The leeches suck away the bad blood, all the rage and pain. No man can think so full of anger. Ramsay, though … his tainted blood would poison even leeches, I fear.

-Roose Bolton, A Dance with Dragons

The Blood Bath

The tart blackberry preserve spread generously over warm, crusty bread tasted like muddy hay in Eira's mouth. Her fingers rapped nervously at the red oak desk she was supping at, barely able to concentrate on the task of eating. Her stomach was in knots thinking of the day that awaited her. Paranoia had tainted what should have been a welcome break from the confines of the chamber. Pouring over illuminated illustrations in old manuscripts and feeding squawking ravens practically seemed like an adventure compared to her usual days of isolation. But she was perceptive enough to know that Ramsay's gifts were a double edged sword that took as much as they gave. He enjoyed toying with people and offerings that were bestowed usually involved some element of cruelty or mischief. She had not forgotten the lovely hunting trip into the woods that he had promised her.

The mention of Abbey escorting her to the tower also troubled her. The first time Eira had heard the name was when the kitchen matron had sent her to Ramsay's chamber to serve his meal in her stead, as she had been stricken with a fever. The second was when Eira had traded a silver coin she had pilfered from Ramsay's pockets with a serving girl for information regarding useful castle secrets. The women of the Dreadfort were hardened women who knew the consequences of idle gossip. They would not talk for less than silver. In a hushed whisper she had been told that Abbey bathed in the blood of flayed criminals of the dungeons. Eira could scarce believe the story and maintained a healthy scepticism of the claim.

Though she felt distinctly uneasy, Eira's interest had nevertheless been piqued. It was a morbid curiosity of the girl that was subject to rumour of such cruel insanity. Notably, she had also been chosen as the one trusted to serve the meals that Ramsay took privately in his quarters prior to her arrival. They must have been confident that she could make it out in one piece.

Ramsay was standing by the window that overlooked over the expansive cobble stone courtyard, sullen and quiet.

"Have you lain with her?" Eira couldn't resist inquiring, with a hint of envy creeping into the husky timbre of her voice.

Whatever he had been ruminating upon, was a spell broken by her question. He strode over to the desk and cupped her serious face in his hands, planting a wet kiss affectionately on her forehead. Ramsay was rather fond these rare displays of jealously. Eira was more prone to bouts of violence and complete apathy than anything resembling possessiveness. When he eyed an attractive handmaiden in their chamber she would barely stir, content in the fact that she alone shared his bed. Eira had more self-confidence than she gave herself credit for and Ramsay thought of her as tougher than a dragon egg to crack. Though she seemed in shock after their hunt, she was able to regain her composure within days.

Much to her annoyance Ramsay evaded the question. He wouldn't acknowledge that before Eira he had found sex somewhat mundane. While the power of inhabiting the most sacred part of another was at first exciting- it had soon become boring. He had tried to make it more mentally arousing, feeling as though he should comply to conventional wisdom that said it was an integral part of masculinity to enjoy such pleasures. But in truth he much preferred playing elaborate psychological mind games, flaying, hunting or the odd game of cyvasse. Though he was not inexperienced, he had never met a true equal in the bedroom. Cowering, timid maids that trembled with fear was a novelty that wore thin. Ramsay had found that he enjoyed receiving pain as much as inflicting it upon others, but the women he had encountered didn't have the stomach or the spirit to truly enjoy it. He had always thought that poison was a women's weapon, not their physicality. But Eira had proved him wrong. She was as slight as ghost grass, but had the courage of a lion.

Eira had stirred within him an unprecedented passion. She had almost strangled him on several occasions, wrapping her small hands around his windpipe when she orgasmed, turning him the hue of shade-of-the-evening. He could map every memory they had made together on his body. Ramsay revelled in the fact that though she could deny it as much as she wanted, Eira was in her own way as damaged as himself. After all, what sort of person left all their possessions behind to journey South on a fools errand to see desert sands? The Kingsroad was a perilous place, she would have lasted a few weeks at best before she was raped and murdered. Even if she had managed to survive the thieves and bandits, she had little coin and would have resorted to whoring herself for food. She was as impulsive as he was. His father had often called him a mad dog, who roved wildly without any fear of consequences. Fear kept one alive Roose would say, but neither him nor Eira had much regard for it.

"I have something more important to discuss with you than fucking Abbey," Ramsay blurted out impatiently with a look of exasperation, pacing the stone floors.

