I know, I know, another new piece when I have a few unfinished already. But I have time for now and will be working on a bit of everything for the next few weeks and I promise, nothing will go unfinished in the long run. Anyway! This is my brain-baby, which has gnawed at me for three years and, well, here we are. I hope you enjoy and, as always, please leave feedback!

In his new, well-tailored suit and his freshly clipped beard, Robert Baratheon looked every bit the newly-elected Prime Minister. Waving at his new public, he beamed at the flashing cameras of the paparazzi, one hand cupping the shoulder of his youngest son. It had been a long and arduous campaign with more hurdles than he would have thought possible but finally – finally! – he was here. Bidding the public a fond farewell, Robert turned, placing a hand on the handle of Britain's most famous door and turned, allowing his family entry to their new home.

"Dad didn't say much," Arya complained, her Doc Marten boots leaving scuffs on the arm of her brother's wheelchair. "It's a coalition so why is it all about Uncle Robert?" It had been an ongoing battle since the votes had been tallied and the results announced: Why hadn't Eddard stark been made Prime Minister Instead? Her brother Bran, though two years younger, had tried to explain the process, using big words and fancy political jargon he had picked up from all the time he spent around their father, but the fact remained that their father had been the preferred candidate. He had ranked higher than Robert Baratheon in all of the opinion polls, yet when the coalition was proposed, it was Eddard who would be returning to Scotland and the weekends, and Robert's wife and children who would move into number 10 Downing Street.

Bran, exasperated and bored, rolled his eyes, nudging Arya's foot from his chair. "Because Robert's party had a larger majority and – "

"But dad would be a better Prime Minister!" Arya snapped, as she always did, ending the conversation. There was, as Bran told himself, no telling some people. "He looks thin, though. And tired." Their mother, poised at the edge of the sofa, pursed her lips. She had said as much herself the previous evening during a Skype call to her husband. His hair was showing signs of premature grey, while the dark shadows under his eyes shone with tell-tale signs of late nights lost to meetings and paperwork. Realising she had sat in silence just a fraction too long, Catelyn Stark straightened up a little, dragging her eyes from the television where Sky News was already showing a repeat of Robert Baratheon's speech.

"Your father has been working very hard, Arya. It's been a tough few weeks," she replied, diplomatic as ever. Her eyes cast back towards the screen, where Robert's wife Cersei beamed back at her.

"And Uncle Robert has been sitting around, scratching his fat arse as usual," Arya scoffed, narrowly dodging the tea towel her mother flicked at her as she admonished her.

The Starks had always been a respectable family, one who the British public had always looked on favourably. Head of the family, Eddard Stark (or Ned, as the press had affectionately called him during the campaign), had always been a man of the public – a breath of fresh air amongst the policies and scandals tearing their way through the world of politics. 'A man of honour' as dubbed by the press, the media had nothing but good things to say about the Scottish politician who had raised his sister's orphan son as his own, all the while raising awareness (and millions of pounds) for Cystic Fibrosis, the disease which had affected his middle son Brandon. The family were a regular bunch of angels, if you were to believe the media, yet looking at the screen, where Cersei Baratheon and her three golden-haired children smiled serenely behind their father, Catelyn couldn't help but think her own family would have cut a more interesting shape. Cersei never had to wrestle her youngest daughter out of dungarees or deal with a ten-year old's tantrum three minutes before his father's biggest press event. She never had to pretend to care about her husband's nephew, who hung around the family, years after they had any legal responsibility to him, or hide the fact that her oldest son's best friend was constantly threatening to drag the family into disrepute. Pushing herself to her feet and heading back to the kitchen, Catelyn was glad her husband hadn't been named as Prime Minister: her family definitely weren't ready for that sort of exposure, something which was proved by the explosive noises coming from her youngest son's bedroom and the loud rock song blaring from Arya's phone as someone tried to contact her.

No, they definitely weren't ready.

