At the Great Sept of Baelor…

Daveth felt his skin crawl as he stood waiting for the Most Devout, a council of the eight highest-ranking clergy of the Faith of the Seven. Lieutenant Tyral, on the other hand, did not particularly feel comfortable having to be in the massive sept – possibly due to paranoia about feeling as if the center of religious worship was somehow a trap.

"I've got a bad feeling about this, Your Grace," Tyral said suspiciously.

Daveth favored him with a nod; he understood the Lannister guardsman's suspicion, so long as it did not get in the way of his judgment. "So you say, Lieutenant. Even in times of peace a soldier must never let his guard down, not even for a moment."

"And if so then none of us are fit for the line of duty due to laziness and incompetence. I understand."

The Young Stag gazed at the statues of the Seven. "They should be here soon. Surely they must've received word," he mentioned.

"Think the Sparrows might have friends in high places?"

"Not that I'm aware of, though I wouldn't put it past them. Let's just focus on the here and now, Lieutenant."

The Great Sept of Baelor was nearly as quiet as a tomb, but was broken by the silent approach of footsteps. Daveth's ears perked up at the sound reverberating off the walls and turned his head towards the statue of the Father, watching as eight clergy of the Faith approached them; four Septons and four Septas. The Young Stag recognized Septa Rosyn among them who in turn noticed him – though this was his first encounter with the rest: Septons Raynard, Torbert, Luceon Frey, and Russal. The other Septas, with the exception of one, he also did not recognize: Septas Moelle, Unella and Helicent.

"Seven blessings on you, Your Grace. You honor us with your presence," they greeted him.

Daveth politely bowed his head. "Seven blessings, esteemed clergy of the Faith's Most Devout; I apologize for the intrusion, but there wasn't enough time to arrange a more proper meeting."

"It is no trouble, child," Rosyn says reassuringly.

"You look troubled. What plagues your mind, oh great and noble King?" inquires Luceon.

"I am sure you have been aware of an armed heretical movement that plagues the streets of King's Landing and threatens to erode the tenants of the Faith of the Seven, twisting and perverting the principles on which our religion was founded by our Andal ancestors 6,000 years ago. They call themselves Sparrows."

"Yes, we've known about them and their High Sparrow for quite some time," replied Torbert.

"Which is why we require a proper authority to guide them back to order," exclaimed Moelle. Stiff white hair and a wrinkled stern face, this female clergy's curled in perpetual disapproval and small eyes that look constantly crinkled in suspicion.

"Septa, I fear that might no longer be the case," Helicent chimed in. "Without a new High Septon to guide the Faith, the flock are without a shepherd."

Daveth raised a curious. "'Without a new High Septon'… Did I miss something?" he asked.

Rosyn nodded regretfully. "Ever since word reached us of His High Holiness's… ah, sinful perversion, the Most Devout has unanimously voted to remove him from the office. Until then, we are convening amongst ourselves to elect a more suitable successor."

"You say that now, Septa, but only time will tell if the sentiment remains true," Moelle retorted.

"With the Faith's leadership position vacant, I imagine the Sparrows will try to flout our authority and undermine us all. With interest."

"Exactly why all this should be left to a new High Septon. With one who takes their duty to the Gods seriously, all will be right again."

"Or be happy to use the office to blaspheme."

"Or conveniently bent backwards and swept under a carpet."

'The situation appears to be more volatile than I thought,' the Young Stag looked deep in thought. "So until then, nothing can be done?"

Unella was the only one who remained silent.

"I'm afraid not, Your Grace," Luceon shook his head. "We know it's asking a bit much, but… the Faith and the Crown are the two pillars that hold up this world. If one collapses, then so does the other. Can the Crown help us? Will you help defend the Faith at least until a new High Septon is chosen?"

Daveth nodded. "Of course, Your Reverence. The Crown will protect and defend the Holy Faith and those who practice it since the peace signed by the Faith and King Jaeherys the Conciliator."

