The room next door finally fell silent.
Those heart-rending "screams," that blood-stirring "struggle," the "creaking" of the overburdened bed...
All of it was gone.
The deathly silence was sharper than any sound before it, like a flaying knife scraping Ramsay Snow's nerves inch by inch.
Ramsay still sat against the wall, his arms wrapped around his knees, like a child abandoned in a corner.
The silent smile had yet to fade from his handsome, twisted face, making him look eerie and terrifying.
He had lost.
His pride, his art, his loyal hound...
Now they had all become playthings in someone else's bed, music in someone else's ears.
And he, the former hunter, could only sit locked in the next room like a chained dog, forced to appreciate it all.
Humiliation, rage, jealousy, venomous hatred...
Every emotion churned in his chest, finally turning into a bone-chilling cold.
He wanted to kill.
He wanted to kill Lynn.
More than anything, he wanted to kill the whore who had betrayed him, Miranda!
He would flay her with his own hands and show her what happened to those who betrayed their master!
Ramsay slowly rose.
After three hours of waiting, the room's oil lamp had long since gone out. Only cold moonlight spilled through the window, stretching his shadow.
Ramsay walked to the door and grasped the cold iron handle.
Click.
With a soft sound, the door opened.
It wasn't even locked?
A beastlike gleam flashed in Ramsay's eyes.
An oversight?
Or... another trap?
He no longer cared.
All he wanted now was to find that whore and snap her neck with his own hands!
Like a lone wolf stalking through the night, he moved without making a sound.
Winterfell's corridors were empty and silent. The footsteps of patrolling soldiers sounded in the distance,