Roose and Myranda
The Warden was deeply regretting two months into the marriage of Sansa Stark of Winterfell to his bastard son for allowing the union to happen in the first bloody place. He had seen the way the Stark girl had looked at Ramsay, and what was even worse, was how his bastard son had returned the girl's gaze, how he had gotten that look in his eyes, like he wasn't quite sure how to respond as he had allowed himself to be led out of the mess hall. Lord Roose scoffed and rolled his eyes, raising the rim of his cup to his lips and drinking heavily, knitting his white brows together in a frown. It felt like no amount of Dornish red wine could quell the fury welling in his heart. He caught glance of one of the serving girls lurking amongst the shadows and raised his now empty goblet.
"More wine, please, girl. Make haste now, I have not all night," he drawled slowly, and almost lazily swiveled his head to meet the girl's gaze as she somewhat timidly stepped out from behind one of the stone pillars, leaving the sanctity of being shrouded in the shadows. The Warden of Winterfell allowed a dark chuckle to escape his lips as the girl stepped forward into the light, half of her features bathed in the dim light from the early morning sun, settling on her slightly dirtied face and hair.
"I know you," Lord Roose breathed, and it pleased him to see the serving wench stiffen involuntarily, the heat creep to her cheeks as she almost fumbled the flagon of wine, spilling a little bit at the soles of her leather boots, but immediately stepped back from the Warden and dipped her head in acknowledgement, a curtain of brown hair falling in front of her face, effectively shielding her eyesight from the Warden, who sneered and rolled his eyes.
"You are Ramsay's girl…are you not?" The Warden asked inquisitively, quirking a white brow at Myranda over the rim of his cup. He scrutinized the girl's appearance and had to immediately refrain from scrunching his nose in disgust. How his son, illegitimate or otherwise, could ever lay with such a disgusting little creature as this was entirely beyond him, but then again…he had heard the rumors of his own fat fucking wife behind his back. Lord Roose Bolton carefully watched as the serving girl's entire face immediately flushed a bright red, and she fumbled, trying to take a step back. He coughed once to clear his throat, his fingers curling into claws as he came up to grip the handle of his goblet. "More. Wine." He growled. It was not a request. "And you did not answer me. A servant speaks when a lord asks a question."
The girl flushed and mumbled something incoherent as she hastened to refill the Warden's cup to full capacity. "I…was once, yes, milord, for t'is true," the young serving girl commented, all the while actively averting the Warden's piercing gaze. She bit her bottom lip in a slight pout and resumed her standing position in the shadows. "But my lord Ramsay is a married man, sire, and therefore such a…a dalliance, if it pleases you, would be highly inappropriate. Those days are nothing but wind in the air now, a distant memory," the girl, who the Warden now knew to be called Myranda said.
The kennel master's daughter licked her lips, as her mouth and throat had suddenly gone dry at the mention of Ramsay, and the dozens of times they had fucked one another flitting to the front of her mind, but she swallowed down hard past the lump in her throat and clutched tightly onto the tin flagon of wine as she bit her bottom lip in a pout and waited for her Warden to speak.
When Ramsay had dismissed Myranda, effectively cutting her out of his life for good, it hit her hard. His cold words, flat with no emotion laced throughout them whatsoever, were like swords and daggers breaking Myranda's heart apart. The first day without him by her side hadn't even felt real.
A nightmare come true, maybe. Myranda found herself longing to wake up. But that never happened. She had cried. She had cried and cried until there were no more tears left in her to cry. The kennel master's daughter had cursed the gods and the Light of the Seven, wondering how it was possible for the deities to inflict so much pain inside Myranda's chest. She was now utterly alone. Completely, utterly alone, with Ramsay Bolton by her side.
Who would hold her hand, bite her ear in the way that she liked? She was no longer permitted to be a part of the hunting company, either. Who would tell her that they thought she had a pretty face and then fucked her until she could barely walk the next day? Not Ramsay. Not him. Not anyone, anymore. Myranda now lacked that someone who had been with her going on almost a full year's cycle. That same someone who promised her that she would always belong to him, that he was not going anywhere, neither was she. Only now for him to be married to a fucking cunt who was a weakling and did not deserve him.
