What had she expected? The oaf was dead and buried, finally, after nine long years of marriage, and she was finally free. But it wasn’t the relief she had anticipated. Quite the contrary; she felt the same. Her days weren’t that different, besides the face that she had one less blundering idiot to entertain. Thomas was too young to know the difference really, which she supposed was sad in a way. She knew what it was like to lose a parent, but losing a mother is different to losing a father. Cersei had grown up more or less parentless; Joanna had died when she was very young and Tywin wasn’t exactly paternal.

She arose that morning, the morning of his funeral, and absently dressed in ordinary clothing; a red dress with her favourite Vivienne Westwood shoes. It was only when she noted the way his side of their bed remained unmoved that she remembered and, sighing, changed into a more formal black dress. How tedious was the tradition to wear black to a funeral; not that Cersei minded black, it was in fact one of her more favoured colours – 50% of her wardrobe was black. What Cersei loathed more than anything was being told what to do, even if it was by a voiceless social custom.

Cersei strode over to her window, looking out of her penthouse home at the city; she could see the strip from here. Robert had initially intended to live in the apartment above the Casino, but once Cersei had fallen pregnant, she’d put her foot down; the baby would get no sleep, living above the constant racket of the punters in the bars beneath them. The baby was just the excuse she had needed of course because, as she had anticipated, once they bought the penthouse, Robert still spent more time at the Casino, with one whore or another, than he did at home with her. She had the best of both worlds – she spent his money and lived the life of the wife and daughter of two of the most powerful and respected men in the country, let alone the state, and he was writing about on top of someone else every night. Domestic bliss,

Today, though, she would have to act like the devastated widow everyone liked to think she was. Anybody who knew Cersei would know better, but she let very few people under her guard and could have been an actress, if she had been so inclined.

So that morning, at 11am, she sat in the church, holding her little boy on her lap, her tear-stained cheek resting on his angelic little head, and let everyone see how well the ice queen could melt.

Sansa had never really felt the icy tendrils of death before; yes, she knew the concept of it but she had never felt it actually affect her before. Yet, affect wasn't exactly the word that summed up her feelings. It wasn't like a large chunk of her life had been ripped to shreds - no, it was just having the knowledge that this person will never live again, scared her a little.

Sansa had small memories of Bobby Baratheon. He was never a large character in the on-going story of her life. For a small period of time (from when she was around five or six), Bobby Baratheon was "uncle Bobby" and Sansa generally associated him with beards and bear-hugs. Then, when she got to about six, he seemed to almost drop away from the Stark family. Sansa was too young to realise that her father had purposely put a distance between them - he had turned clean after all.

And thus, Sansa Stark, firstborn girl of the Stark family, found herself in a respectable black dress with her long cascades of fiery hair draped over one shoulder; trying to look every part, the mature adult that she subsequently wasn't.

A few eyebrows were even raised by the arrival of the Commissioner and his family - Ned Stark was notorious for how clean he was and the simple idea of him being in the mafia's pockets was too ludicrous for most to imagine. These people obviously didn't know the old friendship between the two men; a friendship that would be better described as brotherhood. It wasn't a commonly known fact that Ned Stark used to be in the mob - one couldn't even begin to imagine such a thing. Yet still, her father seemed to be sad in that solemn way she saw her brothers adapt to as they matured.

Her eyes shifted around their little merry band of family-bonds. Arya was still wrestling with her hair, much to her mother's annoyance and Bran's mild amusement. Rickon was silent, a little unusually. Robb reflected his father's iron-hard look of hiding his emotions. Robb didn't have his father's looks, so it looked a little weird to see a lack of that boyish smile of his. Jon, however, Jon looked precisely like her father so that he mirrored the emotions etched upon his face with a near, picture-perfect clarity.

When they were younger, Sansa heard some conflicting opinions on Jon. Robb immediately adopted him as a blood-brother (even if they were still half-brothers) and you would never hear him say a bad word about Jon. However, she also spent a large amount of her time around her mother, who had a whole plethora of bad things to say about her husband's extra-marital son. To Sansa, Jon was nice enough, if you could get him to open up - and there lay the problem; it was very hard to get someone to open up their bottled-up feelings.

