#theoncat

The candlelight wavered against the damp stone walls of Catelyn’s chambers, each flicker of flame casting long shadows that reached like grasping fingers across the floor. The fire in the hearth was low, its warmth faint and uncertain, and still she sat rigidly in the high-backed chair, her hands folded too tightly in her lap. Her grief was a living thing, coiled within her chest, pressing upward until it stole her breath. It was suffocating, unrelenting. Ned. Her Ned. Gone. The words still rang false in her mind, as though if she repeated them enough, they might at last take root, might carve themselves into something real. But no, they floated above her like smoke, insubstantial and cruel.

A knock startled her. Too sharp, too sudden in the stillness. Her breath hitched, and she straightened at once, as though to armour herself against whatever waited beyond. “Come in,” she said, her voice a carefully smoothed blade, the rawness beneath concealed by force of will.

The door groaned open on its hinges, and in the narrow spill of torchlight from the corridor, she saw him. Theon.

Her fingers curled hard into the fabric of her gown, knuckles blanching. It was him, the ward, the boy dragged from his Iron Islands and caged within Winterfell. Arrogant, mocking, ever grinning at some jest only he seemed to hear. He was no Stark, no true son of the North. And yet… Robb had loved him as a brother. Robb had trusted him with his life, had carried him through boyhood into the fire of war. Now here he stood, in her chamber, when her husband’s body was scarcely cold in the South, his expression alive with a trace of amusement. Amusement. Catelyn felt her grief twist into something sharper, darker. In the face of her loss, Theon Greyjoy had the gall to smirk.

She could not endure it.

“I do not need your company, Theon,” she said, the words loosed like arrows before she could temper them. They rang harsh in the still air, bitter and cruel, but she welcomed the cruelty. Let it wound him. She would not be mocked in her mourning.

Theon’s lips parted, the curve of a smirk blooming, deliberate, insolent. “My lady,” he drawled, inclining his head with a bow that mocked more than honoured. “I think you do. I hate to see a woman so beautiful left to suffer her grief alone.”

Her spine stiffened, rage catching in her throat. “I am as well as I can be, given I have lost my husband,” she cut in coldly, her words a lash meant to sting. “Far too well to require the company of someone such as you.”

The smirk only deepened, his voice dropping low, intimate, almost tender in its mockery. “Someone such as me? You wound me, my lady. Am I truly so distasteful in your eyes?”

He moved then, slowly, deliberately, circling her chair like a wolf closing on its prey. Her heart stuttered, fury and dread tangling into something that felt perilously like fear. His hand came down over her shoulder, the heat of it bleeding through her gown. Fingers traced idly along her collarbone, toying with the edge of her neckline as though it were nothing, as though he had every right to touch her so.

Catelyn’s throat tightened. Theon had offered hands before, helping her mount, steadying her steps, the small courtesies a ward should show his lord’s wife. But never this. Never so brazen. Not while Ned lived. But Ned was gone. And she was alone with his ward who was not a boy anymore, but a grown man whose smirk had teeth in it.

Her breath came shallow, her grief curdling into something sharp and cold. “I do not want you here,” she whispered, bitter as ash.

“Dismiss me, then.” Theon’s lips ghosted against the curve of her ear, the heat of his breath spilling down her neck. “Send me away.”

Gods, how she wanted to. Every fibre of her cried for distance, for him far from her chambers, far from Robb’s side. Jon had been banished to the Wall, and with his vows, he had vanished from her daily thoughts. But Theon lingered, always there, a shadow in her son’s life. A kraken’s tentacles wound tight around Robb’s heart, squeezing closer with every passing year. And yet she knew too well that Theon’s presence here was not merely sentimental. His “captivity” was the leash that stayed Balon Greyjoy’s hand from raiding northern shores. To cast him out would be to invite Balon’s ships upon her people.

So she held her silence, wielding it as if it were a blade, sharp enough to cut through his insolence.

Theon only chuckled, low and intimate, as though he’d read the decision in her eyes. “No? You don’t want me to go, my lady?” His voice sank softer, heavier, and then he dared a kiss just behind her ear, where her skin was most sensitive.

Heat seared her cheeks, shame and fury warring in her chest. She shot to her feet, her chair scraping harshly against the stones. “Theon,” she snapped, voice thick with warning, “that is quite enough.”

But he caught her, swift and unyielding, his hand locking around her forearm, pulling her flush against him. Her back struck the solid wall of his chest, his arms binding her in place like bands of forged iron. Her breath faltered, half fury, half something else she would not name.

“Now, now, Lady Catelyn,” he murmured, his lips grazing her temple, his words a poisonous caress. “I only wish to ease the weight on your heart, to warm what the cold has taken. I promise you, I’ve got talent for it.” He pressed feather-light kisses along the line of her neck, each word punctuated by the brush of his mouth. “You wouldn’t be the first woman to forget her husband in my arms.”

Her hands clawed at his, desperate to tear free, though her pulse betrayed her, quick and erratic. “Theon. Enough—”

But his whisper cut through her protest. “Do you know how long I’ve dreamed of this, my lady?”

His voice rumbled against her ear, heavy with a hunger sharpened by years of denial. His hands slid lower, tracing the bodice of her gown, bold, unrepentant. “Since I was a boy,” he breathed. “I was only ten when they sent me north. I should have hated that place, and yet—it was you I saw. You, in the baths below the keep. You thought you were alone, but I watched from the shadows.” His confession tightened around her like a snare, shameful and intoxicating. “I watched you bare yourself to the water, and in that moment, I became a man. My body burned for you before I even had the words to understand it.”