"I have received a raven, my father has commanded that I take Winterfell from the Ironborn. Balon Greyjoy's turncloak son Theon has taken claim. It's a good opportunity for me to make a bid for legitimacy... I can't take you with me."

Ramsay paused for a moment, as if conflicted about what he was going to say next.

"You will wait for me won't you?" Though the way it was enunciated sounded more like an exclamation than a question.

In truth Eira couldn't remember the last time she had thought about fleeing South. Not since the hunt in the woods when she had bolted on her mare and been recaptured by Ramsay. It had begun to feel like home. After her parents died her cottage no longer felt like her own. It was easy to flee with whatever she could carry on her back.

"Of course milord. You don't even need to threaten to have me hunted down and flayed if I don't pine away in your chambers waiting for you like a dutiful bedwarmer," she replied with a teasing smirk. Her eyes however, betrayed the sadness behind the jest.

"You are more than just my bedwarmer Eira," he replied.

"Don't get sentimental on me, I know you too well for that Ramsay."

"I'm taking the best of my men with me to Wintefell, but I know even unguarded you can take care of yourself," he said sternly, expecting nothing less from her.

"What of the name you want from me?" Eira asked apprehensively, feeling foolish to bring up the matter and stir the hornets nest.

"I have more pressing matters than those little amusements. Don't fret over it pet, come here. Show me how much you're going to miss your Lord."

She stood up from his desk where she had been breaking her fast and wrapped her frail arms around his broad chest, an affectionate gesture she was rarely comfortable with. Sex for Eira was easy with Ramsay, but the casual physical gestures of intimacy outside sexual activity were not. Kisses in the heat of passion were one thing, but otherwise she felt a vague discomfort. When she was younger boys had called her frigid. An ice queen. After her parents died she couldn't stand the touch of another on her skin. She remembered when well meaning villagers at Karhold had patted her comfortingly on the arm during her period of mourning, and she had shied away as if their touch burnt. Even the feeling of another's hand brushing against her own in the exchange of coin made her skin crawl.

Eira felt the heat emanating from their embrace and held him tighter, crushing his muscular chest against her own small body and nuzzling her face into his shoulder. It was easy to give into her lust for the dark and handsome youth, with his blue eyes and moon face. But opening up like this to Ramsay made her feel truly naked. She felt exposed in the same way she had been when sobbing in his lap after her capture and spanking. It made her feel weak.

"We're not going to dine alone in our chambers tonight, I'm taking you to the long hall to feast before I depart on the morrow. My father is away, I can have whomever I want seated in the place of honour," Ramsay said, untangling himself from their embrace and kissing her cheek lightly.

"I have preparations to make for my journey. Abbey will help you bathe and dress after you meet Maester Wolkan. I will see you later," and with that he departed from their chamber.

Eira had never met the infamous Abbey in person, but she had pictured someone more imposing than the woman who stood before her. She was short in stature and slight, overall rather plain in appearance. Fine lines creased the corners of her eyes and her undistinguished features, though it was difficult to guess her age. She was certainly no maid and had a slight sag to her flesh, but she didn't seem elderly either. Darkness didn't radiate from her, not in the same charismatic way that Ramsay commanded attention. Eira wondered what she had done to be subject to such abominable rumours for she certainly didn't seem like the sort of person who would rouse terror or jealousy.

Feeling her muscles relax from the tension in her stiffened body, Eira let out an almost audible sigh of relief. It all felt rather anti-climactic. They walked together in silence, plodding along the dim passageways that were decorated with banners of the flayed man. Eventually Eira felt as though she should attempt to make some polite small talk;

"Did you grow up at the Dreadfort?" she asked.

But she was met by a stony silence. Eira felt agitated at her cold aloofness and stubbornly pressed on with more questions. She would not be ignored so blatantly, she thought to herself with irritation.

Abbey gradually appeared more and more irked by her incessant chatter. Her nut brown eyes flashed with anger as she jerked her head sharply to face Eira. Trembling with rage, her features had distorted into angry mask. A snakelike sneer had slithered across her lips. Eira felt a twinge of fear, she had prodded a viper that was best left alone.

Abbey made a guttural noise and opened her mouth into a wide toothy grin, much to Eira's horror. She didn't have a tongue.

An unpleasant awkwardness descended upon them. Eira felt embarrassed for having unwittingly goaded her like that, but she didn't know how to offer an apology without causing further offence. She was grateful when they finally reached the grand Maester's tower that had ivy spiralling around it's thick trunk. It reminded her of the tales of chivalry and valour she had been told as a small child, of knights who rescued fair damsels from towers.

