demanded gravely, wiping salt water trails from Bryghyd's cheeks with quivering fingers, "for it may be the most important of all my requests.

"Whatever it takes to earn your father's trust and esteem, that is what you must do. You will not suffer my fate, nor the fate of the hundreds of Bolton daughters before you, do you hear me? You must harden your heart, Bryghyd. You must become his most trusted confidante, and to do that, you will almost certainly have to do unspeakable things. You know the Bolton sigil and house words. What are they?"

"The Flayed Man, and 'Our Blades are Sharp,'" Bryghyd responded, her own blue eyes just as solemn as her mother's.

"Cruel words and a crueler image," Bethany rasped. "You must be strong, my beautiful child. Your brother is too trusting; he may not always be there to protect you, and so you must able to protect yourself. You must survive your father and his men. Promise me that you will."

"I will, Mother," Bryghyd vowed. "I swear it by the Old gods and the new."

"That's my girl," whispered her lady mother, those azure eyes brimming with pride. "Now... go, my love. Leave me. You won't want to see what's to come...and what's more, I don't want you to see it, either."

Hours later, Maester Tybald informed each of the Boltons that the Lady Bethany had passed on after a fitful and delirious slumber.

Bryghyd's father was utterly impassive upon receipt of the news and promptly adjourned to his solar, murmuring about funeral arrangements.

Her older brother, Domeric, was grief-stricken and enraged. Before long, he'd fled to the courtyard to vent his emotions on the straw-stuffed practice dummies he'd find there.

Bryghyd, unlike the men of her family, demanded to see her mother's body. Although Maester Tybald had initially protested her request, aghast, one frigid glare from the eyes that were so like the late Lady Bethany's had him cowering in submission.

Thus, Bryghyd entered the bedchamber that her mother had insisted upon in lieu of the infirmary, closing the door behind her. With shaky legs, she slowly made her way over to the spot where the lady lay amidst the bed-sheets, a strange mix of anguish and morbid curiosity overtaking her.

The skin of Lady Bethany's corpse was so pale that it had taken on a slight, blue-gray hue. Mercifully, though, its eyes were closed; Bryghyd didn't know if she could have borne the vacancy in their blue depths where there had once been such fire and love. She reached out shyly to touch her mother's cheek and nearly retched at the clammy coolness of her flesh.

As the girl's stare roamed over her mother's form, taking her in one last time, something strange caught Bryghyd's eye.

Lady Bethany's nightgown was a pale ivory and its fabric was paper-thin, and so because it was still damp with sweat, it was, for all intents and purposes, translucent. Therefore, through the sheer cotton over her mother's shoulder, Bryghyd could make out a blotch of redness on her skin that seemed out of place.

Unable to quell her curiosity, Bryghyd leaned over her mother's body and, with the utmost care, she gently tugged the fabric of the nightgown down at the shoulder.

The sight that was revealed to the girl left her quaking with fury.

There, in the departed Bethany Ryswell's flesh, were two indentations, purulent, weeping scarlet fluid, and surrounded by inflamed skin.

The fever, Bryghyd raged to herself, seeing red. It was brought on by infection. Blood poisoning, no doubt...and from Father's fucking leeches, too.

And so it was that there, in that precise moment, hatred bloomed in Bryghyd Bolton's heart like a drop of ink in water...a pair of pale gray eyes the target of her ire.