"The Seven have truly smiled when they've sent you to us," Rosyn smiled.

Feeling as if it was a rather short, albeit brief discussion with the Faith of the Seven's top leadership, both Daveth and Tyral rose from their respective seats – shook hands with the other and prepared to leave. During the exchange of blessings and kind words, Daveth felt a crinkling paper being transferred into his hand by Septa Rosyn. He looked at her confused, but something in his gut warned him of how she looked at him.

"Trust me," she whispered quietly so that none heard her.

Upon their departure, the Young Stag quietly noticed that the now-former High Septon was leaving King's Landing with his luggage in tow, his head lowered in shame and defeat. Judging from the sigil on the carriage sent to escort the disgraced clergyman—a stone white watchtower with fire on the top on a grey field, Daveth had determined the former High Septon was being relocated to Oldtown in the Reach.

"What do we do now, Your Grace?" whispered Tyral.

"With the office of High Septon now vacant, then I fear our conflict with the Sparrows is bound to get violent. Go back to the garrison, Lieutenant, and mobilize the troops. Have them assist the City Watch," he told him. "Station them on the streets, the ramparts, even the Red Keep. Leave nothing to chance."

"Understood," he nodded and left to spread word of the King's summons to the garrisons stationed in the capital.

Daveth, on his way back to the Red Keep, began steadily unrolling the piece of paper in his hands given to him by Septa Rosyn earlier – unknowingly finding himself walking down the Street of Flour. Upon doing so, the Young Stag began reading the contents as passersby glanced at the King in their presence—most of them bakers.

"Try a sample, Your Grace?" one offered a piece of pie.

Daveth blinked. "What? Oh, no thank you, ser," he politely declined.

"Lemon cake?"

"Not today, thank you."

Returning his focus towards the parchment, the Young Stag's eyes followed the words Rosyn wrote in her message.

"Be on guard, Daveth. The likelihood of betrayal from within is high. Send word to your royal councilors as soon as you can," it read.

'Septa Rosyn wouldn't deliver this to me unless she was absolutely certain there was trouble. Varys would most likely be interested in seeing this,' he thought before turning back to the baker. "On second thought, could I get a bag of some candied plums?"

The baker's face lit up as he realized what the King meant. "Ahh, for the little Prince and Princess?" he suggested.

"Yes. They've got a bit of a sweet tooth."

"Of course, Your Grace."

Daveth waited patiently at the shop before the baker finally returned with a small bag of sweets and handed them over. The Young Stag paid the man and thanked him for his business before resuming his trip towards the Red Keep.

At the Street of Steel…

Bodrin had strolled through the streets of King's Landing, having made his slow but eventual return to the capital. He had taken some time during his stay at Riverrun, but even Bodrin knew that he wasn't as young as he used to be. He now had required a cane to keep him standing as he moved around. The old man glanced at the new King's Landing; Seven hells, a lot had changed while he was away.

But all Bodrin could think about was the bastard Gendry. Was he all right? Did he escape from his captors? He did not know. The more he strolled and glanced around through the market, the more he noticed men selling their wares. Nearby a blacksmith was sharpening a sword on a grinding wheel, another pulls a sword from the forge's fire before hammering it on his anvil.

All the sightseeing ended when Bodrin noticed a group of five Sparrows, wearing black robes and chains, harassing a market vendor. They were armed with clubs and rods. One throws someone aside, another flips a table over whilst the rest attack those who intervene.

"Leave me alone! Go away!" one merchant on the ground shouted, blood pouring from a gash due to a blow to his head.

"Stop it! Please, stop!"

"Help me! Help me!"

"Barbaric filth!" one of the Sparrows chastised. "There's a special place in the Seventh Hell for your kind."

The commotion draws the attention of some gold cloaks on a castle wall, though it'll take time for them to come all the way down and convene at the area. Bodrin moved as quickly as he was able, despite his cane, only to stop when he notices a rather familiar face.