Abbey pounded on the heavy wooden door impatiently and Maester Wolkan answered with a neutral expression. Upon seeing him, she quickly turned her heel and disappeared into the shadows.

For an old man, he opened the door with surprising ease. He was an unshaven, balding man with close-set pale grey eyes. The black robes he wore hung loosely around his rotund body and a large chain was slung haphazardly around his shapeless neck. She had once been told that all the links on the chain signified the areas that they had studied in the Citadel.

"I've been instructed by Ramsay to teach you basic literacy. You will learn how to grasp a quill correctly and write letters, also assisting me in tending to the ravens. As you gain competency, you will be instructed on the correct methods for healing wounds with medicinal herblore. My main duties here at the castle involve ensuring that the interrogated prisoners last until their next session. Stitching to wounds, tending to broken bones, amputations..." Maester Wolkan trailed off and cleared his throat, fearing he had given the girl too much detail.

Eira returned his gaze with her large, unblinking doe eyes.

"If women aren't allowed allowed take the chain, what is the point of this?" she asked, genuinely perplexed by Ramsay's unclear motivations.

"That's not for me to say, I only follow orders," he shrugged with a small sigh. "I must say I would have hoped for an acolyte who wasn't completely illiterate though," he twittered with clear exasperation.

Eira didn't take offence. It was better to be around someone who spoke plainly than those with unclear agendas, the Maester seemed genuine enough. It was uncommon for a woman of her station to be taught highborn pursuits at all than alone traditionally masculine ones. At least he hadn't insulted her intelligence by questioning whether she had the aptitude to learn at all based on what lied between her legs. Women were thought to be suited only to embroidery, singing, dancing and other feminine arts. Anyone who diverged from this path was mocked or feared. Ramsay however seemed liberal as far as men in Westeros went. He had never thought her inept at riding a horse or wielding a knife, he admired her strength rather than discouraging it. But Wolkan seemed graceful enough to not make an issue of the matter.

The room was cosy, filled with quaint vials and pots of strange insects, plants and potions. It had a modest fireplace to warm the chamber and rows of books that were perched precariously on dusty bookshelves. A large desk sprawled out in the centre, mottled with manuscripts and wax seals. Maester Wolkan plucked a voluminous book out from one of the shelves and placed it in her small hands.

"You will need to learn to identify herbs in order to make a poultice, which draws out the bad blood. This book has drawings of all the key plants that grow in the area. Familiarise yourself with their pictures and we'll go through their properties," he said briskly.

The day flew by fairly quickly and to her surprise she took a keen interest in herblore and the syntax of the common tongue. Maester Wolkan was teaching her to speak properly in addition to the alphabet. Some of the things she was told was common known lore amongst the smallfolk, but other aspects were entirely new and fascinating to her. Eira had lived a fairly simple, provincial life of humble means. While she wasn't as poor as some, lucky enough to have been raised in a cottage with livestock and a modest garden, she knew little about the scholarly facets of the world around her. She had been told stories about what lay across the Narrow Sea as a small child by her mother, but she was also completely ignorant in many ways.

The sun was starting to set in the sky, bathing the room in a brilliant myriad of pink and scorched orange. The Maester was starting to tire, wearily drooping in his chair and rubbing his stomach hungrily. Abbey had been in the back of her mind all day, and she finally found the courage to tentatively inquire about her. When he was fatigued and didn't have his wits about him seemed like a good opportunity, she could catch him unguarded.

"The girl who escorted me... Abbey... Do you know her?" she quizzed, trying her best to sound casual.

"Her name wasn't always Abbey," he replied mysteriously.

Eira's eyebrows furrowed, feeling slightly bewildered. "But do you know her?"

"There are few who don't," Maester Wolkan replied vaguely.

"She has no tongue..." Eira ventured.

He studied her carefully, fear writ over his face.

"Was it Ramsay?" her heart pounded painfully in her chest as she awaited his answer expectantly.

The old man shook his head. "She was Roose Bolton's mistress. In her youth she was an attractive Lady, sought after by many suitors. In her noble finery she was quite a sight to behold," he said with a hint of nostalgia.

