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The iron door of the dungeon closed slowly behind Myranda.
The torchlight in the corridor was dim, casting long, twisted shadows on the mottled stone walls.
Myranda's steps were steady.
She didn't cry, didn't scream.
On her face, stained with dust and blood, there wasn't even a flicker of expression.
Like parchment soaked in water, all emotion had been washed away, leaving only a blank, dead silence.
In her mind, the scene from moments ago played on a loop.
Ramsay's face, twisted with madness.
The undisguised indifference and cruelty in his eyes.
And those words, light as a feather, yet heavy enough to crush her entire world—
"You are just a dog I raised."
Dog?
Heh.
Just a dog?
So, all those years of love, all those years of following, all those years of madness...
In his eyes, it was just... a dog's loyalty?
Myranda thought she and Ramsay were the same kind, kindred spirits in the dark, soulmates sharing their deepest secrets.
But in the end, she was just his most obedient hound.
And now, for his own future, the master didn't hesitate to gift this useless hound to a new power.
How laughable.
How pathetic.
An extreme hatred should have erupted from her chest like a volcano.
But Myranda felt nothing.
No anger, no sorrow.
Her heart seemed locked behind that iron door in the dungeon.
Along with the foolish, pathetic, delusional self, imprisoned forever.
The thing walking this path now was just a shell named Myranda.
A shell that... to survive, had to learn new tricks.
She thought of Lynn.
That man in the storage room, speaking the cruelest truths in an almost gentle tone.
Like a god looking down, coldly observing the pathetic one-woman show between her and Ramsay.
Then, with the lightest touch, tearing down the final curtain.
He didn't lie.
From start to finish, he never lied.
He just stated a fact.
A fact she had deceived herself about for years, a fact she dared not admit even when she sensed something was wrong.
Resist?
The corner of Myranda's mouth curled in a silent, self-mocking sneer.
How?
Bite his throat out?
Gouge his eyes out with her nails?
She knew perfectly well that in front of Lynn, her proud archery and hunting skills, her beast-like ferocity, were as fragile as paper...
She had heard about Lynn being a tourney champion.
She knew he had won two trials by combat.
Even the Kingslayer and the monstrous Mountain were no match for him.
What could she use to kill Lynn?
He didn't even need to lift a finger; just one look could plunge her into boundless terror.
Since she couldn't resist, she could only... obediently submit.
No, she had to please him.
Use the methods Ramsay expected to please this new master.
This was the last thing she could do for that pathetic love.
Consider it... paying a debt.
Once paid, she owed Ramsay nothing.
From then on, she lived for herself.
Ramsay and she would have no further connection.
A thought quietly emerged in the dead lake of Myranda's heart, quickly becoming clear and firm.
She would survive.
At any cost!
...
Myranda walked alone through Winterfell.
No guards watched her, but she didn't want to run.
She had no home anymore.
She didn't know where she could run to.
Accept fate.
The door to the storage room opened. Roslin was waiting inside with a basin of hot water.
Myranda had walked too slowly, lost in thought, so Roslin had beaten her there.
Seeing Myranda's desolate state, a flash of pity crossed Roslin's eyes.
But she said nothing, just silently wrung out a clean cloth and handed it over.
"Wipe your face. Lord Lynn likes clean women. He definitely won't like how you look now."
Myranda nodded, took the cloth, and mechanically wiped the grime from her face.
The cool cloth touching her skin cleared her muddled brain a bit.
She looked up, her gaze landing on Roslin.
This girl was Lynn's personal handmaiden.
She must know something.
"You."
Myranda's voice was terribly hoarse.
"How long have you served him?"
Startled by the sudden question, Roslin answered instinctively.
"Not... not long."
"What kind of women does he like?"
Myranda stared intently at Roslin, not missing a single micro-expression.
The question was too direct, too explicit.
Roslin's cheeks flushed red instantly, and she waved her hands frantically.
"I... I don't know... Lord Lynn..."
"Don't play dumb with me!"
Myranda's tone suddenly sharpened.
A fierce light rekindled in her dead eyes.
"I am the gift Lord Ramsay offered him."
"My mission is to please him!"
"My life, and Lord Ramsay's life, depend on it!"
"Tell me, what does he like?!"
"How do I satisfy him?!"
Roslin looked at this woman, about her age but filled with murderous hostility.
Looking at the madness mixed with despair and obsession in her eyes?
The pity in her heart was instantly replaced by a deeper sympathy.
She remembered her own despair in the Great Hall of Riverrun.
Remembered kneeling before Lynn, trembling as she tried to undo her dress.
They were the same.
Just playthings in the hands of powerful men, poor creatures struggling desperately to survive.
But luckily, they met Lynn, not someone else.