"Hey!" one of the bystanders yelled. "Get away from that man!"

Bodrin took a closer look at the young man in question; tall and muscled, blue eyes and thick black hair shaved. Normally he'd be mistaken as another blacksmith, but… something about him seemed rather familiar; until Bodrin got much closer. He physically looked almost identical to Daveth.

"Gendry?" he exclaimed quietly in awe.

Gendry, last surviving bastard son of King Robert Baratheon, did not back down as the Sparrows suddenly become aware of his presence and immediately turned their sights towards him.

"Step back, boy! Intervening in the Sparrow's sacred duties is an offense to the Gods!" one hollered at him.

"Oh? So you all admit you do like picking on the old, weak and helpless because they can't fight back when ganged up on, hmm?" he challenged daringly still holding his hammer. "You I've been hammering an anvil these past 15 years. When I hit that steel, it sings. Are you gonna sing when I hit you?"

"Threatening servants of the Holy Faith? Seize him. This man has broken the laws of Gods and men."

"Bastard!"

"Sinful abomination!"

The Sparrows move to grab Gendry, but was met with immediate resistance. Gendry was surprisingly fast for his age and started bashing each of the assailants with his hammer. One, two, three, four strikes before quickly shifting his posture and doing the same to the other Sparrow; seeing his heroic actions caused a stir among the merchants in the marketplace, prompting them to join in to help subdue the Sparrows.

"Get 'em!" one of the vendors shouted.

"Think you can just waltz around our city and attack us? To the Seven Hells with you!" exclaimed another.

Recognizing the crowd's sudden surge of courage and overall rise in numbers, the Sparrows tried to flee before the vendors cut off their escape routes. Gendry swung his hammer upwards, smacking one of the Sparrows in the jaw before bringing it back down onto the back of his head—promptly sending him crashing to the ground.

"*huff!* *huff!* *huff!*" Gendry panted.

One of the elderly vendors that was assaulted earlier was assisted to his feet by fellow merchants and shakenly approached Gendry, gripping the boy's shoulder in pure joy.

"Oh, thank you! Thank you!" he said.

"Are you all right, old man?" Gendry asked examining his gash. "Someone get a healer for this man!"

On cue, several City Watch sentries had managed to descent a long flight of steps down the city ramparts and arrived to apprehend the bloodied and bruised Sparrows, each of the moaning and groaning over the horrible thrashing they had just received. As they were being dragged away, the gathering smallfolk looked to Gendry and ushered praises and thanks onto him. The young blacksmith embarrassingly rubbed the back of his head, not apparently used to being treated as a local hero.

"You've grown since the last time I saw you," Bodrin called out.

Gendry recognized that voice and turns around, chuckling at seeing the old man again. "Still refuse to give up on me, old man?" he jested.

"When have you ever seen me ever do that? There's still life in these old bones."

"How did you know I was here?"

"Who else like an armorer's apprentice or blacksmith would set up shop in the Street of Steel? Shops, taverns, brothels don't have that kind of appeal. Well, that and the increased number of gold cloaks patrolling the streets."

"I haven't been back here in four years. Not since the purge," Gendry reminisced. "Lot has changed since last time, either for better or for worse. With these blokes coming out of nowhere and running amok, I couldn't just sit on the sidelines."

"So I see," Bodrin noticed. "Beyond that, anyone gave you trouble?"

"Nope. Here I am arming the City Watch and the soldiers at the garrison. I never get a second look. Besides, I had my own reasons for coming back here."

"Don't be so sure. Safety is never a permanent state of affairs… given the situation we find ourselves in."

Gendry nodded. "And here I thought being the bastard of a dead King was somehow part of it."

Bodrin looked confused before realizing the youth's statement. "You… you know who your father is?" he asked.

