You turn him into poetry because you can't have him in any other way.

~Lang Leav

The bell tolled for the sixth time that day. Everyone had grasped the news, the Warden's fat wife has died.

She has given birth to a stillborn boy and after hours of excruciating pain, she has shut her eyes forever. Myranda heard the whispers among the wenches she was toiling with, pulling buckets of water from the icy wells. It had only been morning but it felt like dusk. No one dared to speak of the grim event out loud.

She wondered of so many things, of how she could finally stir a conversation with Ramsay after weeks and weeks of being unnoticed. Of course he saw her among the sea of faces to and fro the entrance of the dining halls, through the corridors and winding staircases. And yet he had not showered her any attention, not even a flicker of recognition. She heard the rumors of him and his redhead of a wife and they felt like daggers that seared on her flesh again and again. But today someone's demise has opened her an opportunity to turn the tide around.

When it was noon she slipped through her boring tasks and waited for the head cook to lay the tray for the Warden's meal. Myranda wore an apron that lay scattered on the hay, and she waited for the pumpkin soup to be filled to the brim. The bread was stale. She overheard the cooks chattering at about not wasting too much fresh meat on the Warden's meals as he does not have the appetite anyway. What had been put on his table would be taken off a total replica.

She carried the tray as meek as she could, alone through the halls her heels made soft and quick taps. Up the staircases Bolton men were scattered. When one attempted to stop her she smiled sure enough to unhinge him and sweetly asked for permission to enter the chamber where the Warden sulked. In the corner of her eyes she saw some men bicker, knowing her by face once the plaything of Ramsay Bolton.

The door was opened only too heavily, and inside she entered only to be greeted with a body on the bed shrouded with white cotton blankets. She stared at the cadaver which seemed to have doubled in size and she kept staring as if her eyes could make its chest rise. The room was too dense, too melancholic, and there Roose Bolton sat glumly by the window – pale and ghastly. Grief had sunken his eyes and the rest of his face, advancing his age five years further.

Beside him Maester Wolkan was clouded with sorrow and guilt. His grey robes had dry splatters of blood on the chest and stomach.

"Milord," Myranda started, drawing the Warden's attention from the window. "Your meal, milord."

Roose Bolton was unstirred. Maester Wolkan gestured that she place the tray on the table, which she slowly succumbed to. Myranda glanced at the Warden's almost colorless eyes, batting her eyelids and smiling faintly. "You should eat, milord."

It did not matter the Warden had not given her attention. It was only enough she had access to the chamber, to become a familiar figure. And yes she will make it an unsolicited habit.

Again she came by the evening when the candles have been lighted and the body had been taken from the bed. The chambermaids had rolled every vair and wolf pelt and wool that had been a witness to Lady Walda's affliction. She opened the door to Roose Bolton signing parchments, dribbling wax on seal, and drinking more wine. He had not changed his smallclothes since midday. She brought in a dinner of the reheated soup, pasted oats, and duck stew.

"The carts have been filled. Tell Ramsay to leave by dawn and he need not come see me," Roose's voice was deep it could have drilled a hole on the wall. Candlelight flickered against the hard flat planes of his cheeks as he spoke. She did not respond, and as Roose Bolton raised his eyes he squinted at the realization of the wrong audience.

"My… apologies," the Warden looked back at the parchments, "I was expecting another visitor."

"It's alright milord," Myranda was smiling the same innocent smile that masked vendetta. She stepped in only to see the same untouched food she had ushered hours before. "It would help if you could at least eat,"

"Excuse me?" the Warden was lost on thoughts, the feather pen stuck between his fingers.

"Nothing, milord, I was just hoping you could take a bite off your meals, we are worried of you," she grinned.

Roose Bolton sighed and cleared his throat. "I need more wine,"

Myranda stepped closer only to wrap her fingers around the tin canister. It was cold to the touch. "As you wish, milord."

"You," Roose halted the moment Myranda was in clearer view, "Aren't you… Ramsay's…"

Myranda's mouth had dried in an instant and she felt a minute wave of shame but had rather kept the feelings to herself. "Well that was long gone, milord. Ramsay – Lord Ramsay is wed."

She did not glance at Roose Bolton, but she could have felt him raise his brows in amusement. "The Stark girl had him rather smitten, I would guess."

