"She knew she was playing with fire, but gods, how badly she wanted to be burned."
~
Rheya~ the blacksmith with a will of steel and a kiss of silver.
He had never wanted anyone so badly.
~
Aemond Targaryen x OC
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The next morning, Rheya steeled herself for another miserable day. Her body ached all over, but she still tugged on her smithing leathers, heading out into the courtyard at sunrise. The steady clang of a beating hammer already echoed through the yard, causing Rheya to approach the blacksmith with great reluctance. Clearly they would be busy today.
The smith barely looked up from his work as she neared, heavy strikes pummelling the blade before him into shape. Rheya levelled her gaze at him, her hands behind her back as she cleared her throat.
He didn't stop his hammering, but he did grunt to acknowledge her. Taking that as a dismissal, Rheya began to make her way over to the stocks bench when finally he turned to her.
"Not today, girl. We have orders to fulfil." He girt out, nodding his head toward a stack of parchment. "You work on the arrowheads, leave the swords to me."
Rheya's brows shot up in surprise. Sure, making arrowheads was a meagre task, but it was still the task of a smith. She smiled to herself, making her way over to the papers and choosing one that interested her. Someone had requested serrated arrowheads to be forged- an odd request but an understandable one. And so Rheya got to work.
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Hours later, her hands were cramping up from the meticulous sharpening she was forced to do to perfect her project. Each head had to be light enough to glide easily, yet dense enough to pierce flesh, and long enough for her to add the serrations. It had taken her a little while to figure out, but once she had, she had forged two dozen of them: which she now sat and individually filed.
Her work bench faced the yard, the smithy at her back, so she did not notice the blacksmith approach until his calloused hand scooped up one of her arrowheads. She looked up at him from where she was sat on her stool, watching as he span it this way and that between his fingers. Finally, he grunted.
"The bastard was right, you are good." He scoffed, but raised an approving eyebrow. Rheya couldn't help but grin.
"Who exactly?" She quizzed and the smith only tossed the head back onto the table, cleaning his hands on a rag attached to his apron.