Myranda felt her jaw clench in anger and ground her teeth together in anticipation, wondering exactly what it was that the Warden of the North wanted from her. Soon enough, Ramsay would forget about Myranda. He would forget the kennel master's daughter the way he forgot the other girls. All the ones he had most likely made similar promises to in order to entice them into his bed.
She briefly wondered if Ramsay had hurt at all when she had left his chambers that day in a fury. When he had claimed that he was no longer happy with her by her side, when he said he had never loved her, and that his sworn duty was to marry Sansa Stark, as his lord father had commanded him.
When in fact, just the night prior, the day before the Stark bitch arrived, Ramsay had let Myranda love him. The night before it all. He had kissed her that night, told her she was his forever. Had Ramsay lied? Or were his feelings able to fade from Myranda so quickly the minute the Stark girl set foot onto northern soil. Myranda knitted her brows together in a frown as she realized her former lover was nothing more than a coward. A coward that Myranda had every right to hate.
She still remembered their last exchange. "You act as if I've never seen you naked before." He muttered with mocking amusement, referring to their brief love affair from days back—in their most tender stages of their…relationship, if Myranda could even call what they had that at all. She simply turned her gaze to him, swift, emanating with resigned sympathy. "Because you haven't, Ramsay."
Ramsay Bolton had withdrawn his affections for Myranda right at the start of Sansa Stark's arrival to Winterfell, just as soon as Myranda become addicted to his touch. How quickly Ramsay gave her only ice. Then the Bastard of Bolton had sat there as if he were the victim and waited to be soothed.
Waiting for Myranda to pour in the warmth that the bastard had refused to make for himself. Then, as she drained over the days, Ramsay had taken even more from the kennel master's daughter, accused her more, had ice storms in his eyes more often because of her, more harshly…until she broke. And Ramsay had blamed Myranda for that, citing feelings of insurmountable envy and jealousy. By doing so, Ramsay Bolton had, in a way, absolved himself…and he was a fucking coward.
An unspeakable coward. Myranda clenched her jaw in anger and narrowed her eyes to slits.
She should hate him. She should be incredibly angry with Ramsay Bolton, but she just couldn't. If she was going to be angry with anyone, it was the Stark cunt for effectively ruining her life, by taking away the one good thing that Myranda had left, and now with Ramsay gone, she had nothing.
She was nothing, and that was what Myranda hated about herself the very most. Myranda would have done anything for Ramsay. The kennel master's daughter wanted to be the very best that she could for her lord Bolton. In fact, Myranda was the very best for Ramsay, but her best wasn't ever enough to satisfy him, was it? Especially now that he was fucking married to Lady Sansa Stark.
Maybe that was what hurt her the very most, and what prompted her to develop this idea that had laid dormant within the back of her mind for the last two months, silently watching the pair of them. How Ramsay's eyes would settle upon Stark's when the bitch thought that he wasn't looking.
His easy smiles and gentle teasing strung Myranda's heart and blinded her eyes to his true self. She had been willing to overlook Ramsay's veering lies, questionable behaviors and shady actions, and glanced the other way whenever Ramsay sought out the company of other women more than hers, convincing herself that it was merely that emotion known as jealousy rearing its ugly head.
But when Ramsay strayed, it was then that Myranda knew for certain that he had taken her for a mindless fool, nothing more than a bed warmer to warm his bed these lonely cold nights of winter. The Bastard of Bolton had made a mockery of the kennel master's daughter's affections and then turned the tables on Myranda, blaming her for straying when she brought up the idea of marrying.
"Who are you going to marry, hmm?" he'd growled into the shell of her ear during sex one morning. "No one will take you. Just look at you. You're mine, Myranda." Then he'd bit her ear.