"I do; learned that during my escape from that red woman's clutches at Dragonstone. Found out I have a half-brother and half-sister too."

A few onlookers somehow heard what Gendry was talking about and started to approach him – somehow uncertain as to what they just heard.

"What's your name, boy?" asked one of the vendors.

"It's Gendry," he said proudly. "I'm Robert Baratheon's son. Bastard son."

One by one, each of the merchants and blacksmiths who intervened in apprehending the Sparrows looked at each other murmuring words. Bodrin felt as if the revelation was an unwise tactic on Gendry's part as almost none believed that any of Robert Baratheon's bastard children survived the purge initiated by Joffrey and his henchmen years ago.

"By the Gods," one uttered, "he looks just like him!"

Another chimed in. "I see it! He and King Daveth look almost identical."

"Well, facial features and overall physique yes, but the other half… I'm not so sure. Both of 'em got different mothers."

"Can't be… I thought all of King Robert's bastards were wiped out."

"Not all apparently."

Murmurs and gossiping spread through the Street of Steel, the commotion prompted Bodrin to move in and yank Gendry by the arm. Despite the youth's apparent confusion laid plain upon his face, Gendry was pulled aside by Bodrin into a nearby alley to have a private discussion.

"The Seven hells are you thinking?" Bodrin whispered in a scolding tone. "The King's got a lot on his mind with these Sparrows roaming about. Your brother… ahem, your half-brother doesn't need to undergo any more stress than he already has."

"I… I understand," said Gendry once the situation was explained to him.

"Don't worry. You'll get your chance to meet him in-person soon." He turned to see a small armed escort of Reach and Vale guards strolling through the street towards the Red Keep. "A gold rose on a green field, sigil of Higharden's House Tyrell; shower of pebbles on an orange field surrounded by runes, sigil of Runestone's House Royce. It looks like you'll be getting your chance at meeting your brother sooner rather than later."

"What do you recommend?"

Bodrin took a moment to explain the plan. "Here's how it'll go: Your name is Clovis, a smith from the downtown forges recommended by Tobho Mott to make routine delivery runs to the Red Keep. When the Oathkeeper sees you, do not bring up that you're the bastard of a dead King like you did in front of those back there… at least until the trouble with those Sparrows end. Listen to what I say, and you'll be fine."

"Understood," the youth sighed and rolled his eyes. "Don't you think I've been thinking about it every swing of the hammer? But don't expect me to play nice with the Lannisters. They're the family that killed my father, remember? And they tried to kill me."

"I understand that, but keep your cool at all times. Let's go."

Bodrin and Gendry both follow closely behind the escort with only a bag of tools and a satchel, swinging it over their heads.

"You should know that it's not just the Sparrows, Gendry, but also—"

"I've been getting ready ever since I learned the truth," he interrupted. "I never knew what for, but I've always known I'd know it when it comes."

Bodrin looked at him. 'I suppose he's just like his brother in own way,' he theorized. While they moved closer to the gates of the Red Keep behind the escorts, he gazed at a delivery of armaments to the castle guards. "If the Sparrows do come here, you know how to use one of those swords?" he pointed.

"I don't know much about swinging swords, but this…" Gendry shook his head before unveiling a giant war hammer with a stag's head design on either side of the haft socket he himself crafted, "this I know."

"Close enough, then."

At the Dreadfort…

Lord Roose Bolton was very displeased with his bastard son Ramsay. He and Ramsay both sat at the dining table while he sat at the head while a lady serves each of them drinks. He just stared at him and his visiting guest, Lord Harald of House Karstark. One of the Bolton scouts who hurried back to the Dreadfort from the Hornwood forest reported to what he just seen.

"I swear I saw it with my own eyes, my lord," he knelt.

"You're certain of that?" Roose demanded.

"Aye. Sansa Stark is back in the North, accompanied by Lord Manderly's men along with her personal bodyguards. I… I came up upon the bodies on my way here. There were too many of them."

