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It's Larys who made her notice first.
They were having their weekly dinner when one of his noncommittal hums to her rant had a sulky undertone. Is he annoyed now? She thought amused , now when I'm talking about the council meeting and not those other times I complained? She would be feeling hurt if she didn't find funny how Larys cut his meat pie in exact cubes with a focus that had nothing to do with the meal.
"Am I boring you, my lord," she asked, just in case. The little smile on her made the man in front of her frown.
"Not at all, my Queen," He answered, still frowning. After a bit of deliberation, he continued, "You've grown to admire the Master of Ships' interventions during council."
His words took her aback. What did Tyland Lannister have to do with this? She stayed quiet, pondering Larys' words. Did she? She could admit he was one of the voices she most liked to hear during the Small Council sessions, one of the few, alongside Maester Orwyle, who spoke sense in a place that was so attached to the Princess' mad ideas. The Hand, Larys' own father, was knowledgable of the Kingdom's law and an able chief advisor to Viserys, but she didn't trust his judgment when it came to more ... domestic matters.
Ser Tyland, though, when he spoke, Alicent couldn't help but listen to him. He always spoke sound advice to his king, and sometimes things she would've said if she had a chance against Rhaenyra's aimless stubbornness. She still couldn't understand what bothered the Lord Confessor, so she told him after taking a bite of her now cold pie.
"It's not my place to say..." he demurred , playing the routine she knew very well.
"Come on, Larys," she says as she smiles playful, "are you perhaps afraid I might change you for Ser Tyland? Do not worry , I don't think he has the same taste for sweet red wines as we do."
For a moment, his visage changed to something she couldn't quite name, and felt afraid she had pushed him too far. They might speak lightly from time to time , but Larys Strong did not take to teasing with ease.
"It's not that," he said, boldly and reassuring. "I would not stand in the way if you decide to have Tyland Lannister to dinner."
"Then what is it?"
He shook his head.
"I will only advise you not to show you favor him, for he will take every advantage and make you regret it."
After he left her chambers, his words were still ringing in her ears. Favor him? Alicent did not favor anybody in the council. If Viserys was adamant about showing his support for Rhaenyra and her misdeeds at every turn, then it was her job to be impartial and find the balance between order and chaos. She thought Ser Tyland and her were two ships trying not to capsize in the storm , was it her fault there was finally someone sane in the council?
If only her father were there.
In any case, that she found Ser Tyland a kindred spirit was nobody's business but hers. Nor that she found him handsome too, well-spoken, and funny on occasions.
The next few days, while her chat with Larys had faded in her mind, the feeling of having found something in herself that she did not know its shape yet, drove her to insanity. Like learning a complex word for the first time, she started seeing Ser Tyland everywhere.
He was there when she decided to have lunch with Viserys in his rooms asking for the king's advice on something or other. He was there when Helaena and she took a turn about the gardens, seeking an auspicious spot for their picnic; Ser Tyland stood just to the side chatting with a woman and making grand gestures. He was there at court during petitions, tapping his foot at Viserys' left while she stood at the right of the throne , silently taking note of the petitioners and what could be brought to council. It disturbed her, had he always been that present in her life? He had been Master of Ships for more than a decade, that was true, but to her, it seemed like an awful prank.
The day before she hadn't seen him, thankfully, yet she heard him tell a servant to prepare him a bath right there in the halls.
She wouldn't have heard him if it weren't for one of her ladies accidentally stepping on her train and making her tumble into Ser Criston's arm. She was grateful to him of course , but after hearing the Lannister man ask for a bath just ahead of them, she couldn't stop thinking about it. Why would he ask about something so intimate out in the open? Was this how Lannisters did it on Casterly Rock? She never would've dared ask any of her ladies just like that. Was he such a busy man he could not wait until he was in his rooms? Unless he was too busy and Alicent was judging him by merely being efficient.
She debated silently with herself all the way until her group reached the Royal Apartments, where she kept worrying about having judged too harshly the only man who worked as hard as her father on her husband's council. And if she was being honest with herself, maybe it was not so improper when it was she who had eavesdropped in the first place; Tyland Lannister believed himself alone and acted as he were.
She felt like when she was still Rhaenyra's companion and worried about choosing the best gown and jewelry combination for the princess. Would she like this? Would Rhaenyra like Alicent's choice? Would it be too much? Too plain? Too gaudy ? Jewelry was ever a vexing theme for her, Rhaenyra always had too many, and Alicent had too few. Childish worries that as an adult seemed to her like a waste of time, even when she had never learned to climb out of the spiral she always dug herself in.
