Tormund was half dead as he followed the "chambermaid", whatever the hell that was, through Winterfell's winding halls. His wounds weren't severe enough to require medical attention. Even if they were, he would have refused. There were hundreds of his men with far more serious wounds waiting out in the yard for anyone with even a little bit of knowledge about healing to patch them up. That's where he should be, with his people, helping them set up camps outside of Winterfell's walls.

Instead, Jon had pushed him towards a waiting woman and urged him to take a room in the castle. At that moment, too tired and in far too much pain to argue, Tormund simply nodded and did as he was told. He was certain his people would give him grief about it the following day. But right now the only thing he could think about was collapsing onto a soft surface and letting sleep overtake him.

The woman led him into a room that already had a fire roaring in the hearth and several lamps lit throughout, casting a decent amount of light into the space. The bed immediately drew Tormund's attention and he started towards it.

"Excuse me, sir," the woman softly called out to him, her voice hesitant. He stopped and turned to look at her and she backed up slightly. The look on his face must have shown his irritation.

"What is it, girl?" he growled out, wanting very much for her to leave so he could get on with passinfg out.

Timidly, she motioned to a large metal tub off to the side of the room, steam rising from the hot water within. All of a sudden every fiber of his being forgot about the bed and craved to be in that water. He couldn't remember the last time he had a hot bath.

"May I?" she asked, and he was surprised to see that, while he had been staring at the glorious tub, she had moved to stand just in front of him. Her hands were poised at the straps of his outerlayers and he realized she was asking permission to help him undress.

"Can't Southern lords undress themselves?" he gruffed, though didn't swat her hands away as she began tugging on the leather and fur of his coat.

"I've found that most lords don't care to do much for themselves," she replied, though so softly that he barely caught the words.

Normally he would have laughed, but the energy to do so just wasn't there. He stood still as she stripped him of his clothes from the waist up, then shed the rest himself as she averted her gaze. The water was the most incredible thing he had ever felt as he sank down into the tub. The warmth sank into his frozen bones, making him groan with relief.

Leaning back, he was surprised to find a towel folded on the edge of the tub for him to rest his head on. When two gentle hands began massaging soap into his hair, he almost shot upright. He twisted around and saw the young woman had knelt behind the tub and was attempting to wash his hair.

"Don't you have better things to do, girl?" he huffed, though he did turn around and settle himself back against the tub. If she wanted to wash his hair for him, who was he to deny her? And it did feel incredible, now that he expected her fingers to dip into his wild mane.

"I was told to make sure you were treated well tonight, sir," came her reply.

Tormund's mind immediately went to filth and, if he had the energy to spare, he's sure his member would have twitched with her words. "And what all does that involve?" he attempted to flirt halfheartedly.

Her fingers never paused in their ministrations and she calmly replied, "Making sure you're bathed, clothed, and fed, sir. And not a single thing more."

Tormund quietly chuckled at her answer. Surely she was used to men trying to make a pass at her. His mind was hazed over with exhaustion, but he had registered that she was a fine-looking lass; perhaps a bit young for his thirty-five years. "How old are ya?"

"I just had my twenty-third nameday, sir." The maid began using a cup to rinse the soap out of Tormund's hair, her fingers still working through the curls.

The wildling hummed in response, leaning his head forward so she could reach the back. Perhaps she wasn't too young for him; it's something he would have to think about further when he had all of his wits about him.

When his hair was done, the girl began washing his back with a soft cloth. He could feel her small fingers lightly touching all of his scars as she passed over them, no doubt wondering how he came about possessing so many. There would be other nights to thrill her with his tales of fights and battles; tonight he was content to let her bathe him.

She moved around the tub so she was facing him, ready to begin washing his chest, when his hand shot of the water and gently grabbed her wrist. Her surprised gasp filled the room, followed by the sound of the washcloth hitting the water as she dropped it. He looked at her eyes to see if she was afraid of him, but he only saw curiousity shining back at him. Perhaps it was naive on her part, but he found that it pleased him to know that he didn't terrify her. She could prove to be a bit of fun for him here in Winterfell.

"I can do the rest," he said, letting go of her wrist and fishing the discarded cloth out of the water. "Best not to start anything we can't finish," he added, a flirtatious smirk peaking through his beard.

To his amusement a blush covered her cheeks and she stepped away from the tub, allowing him some privacy as he finished bathing. The soap stung all of the cuts on his body, but he'd rather them sting while getting cleaned than have them sore with infection. When he was finished and the water started to cool, he stood and took the towel that was blindly offered to him, the girl's eyes firmly fixed on the stone floor.

"There are night clothes on the bed, sir," she told him, pointing to the large, fur-laden bed.

As he was getting dressed, he heard the girl start emptying the tub, one bucket at a time. Without a word, he picked up a second bucket and began bailing the tub out with her. She started to refuse, but the look on his face must have told her that he wasn't going to listen. He refused to allow someone else to do all of the work while he sat on his ass. He may be in a lord's room and wearing a lord's clothing, but he was still one of the Free Folk, and Free Folk carried their own weight.

When all of the water was dumped out of the bedchamber's window and into the snow below, Tormund finally crashed into the bed that he had been dreaming of all night. It was just as soft as it looked and his body practically sank into the feathers and fur. "These southern lords definitely got one thing right with these beds," he grumbled, already half asleep.

"I'll bring you some breakfast in the morning, sir," the girl said as she eased her way toward the door.

"If you call me 'sir' in the morning I'll throw that breakfast at you, girl," he told her, only half joking. "My name is Tormund, and I'd have your's, if you want to share it with me."

"Evelyn," she said, pausing in the doorway. She smiled coyly before adding, "Goodnight, Tormund."

"So there's no chance of you joining me in this bed, is there, Evelyn?" Tormund managed one last attempt at flirting, his eyes closed and his voice groggy. He heard her laugh quietly before he was lost into the depths of sleep.