"If Sansa is here, then that means a reckoning will indeed come," the Lord of the Dreadfort said calculatingly. "I'm disappointed, Ramsay. You played your games with Jeyne Poole by having her masquerade as Arya Stark. You played your games with my men. You played your games with the Oathkeeper and lied about it behind my back." He turned to Harald. "And what of you, Lord Karstark? You took a big risk by coming here to me like this."

"Does it matter now?" he retorted. "We know where Sansa Stark is going. Her brother still rules Winterfell."

"Ned Stark's son and heir."

Roose hummed and looked at his latest guest. "And you?" he asked. "The Umbers are a famously loyal house."

Standing at the opposite end of the dining table was Smalljon Umber, the Greatjon's son and heir. Although nowhere close to his father's size or stature, the Smalljon was a rather violent, loud and arrogant man at first glance; but more so he is cold and cunning, capable of unspeakable cruelty. It was no secret that the Smalljon has an unpleasant relationship with his father the Greatjon Umber.

"Famously loyal to the Starks," Harald pointed out.

"Your people share blood with the Starks too. You're both kin," Lord Karstark," Smalljon countered aggressively. "But yet here we both are. My, how times have changed indeed."

"You still didn't answer my question," Roose changed the subject.

"You're a real cunt, you know that?"

Ramsay chimed in. "My beloved father is—"

"You father is a cunt and we all know it. I would've killed my father had he not learned of my plans."

"You mean the attempted coup which forced you to flee Last Hearth with what few followers you had," Roose recognized. "That was rather hasty and foolhardy on your part. With the Greatjon conversing with his men, Robb Stark will likely learn what has happened."

"But what my bloody father failed to understand is that the bastard Jon Snow led an army of wildlings past the Wall. We Umbers are farther north than any of you fuckers. Wildlings come down, we're always the ones to fight them first. I like fighting wildlings, been going it all my life. But there are too many of them for us to beat back alone."

"And so you've come seeking help. How many of them are there?"

"My scouts report at least 17,000. They're still near Castle Black with Jon Snow and Stannis Baratheon."

"Who's Jon Snow?" asked Ramsay.

"Robb and Sansa Stark's bastard brother," Roose said.

"We could use this to our advantage, father. With enough men we could muster a stealthy infiltration of Winterfell, capture Sansa before anyone has a chance to—"

"Did you leave your senses when you came into this world? Abduct the Queen who happens to be a Stark? Such a treasonous statement," Roose retorted incredulously. "You'd not only unite every house in the North against us, but the entire south as well. Do you believe yourself a conqueror capable of facing a well-armed and provisional Baratheon army?"

"We need to help each other," Smalljon pointed out. "The colder it gets, the father south those goat fuckers will roam. Won't take them long to get here."

Ramsay had a 'so what?' look on his face and grinned wickedly. "Last I heard King Daveth Baratheon is stuck dealing with problems of his own. Religious fanatics are running rampart throughout the capital. Even if he does send reinforcements, they won't make it here in time – the snow is too heavy. We're 1,000 miles away and southerners have never sent any of their armies this far north. We know every inch of the terrain better than they ever will. And besides, we don't need as many allies in the North. With the Umbers and Karstarks beside us, we'll have half the North on our side if it comes to war. None could challenge us."

"The Starks lost my house the day Robb let the squid spawn whose family caused the deaths my father and brothers live. It's time for new blood in the North," Harald said bitterly.

Roose looks at Ramsay, Smalljon and Harald before getting up and standing in front of them. "If you acquire a reputation as a mad dog, then you'll be treated as a mad dog. Taken out and slaughtered for pig feed," he told them.

Before any could respond, Maester Wolkan enters the room and interrupts them.

"My lords, Lady Walda has given birth," he announced. "A boy. Red-cheeked and healthy."

"My congratulations, Lord Bolton," Harald said.

