It's a flash of expression that she'll no doubt think about later, in the privacy of her own chambers. There's no single word for it, but whatever it is, it does something to her, another twist of feeling in her stomach, a dryness of her throat that has her pick up the tankard in front of her for a drink.

(It's hot, of course, something to fight off the bitter Coerthan cold, which means it does her absolutely no good in a moment where every part of her feels alight with warmth.)

She puts the mug down as she laughs at his next comment, her own gaze shifting over to where her lalafellin friend is sheltering behind the torso of a much taller soldier, shaking her head in amusement. The topic change is welcome, much more helpful to her than a warm drink. "Tataru Taru is afraid of no one, my lord. She simply wants you to believe that she is."