She stiffened, scandal and something darker shuddering through her. “You disgusting boy,” she hissed, though her voice trembled against the weight of memory he painted before her eyes.

Theon laughed, low and shameless, his hand curving against the swell of her breast through the fabric. “That night I learned what a man’s cock was for. And every night after, I stroked it with thoughts of you. I stole glimpses when I could, when you bathed, when you lay tangled and writhing in Lord Stark’s arms. I stole scraps, silks, soiled small clothes, anything touched by you, to keep you close, to smell you, to spill my seed on.” His teeth grazed her ear, a sharp nip softened by a kiss. “And now you are a widow. No vows bind you. No husband to guard you. So why deny what has always been simmering between us? Let me give you what you’ve long been denied.”

Theon’s arms loosened, not releasing her entirely but slackening enough for her to twist in his hold. Her palm cracked across his cheek before he could anticipate it. Then again, and again. “You awful, awful boy!” she cried, her voice raw, trembling between fury and grief. “Have you no respect for your lord? His body is not even cold, and you—” she struck his chest, hard enough that he stumbled back a pace “—you dare to press your wretched desires upon me?”

Her hands flew at him, sharp and relentless. She slapped his jaw, struck the side of his head, pushed against his chest as if trying to drive him from the chamber itself. Tears spilt hot down her face, blurring the sight of him, but her blows did not falter. “How dare you, Theon?” she spat, each word a lash. “Was Ned not good to you? Did he not give you bread, a home, a place among his sons? Is this your gratitude—your honour? This—” she struck him again, a sharp crack across his cheek, reddening the skin—“for his widow, for your King’s mother?”

Theon’s head jerked with the force of the blow, and from deep in his throat a sound escaped him, not pain, not protest, but a low, guttural moan. The sound froze her mid-swing. She stared at him, hand still raised, her chest heaving with uneven breaths. “Did you…?” she began, disbelief widening her tear-reddened eyes.

Theon dropped to his knees before her, the smirk gone, replaced by something darker, needier. Another softer moan slipped from between his lips as he tipped his head back to meet her gaze. The sight of him there, at her feet, made something coil hot and confused in her belly.

“You—oh, you incorrigible pervert.” Her voice shook with outrage, but her hand came down again all the same, fierce and unyielding. Her palm cracked against his mouth, splitting his lip, drawing a bead of blood that trailed scarlet down his chin. She struck his nose next, hard enough to bring a dribble of crimson, and still he only looked up at her, smiling through the blood, sighing as if each strike fed some hunger within him. His eyes burned, glassy with lust, hazy and unashamed.

“You vile creature,” she whispered, and struck him again. The blow knocked him onto his side, sprawling on the rug before her feet. She stood over him, trembling, her hands shaking with rage and something else she refused to name. “I have hated you,” she hissed, voice thick with tears. “Since the day Ned brought you through my door, I have hated you. You are scum, a curse upon my house. With every day you remained at Robb’s side, my hatred only grew. I hate you, Theon Greyjoy. I hate you.”

Theon groaned, the sound ragged, almost broken, and pushed himself up to his knees again. His face was bloodied, bruised, but his eyes burned with a pleading heat that would not be ignored. “My lady,” he rasped, hoarse and raw, every syllable edged with longing.

Her breath caught. Against all reason, against all her loathing, she felt her body stir at the sight of him, at the ruin she had made of him, kneeling, desperate, hungry at her feet. She clenched her trembling hands into fists, but the truth gnawed at her: despite herself, she was affected.

Catelyn sank down, straddling his lap on the now blood-stained rug, her skirts pooling around his legs as she pressed her mouth to his with sudden, hungry force. Theon groaned against her lips, the sound rough and eager, and clutched her closer until there was no space left between them. His hips bucked up instinctively to meet hers, and she caught the movement with a sharp intake of breath, her lips parting just enough for their kiss to deepen. She sighed between kisses, hot and shaky, then tangled her fingers in his hair and yanked his head back roughly, claiming his mouth again with even greater urgency.

Beneath her, she could feel the hard strain of his cock, rigid and insistent, and curiosity flickered through her. Slowly, deliberately, she rolled her hips over him, a small testing grind that made his whole body jolt. Theon whimpered at the sensation, pathetic, needy, and the sound sent an unexpected thrill through her. For once, it was she who held the reins.

His hands fumbled clumsily at the laces of her gown, trembling in their eagerness. His lips broke from hers only to descend upon the curve of her neck, where he fastened his mouth hungrily, suckling at her skin until dark bruises bloomed beneath his teeth. He showed no shame, only appetite, and she let out a sharp gasp as heat coursed through her.

It was late; she had long since shed her armour of layers, left in only a plain gown, light and easy for comfort. No shift, no corset. When Theon finally tugged the fabric from her shoulders and dragged it down, he discovered her bare beneath and his breath hitched in disbelief, followed swiftly by a broken little whine. His hands grew frantic, groping and grasping with renewed fervour, his mouth latching greedily onto her breast, his tongue circling, tasting, as though he could devour her whole. His palms mapped her waist, slid down to cup her hips, then squeezed at the generous curve of her arse, kneading it with rough insistence.

“So perfect, my lady,” he groaned hoarsely against her skin. His voice shook with a boy’s desperation, untempered, unrestrained. “Want you… Gods, I want you so badly.” His hands lingered on her arse, squeezing, spreading, playing with the fullness as if it consumed him. Then, bolder, he pressed a calloused fingertip lower, grazing at the puckered ring with a touch that was clumsy and unthinking.