She shook her head to shake the random thoughts from her mind as she turned to the grieving widow. Even when she was grieving for her dead husband - she still looked stunning to the young red-head. Sansa had saw her before - at parties and other things that Bobby invited Ned to. To Sansa, the new owner of the Baratheon estate and wealth, was beautiful and everything she ever wanted to be. Sansa was either too young or too innocent to see the dark looks that always festered in her eyes. Sansa was like that.

Her eyes were suddenly trailing another person. Shifting in her seat, she leaned past Robb, who was in deep conversation with Jon, and tried to catch sight of the stranger that was definitely not some old mafia boss. Not some old mafia boss by a long shot. The stranger was handsome and tall with a sharp look and an even sharper jaw. He couldn't have been older than twenty, at the least; a college boy? Suddenly sitting through a droll experience of watching, so called grievers, turned to subtly eying up a guy that was way out of her league. One can dream Sansa, she reminded herself with a sigh.

Sitting back down in her chair, she was thankful that her brothers didn't catch her openly staring at some guy; God, they would tease her for weeks. As usual, she subconsciously allowed her hand to trail up and take a soft strand of auburn hair between her fingers before curling it. Her eyes got caught up in Dark, Handsome Stranger's path and she couldn't help but notice the smile that was thrown towards her. Her cheeks instantly lit up with a fine blush as she subtly turned to check there wasn't anyone who looked remotely-pretty behind her.

After realising that there was no one pretty behind her, she turned back and felt her gaze run up to his. God those eyes... catch a hold of yourself girl! She snapped out of her dreamy state and gave him a disapproving look before fixing her posture. The audacity of him to be flirting with her at a funeral! Yet still, she couldn't help but let her eyes draw over to look at him before giving off a small smile. Silently, she thanked God that Jeyne wasn't here - she'd be flat out giggling at this point.

Ramsay shrugged off his leather jacket as Skinner followed him silently through the threshold, turning on the lights and closing the door. They were in an abandoned warehouse of some sort at the edge of town; ragged breathing and footsteps being the only sounds to breach the heavy silence. The pair looked strange together -- Ramsay appeared so slight and boyish beside Skinner's hulking frame and craggy features that if one didn't know better, they'd assume Skinner was the dangerous one.

The man bound to the steel saltire was hardly recognisable now, and it was downright impossible to guess the man’s age, or whether he had ever been handsome or plain. Strips of skin hung from his face, the exposed flesh already festering with the beginnings of gangrene. The concrete floor was stained brick red with old blood, and Ramsay sneered at his captive before stepping up to a little surgical steel table beside the saltire.

Though the man's eyes had swollen nearly shut, they stayed riveted to the collection of skinning knives laid out on the table. The different sized and shaped blades glinted menacingly as Ramsay held each one up to the light. Finally, he settled on a small, curved blade.

"Do you know what Ling Chi is?" Ramsay murmured, bringing the knife up to his eyes, examining the glint in the blade. He paused, as if waiting for an answer, but continued. "It's an old Chinese method of torture, you see. They immobilise the victim, they take a sharp knife, and they slice thin hunks of meat off the body, kind of like sandwich meat."

His laughter was childlike, almost, with no hints of remorse or malice. He laughed like he was chatting with an old, dearly beloved friend.

"The Chinese practised it as a punishment. It was believed that the victim would no longer be whole after death, and wouldn't proceed to the afterlife." Ramsay leaned in, a hair's breadth away from his captive, his oyster grey eyes sparkling with sick glee. "But, I think that’s the least of your problems."

Running the sharp edge of the knife along the man's sternum, Ramsay took a few moments to savour the wild fear in his eyes. Unfortunately, he was going to have to make this quick. After all, he did have a funeral to attend. The stainless steel blade finally broke skin and filleted the muscles underneath.

