The world was on fire and no one could save me but you
It's strange what desire make foolish people do
I never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you
And I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you

(Ursine Vulpine, W.G.)

"Your Grace," Davos murmured deeply, thick gray brows furrowing, "I don't know about you but look at him! Damned man could barely hold a spoon and you'll leave the Northern capitol in his hands?"

Ramsay stared at the ceiling. They could talk about his madness for all he cared as long as he be granted the hours looking stupid. Dawn had just broken. He could hear Stannis' men rouse to ready – shouting commands, dragging hay sacks and fodder, piling iron weaponry. And feeling nothing. Not the cold air drifting under his thin shirt, no pain, hunger nor the head-splitting consequence of intoxication. He could not even recall the last time he blinked.

"Seven hells burn you, Davos! What do you want!?" Stannis Baratheon finally snapped shoving the knight on the nearest wall, his nostrils flaring. "To whom will I appoint this wretched castle but absolutely the ONLY northern lord – or bastard – who welcomes our cause? Hm? You know I sent those damned ravens and what do I get!? A resounding NOTHING from the Vale and an arrogant bear cub who 'knows no king in the North but a Stark'! Ramsay does not only belong to the second most powerful house in this godforsaken land, he is the only Bolton breathing!"

"He just butchered his father!"

"HE IS MARRIED TO A STARK YOU BLOODY FOOL! Those Northern lordscums can take Winterfell from his hands but NOT if he has the Wolf. SO LET HIM FIND HER!"

Stannis let go of Davos amid his fit. The Onion Knight, more of incensed than frightened, remained stiff and glaring. "That is not my argument, your Grace. I am not questioning his murky bloodline nor his marriage. I am merely pointing his state of mind. The Red Woman and I don't agree on most of things but even she finds it unwise to leave this castle to him."

The door thud heavily as Davos fled off, leaving Stannis heavily grinding his teeth. He found Ramsay staring at him without expression and the king pointed a gloved finger. "Get on your feet, you savage. Stand up to what you did and see us out before I excavate you like you did your hateful father!"

Without another breath, Ramsay was again left in the dingy room… only wanting to be alone but even that he could not be granted.

Eyes were prying, some even close to threatening as the bastard kinslayer walked quietly through the armed men parting way for him. He found Stannis muttering with a sellsword of probable high rank before the man trembled seeing Ramsay approach. The King looked behind and his face darkened, and Ramsay did not dare appear squeamish before him.

"What are you stopping for?" he bellowed at the soldiers paused, "Get moving! I loaned gold to take the throne and not for an audience!"

At once the men resumed their tasks – riding the steeds, pulling carts and firewood and stacks of tough meat for supplication.

The King swept his eyes up and down Ramsay. "You look terrible, boy. Get some sleep. And sunlight if possible. Your eyes are darker than my dead brother's soul." He pointed at the rims of Ramsay's sleepless lids. "I thought you won't come."

"I owe you," said Ramsay. Really, sunlight?

"Damn you do. I made you Warden of the North. Are you sure you could find your wife alone?"

He nodded. Man hasn't taken his throne yet and here he designates criminals to ranks. Next he could be chopping off brigands' limbs through cursed dolls.

Stannis considered before a sigh. His next lines were brought about by the usual intimidating voice, ever gravel and vitriol filled. "Now listen. I am aware of the cretin you are – were. People talk and words could reach Sunspear to the Wall faster than a horse running across the endpoints of this castle but YOU. WILL. BEHAVE. You will. You should. Find the girl and hold Winterfell for me and reap the rewards as soon as I take my throne. You will do that. I am not asking you, Bolton."

He did not wait for Ramsay to respond, continuing in a much lower volume. "I'd been asking people. Said most there was a budding romance between your father and your wife – he was showering her so much attention. It's not impossible. I heard she's a great beauty."

The muscles on Ramsay's jaws hardened and Stannis basked on the way his eyes were sneering. The King scoffed, amused, "Your face says it. Investigate on. Trust but be wary."

The bastard's heart was pumping pure adrenaline too much he could not move. "Then don't you trust me too much."

"Nonsense. I have mine own devices. I'm a hothead, not an idiot. Ser Davos should know better."