Catelyn stiffened immediately, her body jerking at the attempted intrusion. The sharp crack of her palm rang out as she struck him hard across the face. His head snapped to the side, breath shuddering, and his moan turned into a pitiful whimper. “Don’t you dare,” she said, her tone low and edged with command, each word carrying the weight of iron.

Chastened, he made a sound somewhere between apology and desire, and buried his face against her breasts once more. He nuzzled into her, mumbling broken words she barely caught, desperate to prove his submission, desperate to keep her from pulling away. His lips traced over her skin, soft and worshipful now, each murmur a plea for forgiveness, for permission.

And despite herself, Catelyn found that she liked him like this. Whimpering. Obedient. Desperate beneath her hands.

Catelyn’s grief-hardened fury shifted, molten now, as she pressed her hands against his chest and urged him down onto the rug. Theon went willingly, his body yielding beneath hers with a needy groan that thrilled her ears. His back struck the floor, his breath caught, and when she rose above him, deliberate, commanding, and straddled his chest to settle her hips above his face, his eyes widened in awe. He looked up at her like a starving man presented with a feast, lips parting, tongue darting out to wet them in anticipation.

“Theon,” she murmured, her voice deceptively soft, like silk wrapped around steel. Her hand tightened in his hair, guiding his head into place. “Be good. Show me how much you want me.” The order hung in the air, low and heavy, and he nodded so quickly it was almost frantic, eager to prove himself.

He plunged into her without hesitation, burying his face in her wet cunt, where she ached for him most. His mouth worked hungrily, tongue swirling, lapping, seeking her out with an almost feral desperation. Lewd, wet sounds filled the chamber, mingling with her broken gasps as the roughness of his mouth and the slick heat of his tongue coaxed pleasure from her body in rolling waves.

“Oh… gods… Theon,” she cried out, her voice breaking, breathless and unrestrained. Her fingers clenched tighter in his hair, using it as reins to grind her hips in slow, insistent rolls against his mouth. When his nose nudged against her sensitive clit, the jolt of sensation made her shudder, her thighs tightening around his face. She gasped sharply, the sound half a sob, half a moan.

Theon groaned in response, the vibration resonating through her, and redoubled his efforts. Every trace of his usual arrogance was gone, replaced only by fervent need, by the frantic devotion of a man desperate to please. He licked and sucked with abandon, hands squeezing tightly at the curve of her hips, her arse, holding her steady as he worked, as though she might vanish if he loosened his grip.

Her head fell back, red curls spilling wild down her shoulders, her throat exposed as she arched. One hand pinched and teased at her breast, her body trembling with every stroke of his tongue, every heated suck. The sight of him beneath her, bloodied from her earlier blows, yet utterly undone in his eagerness to worship her, only sharpened the edge of her pleasure.

She felt herself cresting, the tension building like a storm, each stroke pushing her higher. His groans grew louder, desperate, as if her trembling spurred him on. He latched boldly onto her clit, suckling with fervour. The dam broke.

Catelyn cried out, the sound loud, high, unrestrained as release tore through her. Her body shuddered violently, thighs clamping around his face as wave after wave of pleasure rolled through her. For a moment she was lost, utterly lost, in the dark heat of it, clinging to his hair, riding out every last tremor until she collapsed forward, breathless, gasping, undone.

Beneath her, Theon moaned again, his face slick, his chest heaving as though he too had been consumed by the storm of her climax. And for once, his eyes held no arrogance, no jest, only the look of a man utterly devoted, utterly conquered, and hungry still.

“You’ll never speak of this,” Catelyn said suddenly, the words breaking from her lips like a blade drawn too fast. The weight of what she had just done pressed down on her, creeping in like cold water seeping through stone. Her voice sharpened with the edge of warning. “Especially not to Robb.”

“Of course, my lady,” Theon murmured at once, eager and hushed, his tone full of devotion. His lips brushed against her inner thigh, reverent kisses that left her skin tingling. His hands, still fastened greedily to the curve of her arse, kneaded and spread, squeezing possessively as if he could anchor himself there forever. “I’ll not tell a soul,” he whispered again, almost as if swearing an oath upon her body.

“Theon?” She breathed his name softly, the syllables carrying a weight he could not mistake.

“Mm?” His head tilted up from where he lay on the floor beneath her, lips wet, hair mussed, eyes dark and fevered with want.

“Take your cock out,” she whispered, the command silken, dangerous, undeniable.

A groan tore from his chest, guttural and helpless. His hands released her only long enough to fumble eagerly at the laces of his breeches. His fingers worked frantically, trembling in their haste, and in a few moments, he freed himself, swollen and straining, his breath shuddering as though he had been holding it in all this time just for her. He looked up, desperate, waiting for her judgment.

Catelyn bit her lip, savouring the sight, savouring the power that curled hot and heavy in her belly. Slowly, unhurriedly, she shifted her weight, sliding down his torso until she settled above his hips. She poised herself deliberately, teasing the head of his cock with the slick heat of cunt, rolling her hips just enough to make him jolt.

“Good boy,” she cooed, her voice a low murmur of approval as she pressed herself against him. The words made him whimper and buck helplessly beneath her, straining upward for more. She shushed him gently, one hand braced against his chest to hold him still, the other sliding up to curl into his hair once more. She leaned down to claim his mouth, kissing him with a hunger that matched his own.

He kissed back fiercely, teeth clashing with hers, tongue seeking hers as though desperate to drink her in. His hands roved up and down her back, broad palms pressing, stroking, clawing as he tried to guide her down harder against him. His hips lifted in shallow thrusts, his need shameless, and his fingers dug into her waist as he urged her to move.

