The Widow
Theon Greyjoy x Catelyn Stark Smut One Shot
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18+, 4.8k words, Theoncat smut, piv, oral f!receiving, cheating?, older woman younger man, she beats him, ward abuse, past voyeurism
Archive of Our Own - The Widow
Masterlist
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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.
She sat there in silence, her sobs breaking the stillness, her heart torn between grief for the man she had lost and shame for the boy she had taken in his absence. Naked and trembling, she wept for Ned, for the life that had been stolen from her, for the wife she no longer felt herself to be, and for the terrible, hollow ache that no amount of firelight could warm.