And the man screamed, so loud that even Skinner flinched.

---

Roose Bolton stepped into the church, icy grey eyes trained straight ahead as he pointedly ignored his bastard son trailing closely behind him. This was the last place Ramsay wanted to be, and it showed. His face was twisted into a scowl as he pulled agitatedly at the collar of his suit, trying to loosen it. The saccharine scent of his cologne was like a miasmic cloud around him -- a clumsy attempt at hiding the stench of blood from his earlier activities. A hot shower had washed off most, if not all of the gore, but the smell of death stuck to his skin like a tattoo.

As Roose moved to pay his respects to the infamous Cersei Lannister, Ramsay began wandering off in a different direction. Rolling his eyes, Ramsay heard his father talking about how very sorry he was for the woman's loss, and knew that not a single word of what he said was truthful.

Soon enough, Ramsay found himself standing a few feet away from the casket. A quiet snicker escaped from him as he peered into the polished, teak coffin. To be honest, he was actually kind of impressed that they didn't have to get a custom casket built for the fat fuck. But, since it was more than likely no one else shared this sentiment, he kept it to himself.

Ill-concealing a smirk, Ramsay looked over his shoulder and noticed the Starks some distance away. Well, more like the Starks plus one, really. Ned Stark's bastard was there too. Jon, was it? He didn't really peg the Stark patriarch for the cheating type, but it just went to prove that one should never judge a book by its cover. Ramsay spotted the eldest Stark daughter next. She couldn't have been more than eighteen years old, but anyone could see how pretty she was turning out to be. Inheriting her mother's auburn locks and bright, blue eyes, Sansa Stark didn't have the dark, sullen features of a Stark at all.

Deciding that he'd had enough of standing around by himself, Ramsay made to rejoin Roose. As he passed by where the Starks were sat down, Ramsay flashed a crafty little grin at the young redhead, before turning away.

Robert's death would either be the perfect opportunity for Petyr Baelish or the catalyst to his own downfall, although he never cared for him, his passing could spell tragedy for every single criminal in Las Vegas. The chaos would ripple through the streets, but Petyr thrived on chaos, it burns away even the largest of trees leaving space for new roots to climb upwards towards the nourishing sunlight.

Having stayed up most of the night before looking over the Casino's profits, as well as his managing his own less 'legal' businesses, his blue eyes were slightly dark and sore with sleep deprivation. During this session of late night reading he glanced over the tremendous debt Robert left behind, he partied, drank and fucked his money away leaving Petyr to clean it all up, well most of it was Robert's doing, the only thing Petyr had to do was make it look like nothing was amiss by borrowing large amounts of money from other banks. To someone who noticed what was happening, hypothetically speaking, it would appear to them that he was some frightened, inexperienced halfwit trying to ineffectively cover up someone else's mess, when he was in actuality carrying this out intentionally for some unknown purpose.

Inside the church he spied many prominent members of the local criminal citizenry, there was the grieving widow Cersei Lannister, crying her crocodile tears and holding her youngest son, too young to understand. Oh he knew how much Cersei loved her 'dear' husband, what kind of informant would he be if he hadn't? Though he had to admit it was rather convincing to say the least. Behind her were the notorious Boltons, Roose and his illegitimate son Ramsay, the former having just payed empty respects to Cersei, while his son stared at Robert's coffin like a wide-eyed toddler whose gaze was fixed at some brightly coloured and rather noisy object. Petyr watched him watch a corpse, he would've laughed at the absurdity of it, that is if Ramsay didn't make him extremely apprehensive, he had heard whispers of the disturbing things surrounding their persons, things that would make even himself shudder at the thought.

Turning himself away from the perturbing young man, he glanced towards the Starks, stoney-faced and solemn. Petyr was surprised to see them here, considering Ned had given up the mob life some time ago and decided to work for the law rather than against it, it was clear to everyone that he was here to say his final farewells to an old friend.
Petyr began to grow disinterested, sitting himself down at one of the pews he simply stared ahead and smirked, insignificant enough to not be noticed, but the thing about insignificant people is that no one takes them into account when everything goes wrong...

