you lead with dragon, he says in an unimpressed tone, as though caraxes were the greatest offence between the two of us, and rhea—
perhaps the evening has wind them to be in an odder state than expected, because she smiles. her lips remained closed together, certainly, but there is a slight swell to her cheeks as the corners of her mouth curled upwards. it's a smile so unbidden, so unexpected, that the appearance of it gets away before she could fully restrain it. and yet, as it does paint her expression so, she wonders, quietly, whether she would even try had she had the chance. perhaps not. there are so few memories, after all, when circumstances are good enough between her lord husband and her that it has them arriving here, existing in this space where even a smile could be warranted.
a few memories, she says, when she knows it might be close to zero. and so, rhea smiles, and she lets the air of the vale, and the presence of her husband, to witness it, before she does speak :
❛ i've gotten used to broiefort's smell. now ... the acrid, pungent smell of a dragon combined with whatever livestock you've last fed them, however ... ❜ rhea trails off, never intending to finish it, and she surprises herself from how playful she nearly comes across. as playful as one could be, she supposes, for someone who is as hardened and dull once she's ascended her father's seat, and had had to attend to whatever lordly details in need of her since she was six-and-ten. time, once again, has its laugh. it had shaken the vitriol from both their backs and left them with— with this. a tentative approach to peace, one that might not last, but a glimmer of it nevertheless.
her lord husband approaches, and even now, as a man, he stalks across the distance like he is more predator than flesh. rhea simply lifts her chin up, for she is hunter herself, and lets him meet her at the distance he finds comfortable. which is quite close, but even the proximity does not shake her. instead, she is almost glad to have been given the privilege so that her lord husband may witness her eyes rolling from his allowance that she may bring in her work, as though she was requesting his permission in a keep she is the lord of. but very well. if it will keep.
( the smile, despite her effort, does not fully diminish. )
and then, just like that, she does lead the way.
she is not certain how far and deep daemon has uncovered the stronghold when he was much younger and bored during their first year residing here together, though she has a suspicion that he might recognise the ways, regardless. still, rhea leads. passing the bustling of her staff and servants who bows, greet them, and even passes her short messages. until, of course, they've crossed a courtyard that leads to the building closer to where the godswood stretches. just on the right, rhea climbs down the steps to where her ancestor has built the pool for the hot spring. the room of it is not so large, but rhea has heard stories it had once housed ten adult men quite comfortably. doing what, rhea did not ask, but she steps first to the designated area where they may hang their cloaks and things.
a few servants, in the meantime, are scattering to light the fire around the pool. it will be dark soon, after all.
❛ there are baskets here, to put in your things— ❜ she points, just as she reaches for one herself, and begins detangling her bronze and leather armour. there is no trace of seduction to be had in her movements as she unbuckles and unbuttons, for it had not even crossed her mind that this would be anything but a moment of reprieve, shared with someone who is admittedly not one she ever expects to share this moment with. but given her day, rhea barely even registers that. that, being her lord husband, who is the only man in the seven kingdoms she was taught to have a right at this, at her body, at her intimacy.
though the notion now is laughable. perhaps that is why rhea gives it barely a thought when she does tugs off her tunic, leaving her top bare, for she knows, with all her heart, daemon targaryen would not touch her.
ironic, the man who hurts her the most is perhaps the safest when she is naked like this.
tugging off her pants, rhea hisses, before she turns over her shoulder. she could not see the extent, but she could feel it: ❛ it's bruised, isn't it ? ❜ her back. she had been thrown off against a tree, and tumbled down the ground when the bandit had overpowered her. of course, before she'd taken a knife and landed her blow.
