When love is at its fight, it's never good enough.
~tn. warm
Sansa Stark was found in the morning; the hounds have smelt her limp and unconscious by the icy river. They've set the beasts raving on her as a punishment, and Myranda's hold on the clay basin tightened with excitement to see Sansa's face marred with their teeth. She was smiling to herself, the heels of her boots vibrated on the narrow winding path to Sansa's chamber. Let me see that pretty face no more, little wolf. Let me see.
Her smile fell when she reached the chamber door unlocked. The gap between the door and its post said that someone had been there before her. And no one would have crept out to Sansa Stark's room than that of her betrothed. Myranda felt her blood curdle.
She pushed the door open and instead found no Ramsay in it. It was his father, Lord Roose Bolton, sitting on the edge of Sansa Stark's bed while she sat with her back leaning on a high pillow against the bed post. Both looked at her and Myranda couldn't hide her frown when she set her eyes upon her rival.
The stories weren't true. Her face was not mauled at all. It remained an ill-sweet sight except for a reddish-purple bruise on her right cheek and a small cut on the corner of her lower lip. Yet she was still as lovely as sunrise and Myranda couldn't help the jealousy brooding into her own face; her nostrils flared even at the thought of it.
They were still looking at her, with Lord Bolton's eyes waiting for a remark on what on seven hells was Myranda doing there.
"I'm here to attend to Lady Sansa, milord," she sighed, almost begrudgingly. The sole reason she volunteered was only to mock the Lady of Winterfell whose face was said to be broken by the hounds. Those little shits of a rumour, she thought, why would they have to exaggerate a single bruise? "The master said she was fevered, I've brought warm water to dab away the heat on her skin,"
Roose Bolton looked at Myranda from her face to the hem of her dress, his eyes speculative and silently disparaging. Myranda grew knowing the scorn that Roose had for her, for being such dire influence on the son he was raising to be his heir. But she did not care. What mattered was that Ramsay was satisfied with her, hunted women nuisance to her, and fucked her. That was all the game.
The Warden of the North inhaled before turning back to Sansa. She covered her right shoulder with a hand.
"Are you certain you can't remember anything else before and after that, my Lady?"
Sansa took a glimpse at Myranda first, before turning back to Roose. "Uh," she swallowed, "None, my Lord. I told you earlier I was unconscious before they took me out of the chamber."
Roose stared at her, eyes a muddle of qualm and assurance. He put a rough hand atop the other on his lap, and calmly nodded, the tip of his lip curled into a smile. Sansa was playing with her fingers and it all sent Myranda rolling her eyes instead. He stood, the small chains on his suit softly rattled as his gait straightened. "Rest then, Lady Stark. You will need it more than ever. Let Myranda take care of anything you need."
She flinched with hatred. Why bother taking care of a helpless damsel when she could creep into Ramsay's chamber and serve him all night instead. Perhaps she could just poison the lady. She almost laughed at the thought.
Roose turned his heels, but Sansa's voice crept up. Even Myranda's attention was hooked in.
"When I was asleep..." the lady started meek and weakly. "I actually heard my brother's voice calling to me." The edges of her eyes moistened and made them glitter. Roose Bolton halted and plainly looked at her without sentiments. She continued with a hallowing throat, "I hope it was not a dream..."
Roose looked away, and in a split second answered, "It was a dream, my Lady. Rest now."
Myranda saw the antagonism flare on Sansa's eyes as she bit her lower lip while watching Roose Bolton exit the chamber. The Warden passed by Myranda and she gave a sham curtsy. She pushed the door upon the knowledge that it was only the two of them that ruled the walls.
Myranda took the basin and jar and walked resentfully towards Sansa who was beginning to feel the discomfort.
"I'm sorry to have to come at such a tiring hour, milady, the trauma you went through must be exhausting," she smiled while placing the items on a wooden table beside the bed, keeping her voice smooth and benign as possible despite the urge to flay Sansa herself. She poured the tepid water from jar to clay basin. The she-wolf remained quiet.
Water droplets filled the awkward silence between them as Myranda soaked and squeezed the grey wool bathing cloth. Smiling, she stooped and gently damped the cloth on Sansa's forehead. "To keep the fever away...oh," she falsely claimed concern at the ugly bruise that tarnished Sansa's right cheek, "What a pity. Does it hurt?" Myranda tried to touch only the edges of the purple mark. Sansa pulled her face away.
"It's alright," the she-wolf willed to speak, again covering her right shoulder with a hand, "What was your name again?" Myranda's hand was left hanging. She rested her hands instead.
"Myranda," she sighed, "Don't despair, my lady. You still look beautiful." The kennel girl assured. "You have to get used to it, anyway,"
She watched Sansa frown and furrow brows, "What?"