Catelyn relented just enough to grind against him once more, her body rolling fluidly against his, drawing another low, broken sound from his throat. She swallowed it in their kiss, her lips curling faintly at the edges as she realised: he was utterly at her mercy, and he loved her for it.

“How badly do you want me to let you take me?” she murmured, her lips brushing the damp skin of his neck, trailing slow, deliberate kisses up to his jaw. Her voice was low, deceptively soft, yet threaded with steel.

“Oh—badly,” he groaned, the sound spilling from him like something dragged out of his chest. His hips jerked beneath hers, straining upward for contact, unable to stay still. “Please, my lady, I’ll make you feel good. I’ll do anything,” he whined, bucking again, his voice cracking under the weight of his need.

She ground her hips down against his aching hardness, just enough to make him gasp, and her mouth curled with cruel satisfaction. “Beg me, Theon. Beg and plead for me.” Her command was velvet over iron, her body teasing his in slow, deliberate rolls that left him trembling.

His grip on her hips tightened, rough fingers digging into her flesh hard enough to bruise. His eyes burned as he gazed up at her, wide with desperation. “Please, please, my lady,” he begged, the words tumbling out in a frantic rush. “Catelyn—please—don’t be cruel to me. I need you. Gods, I need you.”

Her palm cracked across his cheek, sudden and sharp. The sound rang in the chamber, startling him into stillness. “Don’t act so entitled, boy,” she said firmly, her tone cutting, commanding, and the sting of the strike left his skin reddened.

Theon whimpered, the sound pitiful and raw, yet his hips still strained upward, his need unrelenting. His hands released her waist just long enough to clutch at her back, dragging her down against him. He buried his head against her breasts as if to hide his shame, pressing frantic kisses over the swell of her skin. “Let me,” he breathed, lips finding her nipple, suckling softly, desperately, as though hoping worship might win her favour. “Let me fuck you,” he pleaded, voice hoarse, each word bitten off between gasps. His tongue flicked at her tender flesh before he pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, fevered and wild. “Let me. Please, my lady. Please.”

His voice broke on the last word, and in that naked desperation, his arrogance had been stripped away entirely. He was reduced to nothing but want, trembling beneath her, clinging to her as if his very existence depended on her mercy.

After a few more languid, taunting rolls of her hips, Catelyn’s lips curved into a smile that cut as sharply as any blade. “Do it,” she murmured, voice dripping with mockery. “Show me your prick isn’t as useless as the rest of you.”

Theon’s answering groan was raw, torn straight from his chest. In a sudden rush, he seized her, rolling her onto her front upon the thick rug before the hearth. The wool scratched at her cheek as his weight bore her down, his hand gripping her waist with bruising strength while the other forced her hips up and back to meet his. In one urgent thrust, he drove into her from behind, burying his leaking cock in her with a desperate, shuddering gasp.

A moan spilt from Catelyn’s lips, muffled against the rug. She pressed her forehead down, fighting to steady her breath, but his pace was relentless, hard, insistent, each stroke jolting through her belly until she quivered. His body covered hers almost entirely, chest pressed tight against her back, his breath hot at her ear. His hips crashed against her, quick, forceful, as though each movement might prove his worth.

“You feel so good,” he mumbled into her hair, voice ragged with awe and desperation. “My lady… gods, I want to stay like this forever.” His words were broken by the rhythm of his thrusts, each syllable choked out between gasps as he drove into her with reckless fervour.

Catelyn clawed at the rug, her nails catching at the fibres, her body clenching around him with every movement. Ned had never taken her like this, he’d never pressed her down, never forced her open with such rough, consuming need. With Ned, there had been tenderness, the slow warmth of lips meeting lips, chest pressed to chest, time taken to savour every breath. But Theon did not kiss her gently. He did not worship her quietly. He fucked her. Hard. Urgent. Merciless. And to her shock, she revelled in the ferocity of it.

“Good boy,” she sighed between ragged moans, her voice breaking as he drove her higher. “You’re—oh—oh-you’re doing so well… so good…” Her words came out breathless, half praise, half surrender, her body trembling with the building tide.

A groan rumbled in his throat, and then he bit down on her shoulder, teeth sinking enough to sting. The sharpness only heightened the heat coiling in her belly. His hand slid down between her thighs, rough fingers finding her clit. He circled there with frantic devotion, even as his hips slammed harder into her, as though determined to pull her release from her body by force if need be.

“Please, my lady,” he murmured hoarsely against her skin, his voice breaking under the strain. “Please—I’m so close…” The whine in his tone was almost boyish, desperate, like a plea for permission.

Her head lifted, then dropped again against the rug as she gasped for breath. Her voice came in shuddering fragments. “Y-yes… yes, Theon… come—come for me—I’m… oh gods—please…” Her moan turned lewd, wanton, as her body clenched tight around him, trembling on the brink.

It was too much, too fast, too consuming. Within moments, release broke over her, tearing through her in hot, shuddering waves. She cried out, clutching at the rug, her body quaking as she convulsed around him. Theon gave a strangled groan, his hips slamming once, twice more before he spilt into her, undone entirely.

For a few dizzy seconds, they clung to one another, trembling and breathless, the world outside reduced to the sound of crackling fire and their mingled gasps. She was still shivering when he slumped over her, lips pressing weak, worshipful kisses to her shoulder as though in thanks for being allowed this moment at all.