Myranda exhaled a slightly shaking breath through her nose and spoke softly, feeling her voice go dangerously quiet. "There are…rumors abound that Lady Stark herself has learned to grow quite fond of Ramsay, though the girl seems to be most effective at concealing her true feelings for him."
Lord Roose scowled at the mention of Lady Sansa Stark. "The Stark girl has my son smitten; it would seem. I had not thought Ramsay capable of ever feeling any emotions, least of all not love." He spat the last word as though it were poison that had settled upon his tongue, bitter, vile, and putrid. Roose glanced upwards, noticing the kennel bitch eyeing him in a rather strange manner. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He had no time for games.
"Speak." His tone was clipped and hard. "Something is on your mind, girl. Tell me what you know of my son and this she-wolf of Winterfell. I know the walls in this place has eyes and ears."
Walls that you put there, milord, is what Myranda wanted to say, but judging by the cold, calculating look in the Warden's eyes, the kennel master's daughter thought better of it, nodding.
"Of course, milord," Myranda mumbled, dipping her head in acknowledgement, brushing back a lock of dirtied brown hair behind her ear. "As I am sure you are well aware, I serve Lady Stark."
Lord Roose Bolton waved his hand and brushed away the kennel master's daughter's opening statement as if to say, "Yes, yes get on with it." He quirked a white brow her way and gave a curt nod. "Go on." His voice was like steel. The Warden of Winterfell's voice was deep, and whenever Lord Roose spoke, every single head in the room would turn. He had that rich, silky tone almost.
Roose Bolton was a man who spoke as if he controlled the entire kingdoms, not just the North, his years of experience and wisdom seeping through his silver words. He would remind you of a stormy day, sometimes one that was good, and other times…not so good. This was a 'not so good.'
Whenever Roose spoke, it was like a low roll of thunder. His words were always soft, but no one ever ignored what the Warden had to say, including Myranda, who quickly nodded, her lips parted open slightly to speak. "She—she made mention the night following their wedding night that…she would rather be married to you, milord, over a man such as your son who is a monster."
Myranda could feel her fingers shaking at her sides, and she quickly balled them into fists and clasped her hands behind her back to control the uncontrollable tremors and conceal it from Roose.
The kennel master's daughter watched with no small measure of glee in her eyes, so much so that she had to stifle her grin behind the palm of her hand, as Lord Roose Bolton became intrigued.
Were he a hound, his ears would have perked up at the false admission, though if he knew the girl's words to be a falsehood, he gave no indication, though Myranda by now, having sat through and participated in countless a flaying of Ramsay's victims and several hunts with the man, liked to think she had gotten to be quite good at reading people, especially looking into their eyes to see.
And now, she could detect no sign that Lord Roose Bolton knew that she was lying to him. Feeling a new sense of exhilaration as Myranda inhaled a sharp breath of cold air as it wafted through the mess hall, she continued. "Milord Bolton shared many secrets with me during our…time," she began hesitantly, biting her bottom lip in a slight pout and toying with the end of a lock of her hair. Intrigued, she watched as Lord Roose Bolton sat up straighter in his chair, lacing his fingers together. The indication he gave off to Myranda was quite clear. Continue speaking, his eyes said.
"He reviles you, milord, for your treatment of him growing up, and has confessed to me on more than once occasion how he would see your head on a pike, and the minute that your son is born, he would seek to end Lady Walda and the babe's life with his own two hands. And as for the matter of his wife…"
Myranda hesitated, biting down on her lip even harder as she watched as the briefest flickers of rage clouded through Lord Roose's eyes at the thought of his bastard son attempting something so heinous as to take an innocent life, let alone two. "Lady Stark falsifies her feelings for your son publicly, milord, for she fears for her life. Were she to speak out of turn with Ramsay and tell the man of her true feelings towards her lord husband, well…I think we all have seen Ramsay's temper, sire, and what he is capable of doing to those who displease him so, if they so much as even look at him the wrong way, he cuts off a finger without so much as blinking an eye,"
Myranda purposely allowed her voice to trail off and she looked away. "She fears your son, milord. Sansa sees no other way out of this union but to endure and hope for the best, though I heard her make a passing comment once as she drew in breath that she wished that Ramsay would drown in a lake of ice water and never re-emerge, and she would be more than content with that outcome for her lord husband," she exclaimed. "Lady Sansa has privately confessed to her maids and anyone who will listen that she would feel much safer were you by her side instead of Ramsay and that...that she believes her lord husband will make an attempt on Lady Walda and the baby's life as soon as the babe emerges into this world and draws its first breath."
