CHAPTER 31 : MYRANDA / ROOSE

Hell is empty and all the Devils are here.

~w.s.

The wench hovered over the spiraling flight of stairs, her muddy brown hair bouncing against her shoulders and the hem of her dress scraping through the cobblestones. She reached the kitchens, pink-cheeked and out of breath and with a smile that made the head cook's brow arch.

"You're early," the burly woman said, her morning breath making Myranda's nose flinch, "You've been early since about a few days ago. The Warden must've taken a liking of ya."

Myranda curled her lips, dipping the ladle into a steaming pot and pouring soup on an awaiting bowl. No. She scoffed. The Warden has taken a liking of his daughter-in-law, thanks to me. "He wants Lady Sansa's meals be delivered early."

"Lady Sansa's? My, my…" another wench intervened, rolling her eyes and leaving a black smudge of coal on her forehead as she poorly swept a stray hair aside. "I'm betting truth on those rumors."

Myranda held back the snigger which almost escaped her lips. "Rumors?"

"Haven't you been watchful, girl?" the other widened her eyes. She neared her face as to appear convincing. "Handmaids and soldiers see 'em. In the courtyard, in them halls and parapets."

"There's truth to that alright," another spoke, a fair-haired and blue eyed wench who had better employment in a brothel, having the reputation of sleeping with more than half of the Bolton army. She was tittering about while going on, "I was with Flint the other day – or was it Dan? Oh bugger. Anyway we were at the stables, you see, minding our own business, trying not to make that much of a noise. When at once he jumped to his feet, trousers still pooled around his knees and his pecker slimy. He had thought he heard the Warden coming and he wasn't wrong. So I hid behind the stack of hay while he dressed – oh poor lad, haha. And there he was, milord Roose. From what I heard he was speaking to the Lady Sansa, showing her the horses and mayhaps inviting her to ride. But she said of feeling unwell she had rather stayed in her chambers. As of me and Flint – or Dan…"

Myranda hadn't remembered the words fluttering from the girl on her sexual adventures on a haystack. She was feeling rather proud of herself; she had never been as successful. The days had gone by with her scheming to make roads meet between Lord Bolton and Sansa fucking Stark. And she had made sure there were eyes over them, whoever it could be – the soldiers, smiths, bannermen and freeriders, stablekeepers, handmaids, kitchen wenches, anyone.

She started with the meals, convincing Lord Bolton to remind the girls that Sansa be fed regularly, then the company of needlework. Lord Bolton never failed to learn of Lady Sansa's hobbies, and provide her with it. As the Lady would go about the castle, Myranda would inform Lord Bolton of her whereabouts, where he'd fly to without hesitation. And while they meet, much to Sansa's astonishment and poorly-hidden cringing, Myranda would take a wench or two to take a pass. By the day's end, she would hear them talk to the others about how they saw the Warden and his son's wife as they toured lazily about the halls.

Soon it were the soldiers darting their eyes, making small talk of the not-so-secret meetings, hearing the Warden invite Lady Sansa to dinners and council gatherings.

"You talk too much," the head cook snapped at the wenches, pulling Myranda's thoughts back to the present. "Might as well have your tongues cut off. The Warden lost his wife – that is the truth, and now you feeble minded girls stop spreading nasty rumors. You would regret that when his son comes home."

"Spreading? The whole castle knows!" the blue-eyed one cried, "And besides I doubt Lord Ramsay comes home, has he dropped a raven for you yet, Myranda? Or has he forgotten your name now?"

The high pitched laughter plagued Myranda's ears and she turned to shoot a glare at the other. Had Ramsay and her still engaged in their scandalous affairs, this one would have been a good game for the hounds.

Speechless, Myranda took her tray after the cook had finished laying salted ham. She had another thing to do besides. She had recently befriended someone – someone born and raised in this castle, in Sansa's fashion. She once learned the Stark daughter was naïve, a stupid girl with stupid dreams, they say. The wolf had begun to learn to grow suspicious, but this other girl had grown short of the knowledge of games and thus an easy prey to leech information.

Myranda left Sansa's meal at her doorstep without the decency to knock. She has hands to open her door for fuck's sake; Myranda rolled her eyes in detest, swaying her skirts to leave. Striding towards the end another hallway, she approached a door, which at the third knock, had it opened for her.

"My Lady, you've asked for me?" Myranda curtsied, too true she would have been made to be highborn. The other girl beamed.

"I'm having trouble with the fireplace, Myranda," Jeyne Poole shyly smiled, opening the door wider, "Come in."

Roose Bolton inspected the corpse like a vulture eyeing its meal. When the portcullis rattled and the horses galloped in, his eyes immediately fell over the haul swathed in bearskin hitched behind Locke's stallion. It was there his breath halted and a surreal guilt overwhelmed him. He sought within him the hardened soul of a kinslayer, the split of his personality who wrote crime on that parchment and had it sent without remorse… but it remained in hiding.

