Theon awoke from his sleep with a fart. As he lay there prone, eyes still shut, he took in the vapors. They were distinct from the melange of other smells hanging in the air of his fetid room. Too many damned pease and neeps, he thought grumpily. If I'm brought neeps or pease again tonight, that new serving wench is going to be wearing it for a hat. He yawned and lazily pushed back a clump of greasy black hair from his eyes.
It was time to get up and moving. He didn't want to miss the better hours of the hunt, and though the day was fair he could see storm clouds off in the distance through the bedchambers narrow slit of a window. He padded over to it on legs gray with dirt up nearly to his knees and feet so blackened they looked like they'd been in the chimney ashes. He let loose his stream and then cursorily looked down from the clouds to see it splashing off the side of a vegetable cart that was parked below next to the kitchen doors.
His small chamber was located just above it, tucked at the back of the castle away from the others. He had been sharing a bed with Robb and the bastard up until a year ago but the younger boys, then still mere pups, had complained to their lord father of Theon's incessant self-pleasuring. Whenever he could, he had made sure to squirt off on the bastard. Or if not him, then on his side of the bed. Theon smiled to himself, pleased to remember the times when Jon had awoken with his milk-crust stuck to him, outraged and trying furiously to get it off his nightshift, skin or hair while he had laughed at him or held him off at arms length as he swung at him. Stupid little whoreson.
Theon shook off and walked over to the mud and dung splattered cloak he had left on the floor the night before, taking note that his member had not yet deflated. It bobbed before him as he walked, like a ramrod plowing through choppy waters. He draped himself with the cape to ward off the chill morning breeze and took matters into his hands, roughly stroking himself. Still half awake, he yawned again as he tried to come up with a mental image to facilitate the task. That new serving wench. Theon had not gotten a good look at her as she made her debut at the dining table last night. At the time, he had been more preoccupied with Lady Catelyn's sour demeanor towards him.
No doubt she thought she had reason, in her female thinking, always irrational and grasping for control over men. Just as Theon's brothers had schooled him about the weaker sex when he had lived back home as a boy. They were the kind of life lessons that were usually driven home with some cruel jape that left him feeling ashamed and humiliated, although he couldn't say why at the time.
Last night, he had come late to the table wearing only a thin dirty tunic under his leather jerkin and well- worn tights of a thin wool fabric. They had once been blue weeks ago, but nine weeks of wear had turned them a dark mushroom color, mostly. He paused to pull them out of the crack of his ass before he swung his legs over the bench to take his seat. The fabric of the tunic had pulled up slightly in the front and he saw Catelyn's eyes were affixed to the obscene shape that his prodigious member, standing as stiff and upright as possible, made under the insubstantial fabric. As he seated himself and started in on his meal, she attended to her soup again. Until her brat piped up to ask Theon if he had smuggled any sweets from the kitchen bakery and did he have them hidden in his clothes? Theon snorted a laugh into his soup as Lady Catelyn raised her voice shrilly at Arya and told her to be silent and mind her pease. When Theon looked up again, Lady Catelyn was giving him a sharp look; her lips pressed into a thin line of rage. He knew the look well. He delighted in producing it. If she has the nerve to come to me and complain later, I will stare at her and touch myself until she leaves. He had done this to her before, minus the touching, when she had cornered him in his room with some other whiny complaint, and for the first time with him she had been unnerved enough to falter in her speech and leave abruptly. She knows I am a man grown now and no little boy that she can scold and spank at will, as before.
Still, the woman had a sharp and ready tongue, and he was a favored target for her ire. He always had been, since the day he arrived at Winterfell. He had made sure that when he left the dinner table last night that he had exaggeratedly stretched up higher than usual upon rising, lifting the hem of his tunic enough so that the tip of his erect member, swollen and rosy, had slipped from his loose waistband and became exposed. He watched her, smirking as she noticed and looked up to glare at him with open hostility. And was there something else in that look? He had thought he saw a trace of desire in her countenance. No; I am sure of it. Theon was getting close to shooting his seed as he remembered this scene from last night, the idea of the new serving wench abandoned.
He further imagined grabbing Lady Catelyn painfully by the hair and wrenching her over the table, pushing her into the soup and neeps, throwing up her skirts and plowing her hard up her cunt, her face and dress getting soaked in the food as her family and servants looked on in shock and she begged for him to stop. His climax suddenly overtook him and he shot his hot seed into the rushes in jerks, like he had a thousand times before in the year past. And I wouldn't stop until she was a crying heap on the floor, he thought , his breath coming hard as he wiped his cock on his cloak and kicked some of the stale smelly rushes over his milky issue. Ned's problem is that he was too lenient with his harridan of a wife. If she were my wife, Theon mused, I would give her a beating and comeuppance the like of which she would remember for the rest of the marriage. I would make sure that she wouldn't walk right for at least a week, he chortled to himself.
Ned's ideas on familial matters were stupid and ill-thought. He had seen Lady Catelyn talk to Ned in a manner that made a woman out of him and he do nothing but take it in silence. Theon felt something close to shame for Ned at those times. What good is having a wife you cannot control? He was always told it was less dangerous to handle a feral dog than a disobedient wife. Women needed to know their place and the irrational creatures sometimes only respond to a punishing hand. Much like a dog.
As he dressed, he thought again about Lady Catelyn and resolved that if she came to him with a complaint, he would stand up over her to make her look up at him as she spoke her words. And that he would not act as Ned , then. No, he would shove her out of the way, maybe out the door, and watch her ripe teats bounce hard under her gown as she stumbled away from him. Let Maester Luwin come to scold him, as if he were a child. If she told Ned she would have to admit she was in the wrong, for coming up to his bedchamber in an isolated part of the castle while her lord husband was away, and Theon a man grown. No, she wouldn't tell; her pride would be too bruised if she did.
Theon grabbed his gloves and took the back stairs down to the kitchen. Stupid Jeyne Poole was sitting on the bench before the hearth and he bade her pull on his boots. Spindly and dumb, she proved exceedingly clumsy at the task so he cuffed her hard on the ear, making her cry out and sending her sprawling off the bench. As he finished pulling them on himself, he told her grimly that if she didn't cease her mewling he would really give her something over which to cry.
As he hurriedly exited the kitchen, he passed the new serving wench. He appraised her in a fleeting glance: slightly lame in one leg, cross-eyed and flat as a board. But other than a cluster of angry red boils at her neck, her skin looked mostly clear and at least there were no signs of greyscale or any other contagion present. Theon pressed his gloved finger to the side of his nose and shot out a string of ropy green snot in the path the wench had just passed. He decided he would go find her after dinner tonight and drag her up to his bedchamber, by her ear if necessary. He hadn't had a woman in going on a fortnight now and the black humors had filled his body, accounting for his dark moods and the frequency of stiffness in his member.
I will fuck that wench hard enough to straighten out her eyes. Maybe I'll even pretend she is Lady Catelyn that I am fucking. Depending on whether or not I come back with game or have to make do with pease and neeps again for dinner, that wench may be leaving my bed limping on both legs by the time I'm done with her.