As the door of 10 Downing Street closed behind the Baratheon family, shielding them from the view of cameras, Cersei Baratheon's smile left her face. Her cheeks ached from so much falseness and she let out a quiet sigh as her youngest children rushed off to fight over bedrooms, her eldest, Joff, already halfway upstairs. "What the bloody hell was that all about?" she asked, heading straight for the drinks cabinet which adorned one wall of the dining room. She had seen it during countless trips to the house as a young woman accompanying her father on political meetings and had hoped that they would have left it well stocked when they cleared the house of the previous owner's belongings. "The way you spoke out there you would have thought Eddard Stark won the campaign for you." Luck found her in the shape of a glass decanter of whisky – it wasn't her choice of alcohol but she would take what she could get at that moment, and it had been a long day – and she removed the stopper, pouring herself a large measure. "I'll remind you that my father personally gave – "

"I know fine well what your father gave for my campaign woman, and don't think I'll forget it any time soon," Robert blustered, shocked that his wife would speak to him in such a manner. She had always been a wilful woman, but today of all days… "But that man had the power to refuse this coalition, to claim the victory for himself. But here we are because he allowed it."

"Well next time try not to act like such a pathetic –" Robert's hand struck out without warning, silencing his wife as it connected with her cheek.

"I'll have no more of this!" he hissed, careful to keep his voice at a decent level. They may have been out of the paparazzi's line of sight but there was no doubting what they could and couldn't hear. Taking the glass from Cersei's hand, he drained the liquid in two clean gulps, before returning it to the cabinet and heading for the stairs. "Now get changed – we have important business to attend to and you can't be seen looking like that."

Upstairs, laying languidly across a bed in one of the larger bedrooms in his new home, Joffrey Baratheon glanced at the messages on his phone. Many of them came from his friends, noting that they had seen him on television and making crude jokes about his mother and father as young men often did. He had assumed Sansa would have messaged by now – she would have been watching to see that simpleton she called a father, after all – yet her name didn't show once. Stupid bitch, he thought, his lip curling in disgust as he scrolled through the female names in his phonebook. He could have any of them, he knew, now that he was the son of the Prime Minister. He didn't need to keep Sansa around… And yet he knew he couldn't dismiss her or end things on bad terms; it would look dreadful for the son of the Prime Minister to end his relationship with the Deputy Prime Minister's daughter just hours after his father had moved into his role… No, he would just need to deal with her for now. And it wasn't like she was hard on the eyes, he smirked, closing down the phonebook application. He had plenty of photos on his phone that could prove that, photos that would make Ned Stark furious.

Thoughts of his photos – and memories – of his girlfriend, however, were soon forgotten as his father's heavy footsteps drew nearer, the man clambering up the stairs. Fat bastard will be out of breath by the time he reaches the top, Joffrey thought, though he called out to the man, hoping to borrow a car for the evening. "Not now, Joff. I'm busy!" Robert responded, without paying much attention to his words. He was always busy, these days. Busy or drunk.

Three months later…

Six solemn faces sat around the television, as Sansa Stark turned up the volume. They knew what was about to be announced – their father had been called immediately to inform him – but that didn't make it any easier to hear. Still dressed in their finery from the night before, her brother Robb and his best friend Theon stood either side of Bran, who watched the screen through thick glasses. There was no precedent for this, he'd told them once their father had left the room. In America they had contingency plans, but not here. Not in Britain. It was one of the many flaws in the British government, according to the fifteen-year-old, who was about to launch into a list of such flaws, when Theon had placed a hand on his shoulder and muttered, "Not right now, mate."

Sansa wrapped her arms around herself, hoping to give more warmth than the thin dress she wore. It had been perfect, a bright red to match Joffrey's tie, covered in delicate beading and intricate detailing, with a new pair of Louboutin heels to match. Normally, her mother would never have allowed her to wear such expensive dresses and jewellery, but last night had been special – it had been her first event with Joff. She wasn't appearing at the Climate Change gala as Ned Stark's eldest daughter, but as the girlfriend of Joffrey Baratheon, heir to Casterly Rock Bank and son of the Prime Minister. Ex-Prime Minister, she thought darkly as the strained face of the news presenter illuminated the screen.

"It is with great sadness that we announce tonight, that Prime Minister Robert Baratheon has died after receiving a gun-shot wound at last night's Climate Change Gala. Our Royal correspondent Peter Baelish is at the scene…"