Myranda had so many reasons not to speak, not yet, but she was quietly hyperventilating as if the words had been flowing uncontrollably against her throat and was thumping on her temples.

"Oh but she would have rather had you, milord,"

At that she the wench succeeded baiting his attention.

"What?" Roose asked in utter disbelief.

Myranda mimicked a shocked expression too theatrically, her fingers were fumbling on the contents of the tray, trying too look bothered at a slip of the tongue. "Nothing, milord, it was nothing. I should not gossip."

"What was that you said? Speak."

At that Myranda dramatically held her chest, gulping, trying so hard to lose the color on her face and looking around to appear distressed. "Well before Ramsay and I had talked for the last time, he mentioned such a frustration… that lady Sansa had told him in a fight of how much she would have rather married his father, the Warden of the North… than a bastard of rickety honor." She proceeded to cover her mouth, seeing Roose's creased brow and hardened face. She covered her mouth to rather hide the irrepressible grin of success. She had just milked the wanted reaction.

Myranda began to fix herself, and proceeded to carry the old tray on both hands. "But that was about months ago, milord, it may not have meaning until tonight. I should go, milord."

The Warden had not spoken yet again another word as Myranda clambered out the door, too impressed with herself and grinning pleasantly.

The rest of the night she could not sleep, twisting and turning on the cold bed, utterly contemplating on the plan she had in mind. For she loved Ramsay dearly, and if her sinister plot could throw him off his marriage it might cost him his life as well. And should that happen, a dangerous voice whispered behind her neck, then none would have claimed Ramsay, not her, not Tansy or Violet, not even Sansa Stark. Sure he was demented, and hot tempered, and contemptuously manic but she loved him, all of him and his fucked up way of treating her.

With that Myranda rose and wore a cape, the one she used to wear on hunts with Ramsay. The kitchen was quiet, and as she passed by, a cat scrambled off through the small high window after knocking off a wooden jar. She did not mind the minor ruckus; pulling the hood above her head she went straight to the hallways, hearing the lively commotion of a troupe filling the carts with sacks, of whinnying horses, of clattering armory. She remembered what Roose had told her earlier that night. The men will be out to meet Stannis Baratheon in secret.

Ramsay!

Quickly she strode off to Ramsay's chambers, but seeing no guard on the doors she knew the room was empty. She had something in mind as to his whereabout but no, she'd rather not think of it. He's with the men on the courtyard. Myranda chanted in her head, her heart aching with eagerness to just to talk to him at least. To see the slightest bit of hope he could welcome her in his cold arms just like the days at the Dreadfort.

And yet no matter how she protested not to prove where Ramsay had spent the night, she found her feet heading to a tower she was forbidden to enter. Cold sweat ran through her temples with every step up, up the oaken door with torches on each side. Her stomach twisted. The place seemed untouched. She was satisfied. Only Sansa was in the room. On her own.

Myranda turned her heels to leave as quick as a rat when, the sound of the door opening rattled her peace. She hid behind a space between two pillars, and waited for something she wished she could have not seen.

Ramsay Bolton, clad in black and boiled leathers beneath a vest, quietly emerged from Sansa's chamber door. She heard him sigh, but he could not hear the tears that begged to be released from her eyes. Her skin was doused in sweat, her veins pulsed in ire and dejection, as Ramsay strode past her hiding. She waited until his footsteps had gone and her weakened knees gave way as she sat on the cold floor in her wretchedness and finally, the fire of vengeance made her rise. He had just spent the night with his wife, the thought would have made her retch.

Daylight had not peered through the grey clouds and Myranda was already waiting for the meal to be brought up to Roose's moping place.

The cook sliced warm bread and carefully laid them on a platter, along with bacon still dripping with oil, and a bowl of hard boiled eggs. Myranda hadn't noticed she was but too obviously dreary.

"Are you sick, wench?" the cook was raking her eyes at her, "Might as well scour the pots if y'can't walk. I will not hear you overthrew food on the halls I could give you a beating for that."

"Add more wine," Myranda shoved off, "The Warden needs more of it than your unnecessary comments,"

The cook scoffed, leaving her alone to fetch the canister on her own. Myranda did so, scowling.

Before entering the chamber, she stretched her mouth to smile, to not appear distraught and mysterious. She should look lively, and willing to help the Warden to his mood. A guard went out of the door, seemingly unnoticeable of her, and she entered.