Ramsay is seen visibly shaken with the announcement of the birth of a trueborn brother; a bastard will never inherit their father's lands or titles and have no claims to the privileges of his house. He tried to hide it, but Ramsay was indeed growing increasingly enraged at the prospect of gaining the power and respect as a Bolton slipping further away from his grasp.

Even so, he took a reluctant step forward and hugs his father. "Congratulations, father," Ramsay forced himself to talk. "I look forward to meeting my new brother."

"You'll always be my firstborn," Roose reassured calmly, putting his hand on Ramsay's shoulder and looked him in the eye.

"Thank you for saying that. It means a great deal to me."

Ramsay actually seemed moved by his father's words. Any act of warmth and touching affection was quickly dispelled when Ramsay unsheathed a hidden dagger from his sleeve and stabs his father in the chest three times.

*SHLUK!*

"Nugh!"

Roose's eyes widened in shock – his eyes still glued to Ramsay – and slowly slumped to the ground, holding his one hand over his gushing wound while struggling to prop himself up – but to no avail as he finally succumbed to his wounds and dies not long afterwards. Harald and Smalljon looked indifferent; Maester Wolkan, however, looked terrified.

"Whoo! Now that felt great!" Ramsay boasted with insanity and shined an insane smile. "Nowhere near as satisfying with Domeric, but still what a rush it was. Fucker Domeric had everything I wanted! So I had him poisoned so I could be heir to House Bolton! No one else is ever gonna take it from me." He turns to the maester. "Maester Wolkan, send ravens to all the Northern houses. Roose Bolton is dead. Poisoned by the Starks."

He doesn't respond.

"How did he die?" he repeats.

"P-poisoned by the… by the Starks," Wolkan reluctantly answered in fear.

"You're speaking to the new Lord of the Dreadfort! It's disrespectful when you don't say 'my lord'."

"F-forgive me, my lord."

"Lord Bolton."

"L-Lord Bolton."

"Send for Lady Walda and the baby."

"But she's resting, my lord—"

Ramsay glares threateningly at Wolkan, prompting the maester to run out of the room in a hurry. Looking down at his father's dead body, Ramsay gave the corpse a hard kick before exiting the main hall and out onto the courtyard.

Outside…

Having assumed full control of the Dreadfort and its surrounding territories, Ramsay stood in the courtyard waiting for his stepmother Walda and her newborn baby boy. Eventually, the fat woman arrives with a bundle in her arms. Ramsay turned and looked at her and put up a feigned smile.

"There he is," referring to his half-brother.

Walda smiled wearily. "Isn't he beautiful?" she shows him her son.

Ramsay again feigned interest and care. "May I hold him?" he asked, holding out his arms.

"Of course."

Gently transferring her son to Ramsay, Walda watched as her stepson held the sleeping infant. Although the Bolton babe slept, Ramsay knew he had their father's pale eyes.

"Are you tired, mother?"

"Only… only a little, Ramsay," she answered.

"Hello, little brother. It's me, Ramsay. I'm your big brother."

Walda felt anxiety washing over her at the thought of being separated from her firstborn child. She stretched her arms out, hoping Ramsay would return him to her – to her surprise he actually complied.

"Lord Bolton sent for us. Have you seen him?" she asked.

'Fat bitch, if only you'd been smarter than that,' he grimaced. "Of course. Follow me, mother."

Ramsay leads Walda towards the kennels and enters; opening the gate so she would enter first, Ramsay was not too far behind her. The dogs inside are awakened by the creaking sound of the hinges and begin barking quite loudly.

Walda sensed something was wrong. "Where is Lord Bolton?" she asked, suddenly starting to get worried.

"*Waah! Waah!*" the baby starts crying.

"Shh. It's all right. Come on, shh."

In a fluid motion, Ramsay does not answer and locks it behind him. As Walda tries to soothe the baby, Ramsay opens the door of a kennel and grins wickedly.