When at last her breathing slowed and the fire’s glow seemed to steady around her, a bitter taste rose at the back of her throat. Guilt, shame, they crashed into her all at once, leaving her sickened, hollow. The enormity of what she had done descended like a stone upon her chest. Only hours ago, she had been told her husband was dead, her Ned, her truest companion, and yet here she was, sprawled upon the rug before the hearth, her body damp with sweat and marked by the touch of another. And not just any man, but Theon Greyjoy, her husband’s ward, her son’s closest friend.

Theon, still flushed and panting, shifted beside her and leaned in, lips parting to claim her mouth again as if nothing had changed. But everything had changed. She recoiled at once, shoving him back with sudden violence. Her hand flew to his cheek in a sharp slap, then another, and another. “No,” she hissed, her voice sharp, trembling. “No. Get away from me. Be gone—out of my chambers, out of my sight!” Her words lashed like a whip, each slap punctuating the command until he staggered back, bewildered.

“Apologies… my lady, I—I’m sorry…” he stammered, his tenderness stripped away, confusion clouding his face. He began to dress clumsily, mumbling as if the words themselves could somehow undo what had passed.

Catelyn refused to look at him. She turned her face from him, jaw clenched, every muscle tight with grief and fury. She waited, silent and unyielding, until she heard the soft creak of the door, the faint click of it shutting behind him. Only then did her mask crack.

Her body sagged, heavy with exhaustion and despair. Tears blurred her vision, hot and unrelenting, spilling down her cheeks as sobs wracked her chest. She drew her knees to herself, curling small before the fire’s waning glow. Her skin was bare, her body still slick with the proof of what had just transpired, Theon’s seed slipping from her as a cruel, inescapable reminder.

Cersei had not wanted to accompany Robert to Winterfell, not to dine at the same table as the Starks, not to play at warmth with that frigid brood. The thought of it had curdled in her long before their wheels turned north. The journey had been a slow, grinding torment, each mile thick with the knowledge of what awaited her: the smug perfection of Lord Stark’s wife, the glowing brood of children who laughed too easily, whose very closeness seemed an affront. Their brand of happiness, honest and unguarded, had always sat wrong in her stomach, like too-sweet wine. She had known she would be expected to pass hours in Lady Catelyn’s presence, to make the polite talk of women. Having only just escaped the cloying company of Catelyn’s sister, Lysa Arryn, the thought felt like stepping from one stale room into another, the air no less suffocating.

Even in summer, Winterfell lay beneath a breath of cold. The air bit, slow and persistent, like a disapproving hand at her cheek. The snow here did not fall in flurries but seemed to seep from the very stone. She found the place as bleak as its lord. Jaime’s presence had been her one consolation, bright, golden, her mirror in a land of iron and fur. But soon enough, even he had left her to her own sour company, more intent on flashing his easy charm and swordsmanship at Stark’s boys than on warming her moods. Myrcella and Tommen, too, had wandered off, swept up in childish games and the novelty of wolves.

And then there was the Greyjoy ward. Insolent, half-feral, he prowled the courtyard with the swagger of someone who thought himself irresistible. His gaze was shameless, hungry in a way that might have amused her once, years ago, when she was still entertained by such boldness. Now it was nothing but a dull irritant, a fly hovering too near. She wondered if the boy’s insolence was learned from this place, or if it was simply bred into him, like the salt in the blood of his kin. Whatever the case, it made her long for the south, for the sun, the sea, and the knowledge that she would never again be obliged to sit beneath the Starks’ cold roof.

The feast dragged on, thick with noise and heat. Robert’s voice boomed over the hall, slurred and merry, his cup sloshing with every careless gesture. Beside him, Ned Stark laughed a deep, unhurried sound, the laughter of a man perfectly at ease in his skin. Children darted between the trestle tables, hers and Lady Catelyn’s alike, weaving through the crowd with shrieks and giggles, wholly oblivious to their mothers’ presence.

Cersei sat beside Catelyn, the enforced proximity pricking at her patience. Their glances met and skittered away like wary birds. She studied the lady of Winterfell despite herself. For a woman bound to such a bleak and distant place, Catelyn Stark was undeniably beautiful, she was full-figured, with a brightness about her that the North’s long winters had not dimmed. There was warmth in her eyes when she looked upon her children, a warmth Cersei could neither feign nor truly comprehend. Contentment. It clung to her like a soft perfume, unassuming yet impossible to ignore.

Cersei resisted the urge to measure herself against that quiet glow. She had long known she was the most beautiful woman in Westeros, her father had said it often enough for it to become truth, but beauty, she knew, was a crown of glass. It caught the light brilliantly, but it cut if you held it too tightly. Her beauty shone like gold in the torchlight, sharp-edged and deliberate. Catelyn’s, by contrast, seemed to radiate from some unguarded place within, untouched by calculation. That difference made something stir uneasily in Cersei’s chest.

A sigh escaped her, slow and unmeasured, and she was startled by the faint ache threaded through it. Longing, but for what, she could not say. Her eyes lingered on Lady Catelyn’s profile, on the poised curve of her neck, the way her hand rested lightly against the rim of her cup.

Catelyn turned, catching the sound. “My Queen? Is something the matter?”

Cersei’s back went rigid. She smoothed her expression, the mask sliding neatly into place. “No. Forgive me. I was lost in thought.”

“Of course,” Catelyn replied, her tone courteous yet faintly probing. Her gaze drifted out over the crowded hall, shrewd and measuring. It paused on Sansa and Joffrey, who stood together near the dais, their youth draped in the stiff trappings of betrothal.