"Roose has always held fast to the idea that regular leechings purge a man of bad blood. Abbey however didn't believe in drawing it out, but rather soaking in it. She believed it was good for her complexion. His late wife, Bethany Bolton, found the whole thing... unsavoury. Before Bethany succumbed to fever, she had Abbey's tongue removed and bought her house to ruin. She feared that any bastards sired by her would be a threat to Domeric's claim. Already there was Ramsay born to the millers wife to worry about than alone more competition for him," he paused for a moment to take a sip of ale from his goblet before continuing.

"For his part, Roose respected her wishes and had her mercifully sent to the kitchens. Ramsay gave her the name Abbey, a plainer moniker he felt was more befitting of her new station. Perhaps he enjoyed taking the last fragment of her identity by forcing her to forget who she was. He has her serve his meals for his own amusement no doubt," he said with a rueful shake of the head.

"What was her name?" Eira asked softly.

Maester Wolkan smiled wryly; "I shouldn't be telling you any of this than alone utter that name."

"Why are you?"

"A warning. You would be mad to trifle with the Bolton's. I have served this house for over a decade, but it's a dangerous game to play. You don't belong here," he said with a frown, though not unkindly.

A brisk knock at the door startled them both, and Eira a slightly reluctant Eira was spirited away. She had enjoyed conversing with the man.

The washing room was her favourite of the castle, nestled closely to Ramsay's quarters it felt like a world of it's own. It wasn't dreary and bleak like the others in the castle, lacking the grim ambience that the Dreadfort was renowned for. It was a place that was golden and warm. Unlike the bloody gore which featured in the tapestries that were scattered elsewhere, here the walls were decorated with intricate scenes of bathing nymphets and magical creatures. Lithe fairy folk stretched out in cool forest streams flanked by centaur and direwolves. It never failed to make her gasp in awe and delight.

Moreover, Ramsay had revealed the best parts of himself in this room. The oversized claw-foot tub held many of her favourite memories in it's smooth, marble. Here he could be kind and verged closely on romantic.

Abbey was busying herself in the corner next to the fireplace, stoking the tinder and fumbling with vials of perfumed oils.

Eira felt self-conscious as she removed her rough-spun wool tunic, peeling it slowly from her thin frame. While she had grown used to handmaidens seeing her naked body- Ramsay bathed with her alone. Washing and cleansing themselves was an activity that was private to them, and oft involved sexual games. She had come to associate the rituals of bathing with a secret intimacy.

Triumphantly discarding the last article of her clothing, she sauntered over to the bath confidently. If she acted boldly, she hoped that she would start to feel it. She pushed aside the dark tale Maester Wolkan had told her. Ramsay didn't seem to think Abbey was much to concern herself with after all.

Petals of lavender and winter rose were scattered over the water, floating serenely on the surface of the generously filled tub. As Eira got closer she wrinkled her nose, the crimson tinged water didn't smell as sweetly as she had expected. The baths she had grown accustomed to were usually heavily perfumed with expensive, exotic oils. But she refrained from being overly fastidious and submerged herself bravely into the murky depths without complaint. It obviously isn't red, thick blood but harmless water, she reassured herself.

Abbey shuffled over to the bath and began to wash her ebony hair, pulling firmly on her locks and rinsing.

Eira curiously scrubbed at her longs legs, her skin seemed to be staining a light shade of pink. Quite foolishly, she didn't twig that anything was amiss and let her tired muscles relax in the hot, soothing water. It wasn't until a few rouge splashes dripped onto her tongue that she realised with a sickening lurch what the bath had been tainted with.

She tasted rich copper on her tongue.

In a desperate flurry, her arms and legs tangled as she flopped out of the bath with an undignified thud. The cold stone floor did little to cushion her fall.

Eira noticed Abbey studying her face carefully, monitoring her for a further reaction. This gave her a renewed sense of composure. She couldn't let her know that she was getting under her skin, for that gave up power. While she was clueless as to why she would do this to her and longed to angrily shake the disturbed woman, with quiet defiance she held out her arms instead- gesturing to be dressed.

Abbey retrieved a lavish gown from a wooden hanger and dutifully laced up the bodice. The final touch was a warm, pink velvet cape that she splayed over her small shoulders elegantly. Eira dipped her hands into the deep pockets to warm them, and to her surprise felt a piece of parchment brush against her fingers. She drew it out of her cape to study it, but to her disappointment she couldn't decipher the arrangement of neat, cursive letters. When she looked up, Abbey had already gone.

Note: Bethany Bolton is from the ASOIAF novels and is not OC. Maester Wolkan is from the show (in the books he is Maester Tybald.)