Ramsay stepped back making way for the King to mount his horse. His ragged edged cape swept across the air and his steed sniggered and swayed. For a moment he looked at the King's sword wreathed in tough scabbard – Lightbringer, they called it, dipped in other Kings' blood. Mummer's fucking farce this is.

"To your last battle," Ramsay half smiled. Up ahead Ser Davos came forth riding his own beast, circumspect but obviously agitated by the earlier argument. A wobbling slow litter came next and as it passed, he saw the velvet curtain lift and out popped half the tiny face of princess Shireen. The good half, thankfully, openly smiling at him and waving a hand. Ramsay forced a smile which came out more like a pained ass.

Stannis flinched at the statement. "Pfft. There is no last battle. Battles are constant. Some we win yet most we lose but we march forward. Only forward. If I die I'd have my ghost tuck my daughter at the Throne. Wait for my letter in a week. I still have so much to tell you."

And without further curtesy Stannis Baratheon led a cry gallantly as the self fashioned King he was. The cavalry moved under half opened portcullis and the rest of stockade iron gates. The Queen's men started the familiar chafing cry – "One realm! One god! One King! STANNIS! STANNIS!"

Ramsay watched them pour out, all sarjeants, sellswords and soldiers with dwindling loyalty, banners furiously whipping in the crisp air.

Until the last cart disappeared through the gates then he signaled the portcullis be descended, leaving the courtyards a pool of mud and blood and horse shit. There was so much cleaning to do but a pressing ache settled in his gut and he found himself hovering through staircases in need of someone.

Myranda's body thud against the wall and Ramsay's grubby fingers wound tighter around her neck.

"Tell me what you know. I detect when you lie."

His cold blue eyes glinted with what seemed an unsurmountable stress. It was one of those moods she used to suffer in both pleasure and pain ages ago. But now Myranda saw in him his most desperate stance and her envy grew thick. That Stark bitch had outdone herself; how dare that weak, spineless highborn take Ramsay away from her when he used to like his women lewd and vulgar. She made herself everything that he wanted and now a soft dumb redhead would just undo it all!

"What happened when I was gone?" Ramsay released the wench.

"You would believe me?"

"I'll try."

Myranda held her neck, trying to catch the last warmth his fingers left on her skin. "She and your father became… close. Closer than usual perhaps. We see them almost everyday, strolling, her hand on his arm. But of course it's – nothing. I mean, she's a woman of honor. Who would believe that Sansa Stark would actually…" she mustered a feigned nervous laughter.

"Actually what?"

"Do I have to say it, Ramsay? He's just been a widower. She's a Stark, and beautiful, and you were away. Not that the servants think he sent you off for a purpose. Well save for the fact the suspicions were strengthened when you came back a corpse… and she has suddenly disappeared with her highborn friend at your… return."

By the end of her sentence, Ramsay's knuckles were extremely white and a cold rage was scheming in his eyes. She felt victorious, so pleased with herself at the point of laughing maniacally… She was so brilliant she already knew his next question.

"Highborn friend? They left together?"

"Of course. Your father couldn't have called in Lady Jeyne Poole if not for a reason, I think."

She need not see Ramsay snap and his pupils sink into tiny dots within bright blue eyes. He could act as intimidating as he was but in the years she spent growing with him, his vulnerability was an open book. Myranda felt his hand crushing around her arm.

"They are off northern, aren't they?"

Oh how she missed the fury that was him.

"On the contrary. I've spent quite enough time with lady Jeyne to believe they're off south."

"King's Landing? Impossible…"

"Chatty girl hasn't mentioned a final destination – a meeting place rather. And I tell you if you want to see your wife sooner then those horses should leave at full speed the moment I end this sentence."

He shook at the arm, sweating profusely. "Where!?"

"White Harbour. A vessel awaits them…"

She looked away to hide the menacing glee when Ramsay snarled and pounced across the room. "Get me a steed now!"

"You would go?" Myranda laughed. "Stannis' troops has only sent off for an hour and you're leaving Winterfell like free snack?"

Her words successfully made Ramsay look back. See. Her smile oozed confidence. Your love for her had made you fickle. "Let me go after. I stake they are following the White Knife. You have matters to attend to. I will bring your wife back, unscathed to my capability."

Ramsay stared at her, vigilant and inquisitive. He could question her motives but right now he had not much left doesn't he. When all the Northern houses intercede to come looking for the Stark heir, he is nothing now but lost cause.