Cersei followed that look, and in the faint, almost imperceptible tightening of Catelyn’s mouth, she recognised a mirror of her own misgivings. Whatever else separated them, on this at least they stood in silent accord: neither woman truly wished to see that match made.

Cersei’s thoughts were interrupted by the sudden intrusion of Theon Greyjoy. He approached the table with that insufferable swagger, the kind that pretended at ease but reeked of performance. His smile was too wide, too certain, the sort of expression that invited a slap or something more dangerous. There was a sharpness in him, from the slight crook of his nose to the lean curve of his grin, and it made him look like trouble carved into human shape. Handsome, yes, unfortunately so, but in the way of a dagger’s glint: beautiful until it cuts you. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

“Your Grace,” he greeted her, voice smooth as oil, ignoring the pointed click of Catelyn’s tongue beside her. That small breach of courtesy amused Cersei more than she expected—more, certainly, than anything else the boy had ever done. “I was hoping you’d indulge a poor Ironborn lad in a dance or two.” Bold, impossibly so, and laced with the kind of inappropriateness he had to know she would never forgive.

“Theon,” Catelyn snapped, her tone the taut crack of a whip.

“If not the Queen,” he pressed, pivoting without missing a beat, “then perhaps you, my lady.” The smirk he gave her was insolent enough to scorch.

Cersei had not yet shaped her refusal when Catelyn rose not to take his hand, but to take control. She slipped from the table, her hand light on Theon’s arm as she steered him toward the dim edges of the hall, away from the press of bodies and the warm spill of torchlight. Cersei’s eyes followed, as they always did when curiosity pricked at her.

In the shadowed recess, Catelyn’s voice was low but edged with steel. “You will control yourself—not merely around me, your lord’s lady, but around the Queen as well. You will not speak to her as you would to some common strumpet. She deserves your respect.” The words were quiet, but they landed with a weight that made Cersei’s pulse slow.

Theon’s posture collapsed inward. His gaze dropped to the flagstones, his voice a mumble. “My lady—”

“Look at me when I speak to you, boy.”

When he didn’t, the sound of her palm meeting his cheek cut through the low roar of the feast. It was not a brutal blow, but it was enough to leave a flush on his skin. He lifted his head then, eyes burning faintly, murmuring his apology once more.

Something in the sight struck Cersei, not merely the act, but the way Catelyn seemed so entirely in command, rooted and unyielding. It lodged under her skin, unfamiliar and unwelcome, and yet heat pooled low in her belly, treacherous in its warmth.

She let her gaze sweep the hall, measuring the angles of sight, the turn of heads, the reach of candlelight. When she was certain no curious eyes lingered on her, Cersei rose and drifted toward the shadowed alcove where Catelyn stood with her wayward ward. The din of the feast dulled behind her, replaced by the closer hum of breath and the faint scent of spiced wine.

She paused within arm’s reach, the brush of her skirts announcing her presence before her voice did. A soft clearing of her throat drew their attention, and she levelled them both with a look that was cool in shape but warmer at its edges.

“Your ward is unruly, Lady Stark,” she murmured, her words pitched low, her tone wrapped in velvet to conceal the faint, treacherous arousal curling through it. Her eyes slid to Catelyn, lingering there a heartbeat too long.

Catelyn met her gaze with one of her own, steady, darkened, carrying an answering spark. “He is. My husband, I fear, is far too indulgent with him.”

At that, Theon gave a small groan of protest, his weight shifting in the close air between them. The sound was almost laughably boyish, but there was nothing funny about the way both women turned their glares upon him in perfect, silent accord. Theon faltered, caught between them, and Cersei could feel the tension spool tighter, an invisible thread linking all three.

Then Catelyn’s attention returned to her, and for a long moment they simply looked, trading a kind of recognition that bypassed words entirely. It was a conversation Cersei had had before, though always with men, most often with Jaime: a silent exchange of territory, of want, of the terms on which power and pleasure might intertwine.

“I should scold him more thoroughly,” Catelyn said, her voice deceptively soft, like a hand that might stroke or strike.

“I could help you,” Cersei replied before she could temper the eagerness in her tone. The words left her warmer than she cared to admit, and she felt the faintest flush touch her cheeks.

Theon swallowed hard, glancing between them with the uneasy air of a man aware he had stumbled into something far larger than himself.

Catelyn’s mouth curved, the barest hint of a smile, gone almost before Cersei could decide whether she’d truly seen it. She slid her arm through Cersei’s with an ease that felt practised, deliberate. “Come,” she said, her voice low enough to belong to no one else’s ears. “We’ll deal with him.” Her hand urged Theon forward, her touch steering him as firmly as a bridle, out into the dim corridor beyond the hall.

The walk was not long, but the air between them seemed to stretch it. Cersei could feel the brush of Catelyn’s sleeve against hers, the shared heat of their steps in rhythm. Excitement, sharp and liquid, ran up her spine in quick, invisible flickers. They came at last to what could only be Theon’s chambers; the scent of leather and unwashed linen mingled in the air, and the chaos of strewn clothing spoke of a boy’s careless hand.

Cersei stepped inside, her gaze lingering on Catelyn for the briefest beat before she turned to draw the bolt across the door. The sound was a soft, final click that seemed to seal the world away. When she faced the room again, Catelyn was already closing the distance.

There was no prelude. Catelyn’s lips found hers with a surety that stole Cersei’s breath, soft, yes, but insistent, tasting faintly of the wine they had shared and carrying a warmth that bloomed with each passing heartbeat. Cersei’s arms wound around her without thought, drawing her closer, returning the kiss with a hunger she did not bother to mask. A sigh slipped from her, unbidden, melting into the press of Catelyn’s mouth.

