Blackfeather Woods Let us sing when we can and forget the rest

If Ramsay noticed the grotesque bloat that swelled his sister's belly, he didn't remark on it. Truth be told, he saw only perfection when he looked at her. Her crippled paw had never meant anything to him, just as his stunted and twisted form meant nothing to him and Euron's internal maladies meant nothing to him. It was always the more ordinary wolves that Ramsay knew as monsters: Vaati. Ithrik. Iliksis. Damien. Delight, to an extent.

So he overlooked it, because he would not have understood what it meant even if he had noticed. Yes, I was, he said, leading them on a walk through the swamp. He cast a wary eye overhead, but if the daedra were listening, he felt confident enough that they would agree with him. Titmouse had been stripped of his leadership as Ramsay had decreed following his massacre of the ravens... and then the Morta had seen almost nothing of him since.

We need a new Decima, he said, a suggestion he was certain his sister would not like, but it was clear in his tone he did not think that Titmouse deserved to return to the position if his response to criticism was to make himself extremely scarce (and he hadn't considered that perhaps there was a reason for all that).