Her eyes narrowed as she watched them. How a king like Theoden could have produced such boneheaded softbrained kinsfolk was beyond her many years of experience. Her eyes darted to the kitchen table, her kitchen table. Hand carved and sturdily built by herself, it was one of the few luxuries in the Westfold, where people were few and far between (with the notable exception of Edoras).
She flinched.
A loud thud echoed through the room as a heavy tankard landed on the wood with unexpected force. It was the physical manifestation of the glaring contest between Theoden's son and nephew. This would be their fifth spat in her house, a day's ride from Edoras and a popular stop for travelers. And she was sure her house would fall apart after another spat between the two big and brawny horselords.
And then they would surely have to die.
By her hand if possible.
And as much as she wished for their instant and immediate disembowelments for making her life miserable, they were still young and could probably deserved one warning.
She stumbled through the room, mocked by several young warriors, but ignored by the ones who should have been watching.
She clutched at a wooden spoon in her left hand as she walked up behind Eomer, Eomund's son. She used her right hand to smack the back of Eomer's head, and wacked Theoden with a ringing crack with the spoon. Because a royal prince deserves a royal pain for being a royal ass.
And she left.
But not before being tackled by some angry royal riders.
At least her kitchen was in one piece.