"It's cold out here, Ramsay," she calls out. "I need to feed the baby." Walda sees him opening the doors of all the kennels one by one. "Wait, Ramsay where is your father? Ramsay? Where is Lord Bolton?" she calls out to him again.

Ramsay turns around and faces his stepmother. "I am Lord Bolton, you fat cow. I rule the Dreadfort now," he says with an evil smirk.

Now suddenly feeling fear and panic settling in, Walda backs away until she feels cold iron bars against her back. Realizing she was trapped in the kennels with Ramsay and four vicious hounds, Walda falls to her knees.

"Ramsay. Ramsay, please," she pleads for mercy. "I'll leave the North. I'll go back to the Riverlands. Please. Ramsay, he's your brother."

"I prefer being an only child," was his only reply.

Giving a loud, quick whistle Ramsay set his hounds loose and they begin converging to attack Walda and her baby. As Walda screams, Ramsay watches with delight as his hounds begin slowly tearing her and the baby to shreds. Feeling his ambitions aim even higher and burning even brighter, Ramsay continued watching the gruesome scene.

"This will be a day long remembered," he vowed. "House Bolton is mine! The Dreadfort is mine. And soon the whole North will be mine! I will rule it all… as the Red King."

Chapter End

Author's Note: Daveth's meeting with the Most Devout, he obviously has a likely close ally within the ruling council of clergy in the Seven of the Faith. Bodrin and Gendry both return to face down the Sparrows and will likely play a greater role in how it'll all end. As for the Boltons, Ramsay makes his move and boldly proclaims himself a Bolton and his ambitions at seizing control of the North away from House Stark. Harald Karstark defects to Ramsay and Smalljon Umber attempted a failed coup d'état against his father. Think how all of this will plan out? Thoughts? Let me know.

MrKristoffer1994: Ramsay must be the dumbest person I've ever seen to be alive. He, Harald Karstark and Smalljon Umber have only digged their own graves. Sansa Stark is by far the most dangerous woman in the Seven Kingdoms of the Iron Throne, so it is no way that Ramsay will even succeed before it even began.

Oi Teme: You better not play that captured Sansa Stark scenario again.

―I think Ramsay's gonna be in for quite a big surprise when everyone sees what the new Sansa Stark can do

Dovahkiin1503: Why do I have a feeling that we are about to get a second version of the Rains of Castamere? I think it is high time for Daveth to show just why he is also called the Black Lion when Sansa gets taken.

What is this going to be? War of the Four Kings?

Silent Wolf Singer: More trouble stirring. Sansa and Daveth got their work cut out.

―Nothing's ever easy when you're the ruling sovereigns

MysticalMind: Time for Ramsay and those two treasonous idiots to finally die

10868letsgo: Ramsey better leave Sansa Stark and her family alone because Daveth is like his grandfather mixed of his father in many ways. Great Story. Can't wait for Tyrells downfall soon.

Bio RL: I hope you do not put some crap that captured or raped Sansa, in the worst case do it with the wife of Robb or another person.

C.E.W: Ramsay has killed Roose Bolton, and has taken control of the Dreadfort with Karstark's help along with Smalljon Umber. Its only a matter of time before Ramsay makes a move, he'll seek to rally the Northern lords by appealing to their hatred for Wildlings. He'll also seek to capture Sansa at Winterfell to use as a hostage against Daveth.

Daveth Baratheon is facing his own problems, we all know who Unella is which means the Sparrows have people inside the Faith. The High Sparrow may mean to stage a coup to take over the Faith and lead a campaign against Daveth.

Hear My Fury: Wow Ramsay. You have to be the dumbest person alive if you believe that the lie that the Starks poisoned your father is gonna sway many houses to fall in your lap. And declaring yourself king! That's not gonna help you at all! Hope you and the others who follow you live long with the Reynes and Tarbecks.

―And now the rains weep o'er his hall and not a soul to hear.