She let out a breathless squeak and coughed once, folding her arms across her chest as she continued to study the Warden's face. Lord Bolton's wide open eyes reflected everything and saw nothing. Behind them was something more intense than normal thought and his clenched two-day-stubble jaw wasn't a good sign. Myranda had been hoping for, perhaps not outright forgiveness, though she could confess to no one what she was doing, but the beginnings of a tentative reconciliation, an understanding, and a shared animosity for the Stark bitch of Winterfell.
Now she simply hoped to get out of the conversation without giving Roose a reason to hate her all the more. His eyes were a knife in the kennel master's daughter's ribs, the sharp point digging deeper. Where there had been intrigue before was an emptiness, but not in any vulnerable sense. Uncomfortable with the void, he had filled it with an emotion he was more at ease with - raw anger. The un-moving gaze was accompanied by deliberate slow breathing, like he was fighting something back and loosing. Myranda blinked owlishly, for a moment having forgotten why she was still here. It became clear to her that the Warden of the North had bought her story, every word.
She barely managed to repress her immense grin of satisfaction, for as the lie had so easily tumbled from her lips, Myranda knew there was no taking back of her words. Not this late in the game. A game that she was going to win, and the Stark girl would pay for Myranda's misery with her own life.
"Ah, but gods! I am terribly sorry, milord," Myranda mumbled, dropping her voice an octave, and dipping her head in submission and false shame, false sympathy oozing from her words, sounding like poisoned honey. "Would that I have not wished to say anything at all, but…I feared that by not doing so, it would be a crime against the great house of Bolton, treason, and so I…"
Lord Roose gave a curt nod, his eyes cold and calculating. "You did the right thing." Myranda swallowed and returned the gesture, turning on her heel of her boot once he had dismissed her.
Myranda liked to think that she knew better than most that Lord Roose Bolton was not a man to aggravate when it came to the matter of his trueborn heir, who was still another eight or so months away from giving birth. She had seen it once as blue and black patches across Ramsay's pale skin.
The kennel master's daughter allowed herself to give in to the darkness of her thoughts as wicked, vile thoughts of future bruises to impart upon the Stark cunt's body consumed her mind, and for what Ramsay had done, how he had denied her and betrayed her, Myranda thought she would not be sorry to see Ramsay Bolton bleed again, yet again at the hands of his own lord father.
As Myranda strode out of the mess hall and down the corridor to return to the kitchens, as she crept closer towards the servants' quarters, she wore a look of true, genuine contentment on her face. She wished Lord Roose well in his future endeavors, whatever his plans with Sansa would be, with the voice that came so naturally before her plan to do great things like conquer the North.
It sounded like her, but it wasn't. Myranda was already in a transition to become a person that she never meant to be. The bitterness at the thought of her former lover actually in love with Sansa Stark was like rising bile that coated the back of her throat and then as soon as Ramsay was gone, she would have no reason to swallow it anymore. Myranda had been raised in a home of peace, taught by her father to show grace, and forgive others, but when her mind turned to Ramsay, none of it was there.
He had known full well what he had done to her, what he was doing. Myranda had suffered and Ramsay drank it like a fine wine, becoming intoxicated on his own power and lust for his little wife. And now…all Myranda felt was a horrible bitterness, and with each day that passed, it grew like a festering wound that had been left to rot, pushing on the side of Myranda that was serene, enveloping her in toxic darkness.
With any luck, the Stark bitch's days were numbered. And the girl was as good as dead.