Arya

Ramsay Bolton was drunk. That was her strongest advantage and she was going to use it. He'd taken her back to the Dreadfort, as was his way. She knew she needed to get out of there before the night was up, hopefully find Olly still at the tavern, and return back to their camp before Ramsay was any the wiser. If Olly went back to Jon and he came for her before she could get to him…

Well it just wasn't going to happen. She'd kill the Bolton Bastard before she'd let Jon put himself in danger here. She was tempted to do it now anyway and just have done, but years of training stayed her hand. It would be a messy job, completely unprofessional, completely beneath her training. And what's more she wanted to use the man to find out why in the hell they were trying to kidnap Jon.

So for now, the best course of action was to play his whore. Arya wondered fleetingly if this would be how she would lose her maidenhead, playing a part and intentionally not killing the lecherous monster because the timing was wrong. Well if it has to be, so be it, she thought to herself harshly. Still she felt a pang of regret.

He took her through the keep keeping a firm grip on her wrist as he went while she took a mental note of the route.

He dragged her into a room on the first floor of the castle and shut the door behind him, locking it but leaving the key in the door. Good, she thought to herself, he doesn't see me as a threat. He's taking no real precautions.

"What does milord want me to do for him?" she said meekly, peering up at him through her eyelashes.

He looked exasperated for a minute. "What's the fun in any of this if you start out by asking me what I want? No sport in it at all… and don't call me milord; I'm a bastard as you likely know well enough, and 'tis the treatment of a bastard you'll get tonight." He moved towards her and Arya went to the side of the bed where a bottle of wine and two goblets sat. She poured herself a healthy glass of wine, then did the same for him stealthily slipping five drops of her Qohorik serum into his glass before handing it to him.

He raised his eyebrows at her, "thirsty my pet?"

She nodded, taking a large gulp of wine and he smiled, taking a drink of his own, his steely eyes watcher her over the top of his cup.

"You're a bastard?" she said, more to keep the conversation going while the serum took hold than because she was curious already knew that.

"Yes, yes. Truly sad. My father never loved my mother. I on the other hand am exceptionally fond of all women, in my own way…" he said leering at her. She couldn't tell from this response if the serum was working yet, or if he was just oddly sarcastic by nature. Qohorik serum was one of the most precious trade goods from the free cities, worth almost as much as their reworked Valaryian steel and ten times as much as their slaves. It had the power to loosen men's tongues, forcing them to answer any question asked with at least some component of the truth, all while plunging them into a state of semi-euphoric intoxication. The House of Black and White had one of the largest supplies of the stuff in the world. Though they used it sparingly, they generally preferred it to torture and superfluous killings.

"You must be the most powerful bastard in all of Westeros. Save maybe the Lord Commander of the Nights Watch. I hear tell he's a bastard as well."

Ramsay let out a laugh at that. "I suppose he is in a way, yes, though not in the way he thinks. Poor sod. I thought it was difficult not knowing who my mother was, but he—stupid fuck that he is—doesn't know who his father is either! Though I suppose it's a comfort to him that he thinks he knows he's ol' Ned Stark's byblow."

Ramsay took a long drink of from his glass of wine and she poured him more, hoping to get any of the residual serum off of the sides of the glass and into his system.

"If he's not Ned Stark's bastard, whose bastard is he?" She said.

"Curious for a wondering slut aren't you?" Ramsay replied his voice turning sharp. Arya hoped her eyes hadn't widened. He was resisting the serum which told her two things: he was incredibly strong willed, and she would need to be careful not to rise his suspicions any more. People who knew they were being questioned using the serum tended to fight it, and would often cry out before answering as if trying to yell nonsense to keep them from forming the words that would reveal their secrets. She didn't have time for him bringing the attentions of the men of the keep.

She opted to giggle drunkenly instead and sat down on the bed cocking her head to the side to look at him instead, "I just like hearing about powerful people is all. Growing up, the Starks were the most powerful people I'd ever heard of save the King. Even their Bastards have more power than I could ever hope to…"

Something instinctive told her this line of suggestive conversation would be successful with Bolton. She remembered some of the whores of Braavos telling her that there are men who like to have all the power—like the man she'd killed from Mareen—and some men who get pleasure from taking power from you. Something about Ramsay told her he was the latter, despite his reputation as the former, and while she had still been No One it had been her plan to use that to her advantage if the occasion arose.

"Oh aye? And if I tell you of powerful people will that make you feel powerful my pet?"

"No sir, but I can tell you what would…"

"Oh yes dear? And what's that?"

"Taking power over you."

Got him. His eyes widened, and from the way he shifted she could tell her words have given him a cockstand.

"And what in the name of seven gives you the impression that I would let you take power over me?" he asked, his voice straining to retain his sing song manner in the face of his building lust.

"Oh I don't think you want to let me take power over you…" she said, drawing herself off the bed and reaching for the ties at the back of her skirt.

"No? What then?"

"I think…" she said sending up a quick prayer that her instincts were right, "I think you'd let me fight you for it."

With that she let her skirts fall away, revealing Needle belted around her waist. Her blouse was long, falling just a few inches above her knees, but other than that her legs were bare. She knew she looked like a well-armed harlot, but she hoped against hope that he'd take the bait.

His face split into an enormous grin. "What fun! Goodness me I am going to enjoy you so much more than I planned to."

He cast off her cloak, and outer doublet, so he was dressed only in his shirt and trousers with his sword belted low about his hips. She could see the line of his erection through his pants and felt a thrill somewhere between fear and excitement. He would be, she reasoned, a very attractive man if he weren't so evil.

She drew Needle, reminding her to have a care with its edges. She'd steeped them in highly concentrated milk of poppy mixed with adder venom. It wouldn't be enough to kill him, but it would knock him unconscious within a minute of getting into his bloodstream.

"When you're ready, milord," she said tauntingly, leaning to the side on her hip in a way that showed her curves at their most suggestive angle. Ramsay charged her, and she flipped up her discarded skirts in his way, laughing. He threw them aside, his face full of amusement and fevered desire to win and she swung for him slicing him lightly on the thigh.

"Cheeky bitch. I'll enjoy tanning your sweet little ass for that."

"Surely you can think of better things to do with my ass, milord?" she said hoping to God that what the whores of Braavos had told her was actually true and not just some jest they made up on a lark. From the look on her face she guessed what they had told her was possible, though lord knows why anyone would opt for that route, and she was forced to parry as he lunged for her again. She had about 30 second left before it would really sink in.

A couple more parries on both sides and he sunk to his knees a look of confusion coming over his face.

"Are you alright milord?" she said, dropping to her knees beside him, in order to get a better look at his eyes. Already milky, not much longer now…

He reached for her and pulled her under him with alarming strength given how drunk, drugged, and injured he was. She gasped as his body came between her knees and the pressure of him fell upon her sensitive folds. Holding onto his torso she rolled with him, so she was sitting astride him.

"Ambitious wench," he said his words slurring, "I suppose since you drew first blood you get to start…" he was almost completely blacked out at this point.

"Ramsay?" she said, trying to call him back to consciousness for just a moment longer.

"Mmm?" he said, barely holding on to wakefulness as his limbs went limp.

"If Ned Stark isn't Jon Snow's father, then who is?" she asked, her heart in her throat, her mind begging for there to be at least some hint of the serum left in his blood.

"Raegar… Targaryen," he said his brows furrowing with suspicion at the end. But it was too late. He passed out on the ground under her in a dead faint.

She stopped only long enough to strip his trousers from him (her skirts would be a nightmare to steal a horse in), remove all the contents of her skirt pockets, and admire momentarily his still enlarged member before she turned and fled into the night.