Locke uncovered the body, and Roose's face hardened. He took the details of the cadaver and how gruesome it had become – open kneecap below a sharp jutting femur, large chunk of flesh and wool missing from a thigh, three ribs peeking from the leathercoat caked in blood, and the face… The face was enough for one to retch the breakfast he had from yesterday, to remain as one's nemesis like an insensible friend. What remained in the head was half a crown of hair, for the rest – scalp to face to neck – was ripped from the depleted skull. In place of eyes were bloody hollows and crushed brains, its jaws detached. Roose had seen a hundred flayed men sprawled with maggots and pecked by crows but nothing like this had made his stomach shrink the way it had now. The cold had preserved its grisly state, preventing the lush of stench.

Roose felt the need to divert his attention awhile, turning to a soldier behind him he said crudely, "Bring the Maester, and Lady Sansa."

The man turned heels to obey, his boots scraping against snow-hardened ground. Locke stood by him and Roose felt a pinch of anger rise to his head.

"I presume there are better ways to die than this…"

"Hm," Locke chewed on the wall of his mouth, "Better look an accident than murder."

"What happened?"

"Hounds happened."

"Hounds?" What a poetic way to die. The bastard loved his hounds and here his body lay looking less like human. "And the fractures?"

"Took em hunting. Three of us, the other – Jory. Heard them hounds deep into the woods – Stannis' scouts. Bloody things found us too quick. One leapt to his face. Took the darn chance to push him off the crag and he fell, the beast still clamped on his head." Locke went, smooth as a bedtime story.

"And Jory?"

It were a few seconds before Locke answered, "He uh, fell down the river."

Roose knew the man, a lowborn bastard nonetheless. He engaged in similar sadistic pleasures of killing beside Locke, long black-haired and lean fair complexion, much like his son's. His stomach twisted. It could have just been a slit on the throat or dagger on the gut. This – this is one of the worst ways to go. This was not a corpse, it's a leftover meal. Ramsay was a bastard, yes, and his life was as miserable but at least his body was intact. He was a handsome lad with a gait of good proportions, a mind of a psychopath and split of personalities, but had a good face. With what he was now, he'd saved the Devil less work. There was no way to punish him further is there?

"How do I know it's him?"

The Warden heard Locke move and fumble on the layers of bearskin. A couple of laborers passed by only to walk as quick to disappear, their faces horrified at a wretched sight in the early of morning. At last his hunter pulled off a bow which Roose could not easily miss to recognize. The bronze riser and its black limbs with the Bolton sigil lightly carved in the upper curve, the string still thick and firmly attached.

Roose's fingers ran through the weapon, his mind denying the melancholy knocking through. My son. He once said to him. My son. My son… and when the face of Domeric Bolton resurfaced on his mind, doubled by memory the smell of flesh and fat in Walda's burning corpse, Roose's jaws tightened. This is justified. He only needed the bastard for a few useful reasons but now he will rebuild his dynasty anew.

Locke handed too, a dagger, snatching Roose off his thoughts. He stared at it, Ramsay's hunting knife. The boy was weaponless as he was mauled, weak and empty handed.

"And have you done it well with Stannis?"

Their faces met and a cruel silence reigned before Locke's mouth curved into a sour smile. "Of course."

"Milord, Lady Sansa is on her way," the soldier came back with news, "So is the Maester."

Roose shut his eyes in contemplation. He turned to open them, there seeing Sansa Stark descending the stairs to the courtyard. Minced snow started to float, gossamer as a sigh, studding the hardened blood on the corpse and Sansa's hood altogether. Gods, even in a sunburst of sadness and black of clothing she was beautiful. His gaze drifted at the flat of her stomach. It won't be long until she notices her clothing getting tight around the hips, and until she does he has to claim paternity no matter how obscure a plan that was – to appoint his grandson his own, a secret he would bury in his deathbed.

The Warden watched her approach, staring at the unspoken sad story behind her cobalt eyes. A woman almost ten and six too young, too lovely, to bear the face of a widow…

But not for long.

A/N : On the bright of our community lockdown, I'm able to post earlier. I know it's quite short but I just feel like giving it to you earlier as the next chapter may be a little more difficult for me thus I need more time for it.

Again kudos to my friend QuilAteara and her lovely suggestions! And to Brave She-Elf, your review has blown me away! Thanks won't be enough! I've sent individual PMs to the other reviewers. And to those I could not, I wish to let you know how much you inspire me. Lalalaa ~

Till next time! Pls be careful of the pandemic, too. Let's make the most of the home time.