Falling into someone else's hands... that would be a fate worse than death.
"I... I really don't know what Lord Lynn likes..."
Roslin's voice dropped.
But she didn't dodge Myranda's gaze anymore.
"Lord Lynn... he is different from other lords."
"But... my sisters at the Twins, before they were married off, they would gather and talk about... some ways to please men."
Myranda's eyes lit up.
Like a beast lurking in the dark for a long time, finally spotting prey.
"Tell me."
Her tone brooked no refusal.
"Don't leave out a single word."
Roslin hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
She took a deep breath, as if digging up those secret whispers meant only for maidens buried deep in her memory.
The atmosphere in the room became strange.
Outside, the north wind howled; inside, the candle flickered.
Two girls, one standing, one sitting, began a secret and absurd lesson.
"My sister said men are animals who think with their eyes."
Roslin's voice was soft, an unnatural blush on her cheeks.
"To capture a man's heart, you first have to capture his eyes."
She mimicked the charming sisters from her memory, lowering her head slightly, then slowly raising her eyelids.
Her long lashes fluttered like two small fans.
In her clear eyes, there was a perfectly measured hint of timidity and dependence.
"Look at him like this. Make him feel that you are afraid of him, yet relying on him."
"Make him feel like an omnipotent hero."
Myranda imitated the movement.
But her eyes held only cold dead silence; she couldn't fake that softness.
"No, your eyes are too fierce."
Roslin shook her head.
"Imagine you are a wounded fawn, and he is the hunter, the only one who can save you."
Hunter?
Myranda's body stiffened imperceptibly.
She was the hunter.
But now, she had to learn to play the lamb waiting for slaughter.
"And... and posture."
Roslin stood up and took two steps in the small space.
Her back was straight, but her shoulders were slightly drawn in.
Every step was careful, her skirt swaying gently with her movements.
"When walking, use your waist, but take small, slow steps."
"Make him feel you are a delicate flower that needs to be held in his palm and cared for."
Myranda frowned.
She was used to striding purposefully, running and chasing in the woods.
This affected, mincing walk made her uncomfortable all over.
But she stood up and clumsily imitated it.
At first, she wobbled like a duck just learning to walk, almost making Roslin laugh.
"Not like that..."
Roslin hurried over, holding Myranda's arm, patiently correcting her posture.
"Relax, tuck this in... yes, in a bit..."
The two girls' bodies inevitably touched.
Roslin's hands were soft and warm.
Myranda's body, hardened by years of hunting, was full of power, muscles tight as stone.
The contrasting textures made both of them uncomfortable.
"And voice..."
Roslin's face turned even redder, her voice whisper-quiet.
"Softer, slower, maybe a little nasal, like you're whining..."
"When pouring wine, show your wrist..."
"When handing him something, let your fingertips brush his hand by accident..."
Roslin unreservedly taught Myranda all the "knowledge" full of street wisdom and bedroom secrets she had heard from her sisters.
Roslin spoke earnestly, taught earnestly.
Myranda listened just as earnestly.
She memorized every detail.
These little tricks and schemes of women, which she used to sneer at, were now her only lifeline.
She realized this was also a hunt.
A higher-level hunt.
The prey wasn't a beast in the forest, but a man's desire and conquest.
The weapon wasn't a bow and knife, but a look, a movement, a sentence.
She, Myranda, the best hunter of the Dreadfort, had no reason not to master this.
"Finally... and most importantly."
Roslin's voice trembled slightly.
She didn't dare look Myranda in the eye.
"I... I heard them say... in bed, you have to... be like a dying fish."
"Struggle, but don't really resist."
"Make him feel he is conquering, not forcing."
"Make him... make him feel it's what you want too."
After saying this, Roslin felt drained of all strength.
She lowered her head, not daring to say another word.
A long silence filled the storage room.
After a long time, Myranda slowly stood up.
She walked to the corner where a wooden basin of water sat, bent down, and looked at her blurry reflection.
The person in the water still had cold eyes.
But that coldness was gradually replaced by something deeper, more introverted.
Like a frozen well, calm on the surface, surging underneath.
She slowly raised her hand and undid the leather tie binding her hair.
Brown hair cascaded down like a waterfall, covering half her face.
Mimicking Roslin, she tilted her head slightly, looking at her reflection through the gaps in her hair.
In that instant, her entire aura changed.
The hunter's wildness and aggression were wrapped in a carefully crafted fragility and haziness.
Like a wolf in sheep's clothing—dangerous, yet filled with fatal temptation.
She did it.
With her amazing learning ability and control, she perfectly mastered this new "hunting technique."
Myranda straightened up, turned around, and looked at the stunned Roslin.
"I need to learn more."