Roose Bolton was by the window again. At least he had the courtesy to change his smallclothes.

"Milord," Myranda curtsied as Roose turned head to her. He doesn't seem surprised.

"It's about time you break your fast, milord," she spoke again.

"More wi – " Roose was cut off as the wench raised the tin canister and proceeded to fill his cup. He straightened his lips. "I believe you've taken a new liking for bringing in people's food,"

"I serve the Boltons," Myranda quickly answered.

"As you have served my son,"

She could only smile at that. "Yes milord, and now he is wed."

"He is." Roose could only agree, taking a sip of his wine.

"I saw them through the gates in the dead of night, it must be lonely for Lady Sansa to be left," she spoke, "As it is for you,"

Roose Bolton looked out the window yet again, "Well Lady Sansa could wait for a return, too different from my ill luck, two wives and two children. Gone. How severe could it get further?"

"It won't, milord," she sweetly remarked, "How could you be sure of a return? I heard Stannis Baratheon comes riding with a red priestess and their new god, the Lord of Light. There is one thing you could be sure of to remain between him and his wife, and that is Lady Stark. Soon she'll be a widow."

"Are you condemning Ramsay to death?" Roose asked almost bitterly. Myranda kept her cool, "Haven't you, milord? For so long,"

A loud silence hung between them. Finally Myranda teetered on her place, "Oh but I am just a kennel master's daughter. I should leave, milord, I am sorry."

"No. Stay." Roose commanded, "You've grown up with Ramsay to know him all to well. No one has been around him, with his sullied manners and rage, only you and that monster of a pig, Reek. Not that pet he made of Greyjoy, I mean. Surely my bastard son must have shared thoughts with you I could not have heard myself."

"He has, on many occasions, milord."

"Enlighten me,"

"I – I should not speak… you would not have believed me," Myranda shook her head and covered her face.

"Speak."

She sighed, playing with her fingers, "He loved to hunt, milord, and most of the time he spoke of his… his absolute scorn of his being a bastard and how you… milord have treated him. Occasionally he would talk of imaginations of taking the headship of the house for himself… of House Bolton. And how he wanted that all too badly. It could not have been so if Lady Sansa had loved him, but she… she saw him as you saw him, and right there he was all too eager to bring both of you down to the grave,"

Myranda saw the taut muscles on Roose Bolton's jaw. "Milord, the gods forbid Ramsay had participation on… on Lady Walda's…" even she could feel the pressure of guilt coursing over her nape at the lies she was so well off feeding. For a moment, Lord Bolton's grief has vanished and in place a wanton fume clouded his face. "He wouldn't…" Roose was at odds trying his best to stop the mad thought.

"I'm sorry milord," Myranda crossed her hands on her chest, "Would that I wish to have not said anything at all! My Lord is grieving. I am but foolish to ruin your woe!"

But of course there was no use of taking back her words. Myranda looked at the Warden, at the way the gloom in his eyes had turned to hostility the way Ramsay's were whenever the rejection from his father rained forth. The apple never falls far from the tree, so they say, and Roose Bolton was not the man to aggravate at the death of his trueborn children. He will always find blood to pay for the loss. She saw it at the death of Domeric, his insatiable wrath marked as patches of black and blue over Ramsay's pale skin. And she will not feel sorry to see it again.

Myranda left the room, red-faced and sweaty. As she closed the door behind her she could not help the snigger that made her cheeks swell. Oh how the mighty has fallen!

A/N: Hello and sorry for the month overdue! First month of work and hell has been unleashed! So I decided to take the chance to continue this because I was forced to stay at home for a week due to diagnosed threatened miscarriage (14 weeks pregnant, folks!). Tomorrow is the first day I get back to work so wish me well.
About the story, I had this great suggestion of a Myranda getting in the way because first of all, I do not really know exactly how I'd be able to fit her after Ramsay and Sansa starts becoming... well, "romantic" in some way but I still don't have that in mind. Thanks, QuilAteara! Although there is this doubt in me about whether men like Roose would believe in, basically... baseborns and slaves but thinking about how Shae got under Tywin's skin would probably make it possible, with the right motivations of course. Review me your thoughts!

Next installment might probably be the last for the chapter. I still have quite a long way to go writing darker scenes which will need a strong stomach to read. *gulp*