Blackfeather Woods I'll stop wearing black when they make a darker colour

"Don't care about her," Ramsay dismissed with a quiet sigh. He didn't think about Potema. He didn't even care enough to hate her. The passion and verve that Euron and Maegi shared was lacking considerably in him. Besides, he hadn't seen Potema since the day she'd left them alone in the glen. If not for her occasional scent crossing the territory, Ramsay would assume she was dead. The dwarf knew she wasn't, but he didn't trouble herself over her. "Don't care why. Don't need her. Don't want her either."

Though, given a chance, he would separate her throat from her jawline with the cool precision of a callous surgeon.

In his mind, there was no justifiable reason for her actions. Cicero was in the same position as Potema, theoretically, but he paid attention to his offspring, and Ramsay considered him family for it. Potema's decision to separate herself from them was her own choosing. He blamed nothing else. "It's about her," he said simply, "she chose to hate. You choose to be upset about it. Choose not to care instead." It was just easier that way, he thought.