Myranda pursed her lips. "Nothing, my Lady,"
"Get used to what?" Sansa asked another time, determination coated on her speech.
"Being called beautiful," The kennel-girl raised her brows, wanting to laugh but must not. Sansa stared at her before looking away in a frustrated exhale. As she did, Myranda gazed at her intently, acknowledging the grey sleeping gown that the Stark girl wore, with her auburn hair freely flowing to her waist. And she hadn't believed in the stories that throbbed through the household, that Sansa was carried off by hooligans at the eve of her wedding, and was found abandoned by the river. It was even the least possibility. How could they have left her, the Key to Winterfell and the North, just after abducting her. It would have been the most imbecile decision to make. Myranda couldn't believe that the feared Roose Bolton would actually be falling to the sweet alibis. But she also knew that be it true or not, the wedding should not be delayed much further.
"Do you really want this wedding, milady?" she found herself asking, taking Sansa's arm from her shoulder and folding the sleeves up above the elbow to expose the milky flesh. Again she damped the cloth and began to sweep off the remaining dirt that clung.
"What?"
"Do you really want this wedding?"
Sansa replied with silence. She was good at that. Might as well cut off her tongue as there was no difference in her between having a tongue or not.
She was proved wrong when Sansa asked back. "Do you?"
Myranda shot her a look with an ashen face. The cloth on her hand stilled. Willing herself not to be caught with the shock, she laughed, "Well I should be, it means a lot to the Boltons, you know,"
"Does it, to you?"
The silence screamed between them, and Sansa Stark was waiting for an answer. Myranda forced a smile.
"Of course."
"How long have you loved him, Myranda?"
Myranda dropped her jaw. Her heart began to burst in uncontrollable pulses. She could almost see Ramsay in the room looking at her with a finger at his lips and smiling wickedly, telling her to keep the jealousy to herself or she'd face the consequences.
"Whatever you had, forget it. He must have done the same to you the moment I walked through the gates." Sansa pulled her arm from the servant girl, rolled down the sleeves and looked away. "Not that I am proud to take your place."
My place? Myranda gave a small laugh, forcing Sansa to look back at her. "My pl—? You don't know what you're talking about, milady."
"Oh but I do, darling." Sansa stared at her with a glint of threat from the edge of a knife. "You thought he would be with you forever is that it? I used to dream about finding true love but here I am, passed on from one inbred to another, and coming along to ruin your fantasies."
Myranda could only hope the lady has not seen her throat bobbing up and down as she swallowed. Her skin began to prickle with heat of infamy.
Sansa sighed. "Rest assured he only wants my belly for this matter. Perhaps he'll even have more time for you."
"Perhaps not," Myranda stood in all discourtesy that Sansa would have the right to have her hanged for the insolence. "He had his eyes draped over you like he had not done before to another. He must have seen you last night without your knowledge, is it?"
Sansa has not answered and Myranda felt the suds of certainty in the way that the lady stared. Myranda inched her head, "Or with your knowledge?"
The she-wolf stiffly parted their eye contact, giving Myranda the familiar pangs of envy landsliding through her. And like a treasure on a map, she reached her hand out to the sunset-colored locks that covered Sansa's right shoulder, and flipped it away.
There below the she-wolf's shoulder gleamed a wine-red patch against ivory skin. Myranda's pupils dilated. The thumb-sized blotch wasn't a contusion and neither a bruise, and it was not as ugly as any of the two. It was a smudge made scarlet by gentle sucking. Its warmth when it was put there seared through Myranda's bones and she withdrew as hurt mocked her to the core. Not Ramsay. She repeated like a mantra even though it screamed his name around the passionate mark. She wanted to believe it was another lover but Sansa Stark was not a fool to keep one, not in a nest of vipers.
He has never given this to her, in all their years of violent pleasures. She only had painful discolorations on her body graced by how Ramsay bites her. She couldn't imagine him, them, on this bed, probably last night, getting used to each other. She didn't want to picture Ramsay's lips on Sansa's bare shoulder, or his hands on her hair. She didn't want to visualize him being gentle to her, whispering three words that she herself has longed to hear. Of course, she wasn't sure how he treated her, but to think of his hands on the wolf sent revulsion on her stomach.
She was disturbed when Sansa covered the shoulder again. "Go."
Myranda took a step back, feeling the dam of tears threatening to break from her eyes. Sansa need not to repeat her command. Even before the she could, the kennel girl found herself fleeing down the winding staircase.
A/N: Hello there and here's a Myranda update. I've posted a MISSING CHAPTER prior to the happenings in this chapter as requested, a little Sansa and Ramsay encounter. SALT IN YOUR WOUNDS. Hope you like it. Thank you very much. Valar Morghulis, Valar Dohaeris. Belated Happy birthday, dear 2tall2betrue. I am looking forward to reading some of your works when I buy the time.
ATHENARES