Work Text:
The old farm was Rhaenys’s inheritance and her burden. Her neighbor, a man of hard hands and few words, had made his opinion of her clear with every condescending glance and a quiet, sneering laugh. Daemon saw her as a soft city girl playing farm, a pathetic sight in his eyes. He fully expected her to give up soon.
Then the storm hit.
The wind tore at the barn roof, the metal groaning with a sound like a scream, and the rain turned the fields into thick, unforgiving mud. He found her in the barn, her hair plastered to her face, a frantic but determined look in her eyes as she worked to secure the stalls. She didn't cry or complain; her exhaustion was a silent protest. She just worked, her hands raw and bleeding from the ropes, her movements a desperate, quiet defiance against the wind's fury. He watched her, and the contempt he had for her vanished, replaced by a surprising swell of admiration. He walked over to her side without a word and took a rope. They worked together, two silent figures against the howling wind, their hands and hearts bruised but determined to win this fight.