On the periphery, Theon sat stiffly on the bed, his posture caught between defiance and uncertainty. His gaze was wide, almost boyish in its surprise, though his stillness didn’t last. Cersei’s eyes caught the shift of his hands, the restless movement as he palmed his half-hard cock, and something in the sight stoked the fire already crackling low in her belly. The room seemed to tighten around them, the air thickening until every breath felt drawn from the same shared heat.

They moved against each other with a kind of urgent grace, fingers finding the ties and laces of gowns with impatient precision. Fabric slipped and loosened under their hands, each tug drawing them closer to the heat of skin. Between each kiss, they breathed each other’s names like secrets, Catelyn’s mouth brushing over Cersei’s throat even as Cersei’s fingers threaded through the other woman’s rich auburn hair, holding her there.

It felt almost like desperation, yet not the kind born of fear, but of something deeper, unspoken. A release neither had sought, yet neither seemed willing to resist now that it had found them.

Catelyn broke away only far enough to glance over her shoulder at the boy who still lingered in the periphery. “Strip, Theon. Quickly.” Her voice was sharp enough to cut through the haze, a command spoken without hesitation. The sound of it sent a ripple through Cersei, and a thought, unbidden, slid into her mind: perhaps the dutiful Lady of Winterfell was far less innocent with her husband’s ward than she pretended. She wondered how many times Lady Stark had used him.

“Cat,” Cersei murmured, the single syllable soft but needy. It was enough to pull Catelyn’s attention back; she claimed Cersei’s mouth again in a kiss that deepened until the rest of the world might as well have vanished. The loosened fabric of Cersei’s gown slid down her arms under Catelyn’s deft hands, baring her to the warm press of lips that traced reverent, lingering paths along her throat, then lower still, lavishing her full breasts in attention.

Behind them, Theon obeyed in silence, though his fingers fumbled with each fastening. The scrape of cloth over skin sounded loud in the close room, and when he finally stood bared, it was without the usual swagger he carried like armour. In the absence of that cocky grin, Cersei found something unexpectedly appealing in the rawness of him.

She crooked a finger, summoning him near, and when he leaned close, she brushed a slow, teasing kiss just beneath his ear. His answering groan was quiet but rough-edged, his body fitting against the curve of her back. She felt his lips graze her shoulder as his hands found her hips, his grip both hesitant and hungry, as though unsure what liberties he was allowed but desperate to take them nonetheless. He was hard and rocked his hips against her still clothed arse.

Cersei’s hands found the fastenings of Catelyn’s gown at the same moment Theon’s did, their fingers brushing briefly over the smooth fabric. Between them, the layers fell away, and when the last barrier slid from her shoulders, Theon let out a low, involuntary sound, half wonder, half hunger.

What followed was a tangle of mouths and hands, no rhythm, no restraint. Kisses overlapped and blurred—soft, searching, then greedy—three mouths finding one another in quick, disordered turns. The air seemed thick with shared breath and the faint rustle of linen pooling on the floor. Cersei’s gown joined Catelyn’s in a silken heap beside the boy’s discarded clothes, until nothing remained between them but bare skin and heat.

They moved together toward the bed, stumbling in the closeness, still clinging, still seeking. Theon sank to his knees upon the mattress, and Catelyn swung herself astride one of his thighs. Her kiss to him was deep, knowing, almost possessive—far too practised for this to be any first encounter.

Cersei settled behind Theon, close enough for her breath to stir the hair at his nape. Her lips trailed along the line of his neck, pressing sharp nips between softer kisses, her hand wandering with deliberate slowness to where it drew from him a groan that spilt directly into Catelyn’s mouth.

But Catelyn’s reach was not so easily denied. One hand left Theon to find Cersei, seeking beneath the thin shift that still clung to her form. The fabric rose under Catelyn’s fingers, baring more to the air, to her touch. In the next heartbeat, she drew her own shift up as well, until there was little left for modesty to shield.

Theon’s breath came quick now, his hands restless, unable to choose where to linger as both women’s attention folded in on him. His touch roamed over silk-smooth skin, over the curve of a hip, the line of a spine, over every inch within reach claimed in turn, as though to mark himself in the shared heat of the moment.

“On your back,” Catelyn murmured—no louder than before, yet her voice carried that same undeniable weight, the kind that made Cersei’s pulse thrum in her ears. The boy obeyed at once, stretching out along the tangled bedclothes, cock rigid and standing to attention, his eyes fixed upward with a mixture of hunger and devotion that was almost worship. Lady Stark remained astride his thigh, poised like a queen over a supplicant.

“Do you want your Queen to ride your face, Theon?” she asked, the words smooth but edged, a deliberate provocation.

Heat flared sharp and sudden in Cersei’s cheeks at the shamelessness of it, her breath catching as though she’d been struck. Theon’s answer was a needy sound, raw in its pitch, his head nodding as though the question had been a prayer he’d longed to hear. For all his usual bravado, he’d kept himself restrained until now, content to watch and to yield, his restraint almost as intoxicating as his eagerness.

Catelyn’s gaze slid to Cersei then, steady and knowing. She gave a single nod, the barest flicker of command in her eyes. “Sit,” she said softly, though the word landed with the weight of iron.

Cersei’s legs felt unsteady as she moved, every step a slow surrender. She came to rest above him, her knees bracketing his head, though she lingered just above, savouring the taut anticipation.

