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.