Cersei’s mind wasn’t at the funeral. She detested them more than anything in the world, and she detested a lot of things. Funerals, though, really took the biscuit. The day was also unusually humid and she shifted in her seat, the Nevada heat having its way with her. Blessed with smooth hair and naturally matte skin, plus expensive waterproof make-up, she didn’t really have to worry too much about her appearance, but Thomas sitting on her lap was creating even more unnecessary body heat. When the clergyman called for speakers, she passed a brief glance to her left, and shifted the boy over onto Jaime’s lap. He looked at her for a minute, but Cersei’s stayed looking straight on.

Her heels clicked on the floor as she stood up and walked to the podium. Staring out into the sea of people, she wondered how many were well-wishers and people genuinely sorry for her husband’s death. She also wondered how many wished her well. A smaller percentage, she was willing to bet. Robert’s brothers looked back at her, as did his insufferably and suddenly honest friend, Eddard Stark with his little rural family. Peter Baelish sat there, the little mockingbird of her husbands’ council; he had almost as many spies as she did. The spider was there, spinning his little web no doubt, as usual. Cersei cleared her throat, gripping both sides of the podium as she looked out at her audience.

“My husband’s passing strikes into each and every one of our hearts.” She could hear her own voice, dripping with all of the emotion she didn’t feel. How many, she wondered, bought her act? How many cared whether she put on a show or not? “Robert, we all know, was both a brave and strong man. His courage in the overthrowing of Rhaegar Targaryen is what helped make this a great and prosperous place – without Robert’s leadership, where would any of us be? On the wrong side of the law, hiding under rocks and feasting each night on grubs and worms.” She glared at each person to whom the statements were directed, as she spoke the words, a slight smirk that masqueraded as a wry and thoughtful smile crossed her beautiful features. “Robert wasn’t perfect. He drank too much, he ate too much. He…enjoyed life too much. But he…”

Cersei paused, the apparent emotion of the moment catching the words in her throat. She looked down at the first row, and saw her little boy seated on his father’s lap. The similarity was so great that, as she did every day, she wondered how they’d never been caught. Catching Jaime’s eye, with under pretence of looking down at Thomas, she spoke her next words with as much feeling as she could muster.

“He gave me my son, he gave me the reason I get up every morning and he loved his son with every fibre of his being and for that…for that, I will always love him.” Turning, she plucked a rose from the vases in front of the coffin and laid one on the polished, black wood. “Goodbye, Robert, my love.”

Cersei returned to her seat with her head held high and took Thomas when he reached for her. She couldn't even look at Jaime, but she let him take her hand when he reached for it. Ever the comforting little brother.

Arya Stark sat at the funeral. She didn't want to be there. She barely knew the man she was paying her respects to, but she knew that he was a good friend of her father's, so she would be as respectful as she could, but...her hair was really annoying her. She couldn't stop fiddling with it. The stylists had put it into a long braid that pulled her scalp uncomfortably. If they had let her get her hair cut short like she asked, this wouldn't be a problem, but noooooo, that wasn't ladylike. She sighed, and put her hands to her lap as Cersei gave her speech. At least they did a good job with the dress; plain, back, and stopped at her knees. She couldn't walk easily in skirts or dresses any longer than that, especially not in black prism heels that were high enough to make her look 'normal' at the cost of making every step feel like playing Russian Roulette with her ankle bones.

As the speech was going on, she edged closer to her sister, and whispered "Where's the imp?" She had not seen Tyrion beside his family during the funeral.

Ramsay's foot tapped impatiently against the tiled floors of the church. The whole "respectful silence" thing was really getting on his nerves; partly because it was taking way too long, and partly because he'd been jonesing for a smoke ever since this morning. But, with his schedule taken up by slicing up traitors and this shit, he hadn't even had time to buy himself a fresh pack. Ramsay's thoughts briefly wandered, and he found himself wondering if Tybald was taking good care of his prisoner. After all, there was still more information they could squeeze out of him.