Theon’s patience broke first. His hands, firm, almost desperate, seized her hips and drew her down without ceremony, pressing her cunt full against his lips. The shock of it tore a sound from her, half gasp, half moan, the sudden rush of sensation unravelling her composure. His mouth worked with fervour, as if he meant to consume her entirely, and each insistent movement sent another pulse of molten pleasure through her, leaving her clinging to the moment as though it might never come again.

Catelyn eased herself down over Theon’s hips with the calm assurance of a woman who knew precisely what she wanted. The moment she found her seat, his body reacted instinctively, hips surging upward in a wordless plea, the urgency in him almost boyish against her composure. Still, he did not falter in his worship of Cersei, his mouth working with a fervour that sent shivers spiralling through her.

A smirk touched Catelyn’s lips at his lack of restraint, and she rolled her hips in slow, deliberate arcs, testing him, making him chase her. Her free hand reached for Cersei, drawing her close until the space between them was nothing, their breath mingling. When their mouths met, the kiss was deep, tasting of wine and heat, of shared hunger and unspoken daring. As they kissed, Catelyn’s body shifted, the subtle movement allowing Theon’s cock to finally enter her, the three of them locked in a rhythm that felt almost ceremonial in its intimacy.

It struck Cersei then, how unbearably close they had become, how all three seemed to move as one organism, breath and motion feeding into each other. She melted into Catelyn’s kiss, her own soft moans spilling into the other woman’s mouth to be swallowed and returned. Her hands roamed without thought, drawn to the warmth between them, her fingertips finding the silk of auburn curls. She lingered there, parting them with slow precision until she found Catelyn’s clit, circling it with a touch both reverent and knowing.

In that suspended moment, Theon felt less like a participant and more like a conduit through which the two women wove their connection. His desires receded beneath the tide of their focus on one another, his breaths hitching and slipping into gasps as he moved, the rhythm of his mouth and hips a desperate offering to the pleasure he sought to give. His lips found Cersei’s clit with a tender, almost worshipful hunger, suckling in a way that drew sharp, shuddering breaths from her, while his hips snapped upward to reach deeper into Catelyn, eager for approval that remained unspoken but always felt in the charged air between them.

Cersei and Catelyn were lost in the gravity of each other, an orbit of need and reverence. Cersei’s hands moved with quiet confidence, skilled and intimate as they traced along the warm, soft skin between Catelyn’s thighs. Catelyn’s mouth claimed Cersei’s with a hunger that burned slow and fierce, lips pressing, teeth grazing, a tenderness beneath it all that made the moment ache with meaning. Her hands cupped and kneaded Cersei’s breasts as if they were precious, sacred—each movement a silent vow, a declaration.

Cersei felt a fire ignite deep within her, a want so sharp and overwhelming she was certain she had never desired anyone as fiercely as she did Catelyn in that instant. The world had narrowed to the curve of lips on skin, the brush of fingertips, the shared breath that came faster and hotter between them. Then, with a deliberate, reverent motion, Catelyn leaned down and caught one of Cersei’s nipples between her lips, slow, gentle, and maddeningly intimate, drawing a soft, involuntary gasp from her that echoed through the quiet space they had created.

It wasn’t long before a shuddering wave of release swept through Cersei, stealing her breath and setting every nerve aflame. The warmth of her climax spilt freely, soaking Theon’s chin as she trembled, caught in the delicious aftermath of pleasure. Catelyn’s voice was a low murmur against her heated skin, words of praise that wrapped around Cersei like silk, steadying her as her body shook beneath the intensity.

But desire, once awakened, was a hunger that refused to be sated. Without hesitation, a fierce need took hold of Cersei, pushing her to shift and move with a newfound urgency. She tipped Catelyn gently onto her back, the softness of her skin inviting her forward. With careful reverence, she guided her face between Catelyn’s thighs, beginning a slow, deliberate feast on the other woman’s cunt, each touch and taste a whispered promise, a claim.

Theon’s disappointed whine was a sharp contrast to the quiet intimacy shared between the two women, and though he was forced from his place, he wasted no time. With a quick, rough motion, he then claimed Cersei from behind, his movements urgent and demanding, grounding her in the present as he took her fiercely.

Catelyn’s fingers tangled in Cersei’s golden hair, pulling her closer with a breathless moan, the heat between them spiralling higher. She was poised on the edge of something exquisite and overwhelming, her every sense sharpened by the desperate, pathetic sounds Theon made as he moved, his worship of his Queen and lady both pushing him to his peak.

When Catelyn reached her orgasm, a shiver ran through her, and Cersei met it without hesitation, her tongue tracing the tender aftermath with reverent eagerness, savouring every heated drop as if it were a secret whispered only between them. The taste lingered, sweet and intimate, binding them closer in that fragile moment suspended between breath and silence.

After a few more urgent, shuddering movements, Theon pulled away from Cersei, his breath ragged as he spilt himself across the smooth curve of her back, warm and raw, marking her with the evidence of their shared fervour.

Together, the three of them collapsed into the tangled sheets, bodies entwined and slick with the soft sheen of sweat, the air thick with the scent of desire and quiet satisfaction. There was an unspoken promise hanging in the room, fragile yet undeniable, that what had passed between them tonight would remain a secret, locked away behind these walls, untouched by the demands of daylight.

Come morning, they would return to their roles, the cold civility of court and duty pressing back in. But for this night—this rare, tender fragment of time—they had given themselves over to something delicate and fiercely alive, a connection more profound and unexpected than any had dared imagine.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