“Not terribly difficult,” is his immediate soothing, like saying things sweetly will undo the ties of her corset all the sooner. He has certainly untied tighter knots, but few so personal and fewer still so sweet, like coaxing honey from the comb.

And hardly any so rewarding, because here she is, his triumph laid out in the courtyard—the spoils of the Game, the promise of more to come. Finally, the tide turning here, if nowhere else.

His expression shifts. The hunger abates for a moment. He dips his head to kiss her cheek; his hold loosens as he rolls off her and backs up off the bed. Thranduil does not strip quickly, nor without care, but if there is an art to it, it comes from natural grace and not any intent to arouse. The outfit ends mostly over the back of a chair (doubtless, to be tended to eventually by some valet not-Guilfoyle), and then he is nude, proud, and back on the bed, inching to where she was, seeking the warm spot left on the mattress in her wake.