Craning his neck to get a better view, Ramsay spotted Petyr "Pornstache" Baelish. It wasn't surprising that he was here, unlike the Starks, seeing that he was the one who managed most of Casino's profits. Despite the man's many connections, Ramsay just didn't find him all that interesting, and dismissed him as a dime a dozen.

Unfortunately, when Ramsay turned his attention back to the "grieving" widow's eulogy, it was somehow still going. Jesus fucking Christ, just how much did she have to say? It wasn't like the deceased even had the capacity to hear, let alone appreciate any of it. He let out an audible sigh, and slouched in his seat. While he could hear how her voice shook, he knew that all this was faker than a two dollar bill. In another life, Cersei would've probably made a good actress, maybe even an Oscar-winning one. But for now, that was besides the point, as a few moments later, her speech reached it's conclusion.

"Goodbye, my love." Ramsay mocked under his breath, barely managing to suppress a grisly little snicker. The elder Bolton turned with such an in-his-own-good-time deadpan that it was at first impossible to tell whether he had heard him or not. But, when Ramsay saw the disapproving, if-Domeric-were-alive look in his ice grey eyes, he knew he had. Steepling his fingers, Ramsay did his best to appear contrite, but to be honest, he didn't really give a fuck.

Just a little while more, and he'd finally be able to get out of this hellhole. Ramsay couldn't wait to give his brand new Harley a spin. It was a 1200 custom, the colour of clotted blood with a gunmetal finish and leather seats. Plus, it had an aftermarket exhaust system so loud that it rattled your bones. Of course, first, he'd have to get back home and change out of this scratchy ass suit - and maybe get himself some Skittles and cigarettes, on the way.

Ramsay contemplated taking the redheaded Stark girl out for a joyride. Although the Commissioner would no doubt have heard awful rumours about the Bastard Of Bolton; the last logical thing he'd do was let his beloved daughter associate with him. But, she did seem like the gullible type, and teenage rebellion could move mountains.

Settling in his seat, he stole a glance at Sansa Stark, a mischevious glint in his eyes as he waited for the funeral to finally be over.

Sansa felt her dreamy gaze switch between Cersei Lannister and the Handsome Stranger that she had already begun filling in the gaps for. He appeared to be a complete bad-ass on the outside, but on the inside he was a secret romantic and loved nothing more than to read poetry and watch cheesy romcoms. He was a college boy - of course. What he was studying, hitched her a little. She imagined him to be majoring history - he had that aloof sense of knowing about him that only persisted around history jocks.

It appeared like he was with his dad who looked like an almost reliable man, amongst the sea of blatant criminals. Possibly he owned a large business and wanted his son to inherit it but was disappointed when he decided to pave his own way in life. She was really clutching at loose straws at that moment but that didn't matter to Sansa - she was designing everything that she expected Ramsay to be without even knowing him. If she did know him, she would have been repulsed by the idea of being with him but to naive, little Sansa, he served as an object to the whims of childhood fantasies.

When Arya interrupted her from her dreamy crafting of a perfect man, she gave her a dark look a and a sharp kick to the shin. "Arya!" She muttered, under her breath to make sure that it wasn't audible to her parents - her sister might have saw her staring at him and the least she needed was Arya telling her parents in revenge for Sansa getting her into trouble. "He's called Tyrion ans he's clearly not here." She snapped back, giving her another questioning look before she settled into her seat again - quite content that Arya had managed to break the spell that Tall, Handsome Stranger had kept her under.

That is, until he gave her that look and her lies of being safe from his charms were completely broken. She blushed, probably more than was even considered cute and shot him a small smile that had definitely gained some ground from her previous ones. Her previous smiles were just her reactions, and shy reactions at that. But that smile, that smile was almost a low invitation for him to try his hand and go a little further. It's all under control, she tried to tell herself as another blush spread across her cheek but it was a lie really - she had already returned to planning his personality out.