"Very well," he finally spoke still with a hint of suspicion, "I will send with you ten men -"

"Five or three is enough, and one of the hounds," that's too much blood in my hands, spoke a bit of her conscience.

"Alright. Don't take too long,"

Myranda's blood raced. Heat gathered on her nape as she walked towards the door repressing her excitement. In her mind she had already drew the arrow and let go, only to be disturbed by a hand back around her neck. She met Ramsay's icy stare. "You will bring her back... won't you Myranda…"

At this she pinned her lips against his, quick yet furious, and when she let go donning the face of smiling apathy at his faintly repulsed expression, she replied.

"Of course," she watched his mouth straighten, "Sorry. Just needed a bit of luck."

He tensely watched from the parapets the small party gallop pass the Kingsroad gates amid muddy ruins of the castle. Winterfell was at its ugliest glory – thoroughly raped and distant from repairable. It stank of rotting carcass. Atop the circular bricked towers were crows sitting like gargoyles. The stag banners looked so wrong in many levels, spitting its yellow field in his eyes. He only hoped news of the castle's current vulnerability does not reach its neighbors quicker than either the return of Sansa or Stannis' succession at the Iron Throne. Winterfell was his and the North was his, yet who was he but a kinslayer – an easy reason for crime and target. He had no army. Left out of the thousands that Roose Bolton gathered were barely less than half, and damned King even dragged them for him, literally.

There was not an ounce of pride that swelled in him, only the desire to go. For the first time he felt powerless, truly kinless, alone and betrayed. There was no point of living at all.

He thought of this sincerely at the dawning surrealism that he killed his father. Ramsay locked himself within the confines of Sansa's chamber and sat hours on her bed, the only place he'd want to be when she comes back – if she comes back. It crossed his mind writing a letter, and yet what for… he'd be cold and lifeless the moment she enters, with nothing but air between his feet and the floor. But if only she knew… she knew how much, deep in his twisted mind he loved her. He dreams of her every night, overflowing her with kisses. He never said he loved her; theirs was an awful bland affair but it was his light in dark tunnels. She saw him, through him… drowned him, revived him, and drowned him again.

A sudden knock robbed him off his sinister plan and he opened the door clumsily. A huge grey man in black cloak stared across the small opening he made.

Maester Wolkan seemed to age ten years further. The lines around his eyes have gone deeper and what was left of his hair were thin wisps of white. His lonely eyes widened momentarily and shied as he spoke. "My Lord… I thought to find you here…"

The bastard glared annoyingly at the sluggish means the maester spoke and his visuals did not fail to shove fear in Wolkan's spine. He quickly retrieved the weapon.

"I… this… I believe this belongs to you…"

Bronze runner, engraved Bolton sigil – Ramsay laid his fingers on his bow, feeling downright cripple. His chest ached at the hallowing space beginning to widen. How his life had been different before…

The kindly maester shrunk from the door to leave the new Warden with his deepening nausea. But there was a rigid hesitation that Ramsay felt with the grey man. He heard his heels tapping back and forth, his long robes scraping cut midway. As soon as he raised his eyes to the maester then he saw the vexed old face bulleted with sweat.

"What?"

Maester Wolkan sniffled, plump hands wiped his temples before finally speaking.

"My Lord you need to know something… of your father and – "

The crash of bare fist against the flat scarred door throttled across the hallway.

"One more word and next would be your teeth scattering on the floor," Ramsay seethed, his knuckles spotting red and lips curling to reveal gritted teeth. "I've enough knowledge of that and I don't need it any more from you."

The maester's jaw hung like the bodies displayed on the gates. Ramsay begun to shut the space between them when the squeak of choking voice persisted.

"M-my Lord… please… your wife, Lady Sansa, she's…"

A few more hysteric words and the Ramsay's heart plummeted, let alone the wretched tear that burned its way through his sunken cheek. His blood and emotions were a riot of boiling and staggering at an equal pace…

There was a newfound reason to fight and live for, after all.

A / N : Sorry for the delay! It took time reconstructing. I don't have prewritten works anymore so I would have to start from nothing. Aaah. Sigh. I hope everyone is holding up amid our worldwide ituation. Were back to work, though in strict conditions

Thank you for the reviews of the previous chapter, as always, thank you.