When she next saw Ser Tyland in council (thank the Gods), she managed to forget entirely about the hallway incident until in one particularly heavy debate between Lord Strong and Maester Orwyle, Ser Tyland called for the cupbearer and carefully leaned into the boy's ear to dispatch some instruction.
Shamefully, her first thought was that he was asking for a bath in the middle of the day again . While the lords debated the merits of allowing some assistance in the city, Alicent was suddenly overcome . Her high-necked gown was stuck uncomfortably to her and her curls were too heavy in her hairnet , it had never bothered her until that moment when she imagined Ser Tyland standing up and removing his fur-lined box coat without a care in the world and—
She cleared her throat.
"Is there something you would like to add, Your Grace?"
She met Lord Lyonel's gaze before flitting quickly to Tyland's who was, like everyone else, expecting her to speak.
"N—No. No. Carry on, I'm most interested in the conclusion of this debate."
In front of her, Rhaenyra let out a snort in mockery.
How humiliating.
"My Lords, Your Graces, if I may," And if she had called him with her thoughts, Ser Tyland raised his voice to drown out the others. And what a pleasing voice it was, she thought, buttery smooth and cultured, imposing when it was pleading for the rest to hear him. "Her Grace is tired and we must remember the King is not with us today , let us adjourn until the next session."
At once, she stood up and for a moment they were the only people in the room. A second later, taking their cue from her, the rest of the council started leaving the chamber in tandem.
During the light lunch in the garden, her mind kept coming back to the fur of Ser Tyland's box coat. None of the other members of the Small Council wore coats as heavy as he, nor as adorned as the little brocade lions running rampant in the fabric. It was ostentatious and vain and even a little foolish to wear it just to debate endlessly about port taxes, but that he took such care of his appearance endeared him to her to a level she was not prepared to.
She wondered what animal had provided the fur. A lion? Alicent had not seen one in real life but she could imagine the powerful beast's sandy mane as it ran rampant through the Westerlands ... Ser Tyland dressed in chainmail and red and gold tabard, slaying the animal with a masterful stroke of his great sword. He was a knight , it was not so out of the realm of possibility for him to have slayed a lion in his youth , she tried to justify herself as her fantasies took a more sentimental turn when Ser Tyland bitterly wept over the fallen predator, the sigil of his house laid low.
The lion's skin would be like velvet , she decided , warm and pliant but hard where it covered its muscles. She would be hesitant first , to touch it, but for her, it would lay its head dutifully on her lap and let her pet him and touch his silky mane until she tired. Her mouth dried at the thought of the lion letting her lay with him, feeling his warmth through her clothes and falling asleep with his purrs in her ear.
When her last conscious thought of the day was about Ser Tyland for the next several weeks, she started to fret. She threw herself into caring for Viserys, to attend him at all hours of the day, leaving her duties in the city to her ladies, and only coming out of the Red Keep when the High Septon called for her. Viserys' sudden bout of illness took her mind off lustful thoughts for the most part and caring for her children, the other; but in council, it was impossible to think of anything else.
Not even Ser Tyland's silly obsession with the Thriarchy could dampen her own fixation on him. And worst, Larys had been right: she had given him an inch and he had taken a mile without knowing how much space he occupied in her mind. She felt like a girl again: insecure, fretful, and wistful for the wrong reasons.
In council, when she had to sit in the King's chair, she had him right in front of him. No escape to her gaze, no respite to her mind. She was the first to look at him when he spoke and the last to contribute to the debate; it bothered her badly when it was Rhaenyra who took advantage of her silence to push forcefully her point of view on the rest of the lords. Ser Tyland, as usual, always gave her a tiny smile that meant nothing to her in between spells of nonsequiturs about Dorne or the Free Cities.
It was very endearing, she had to admit even if only to herself, to see his mind working ahead of the rest, having a very clear objective and interests, and being so vocal about them without shame.
"Her Grace has been distracted lately," Larys commented the moment they sat down to eat dinner later in the day.
"I haven't," She lied.
Larys didn't deign to answer her obvious lie , instead , he let her stew in her own thoughts. She was so painfully aware of how clearly Larys could see her that she was keeping a tighter lid on her reactions in front of the Lord Confessor.
The sound of the cutlery on the plates bothered her immensely and only after a copious amount of wine, she could relax enough to enjoy the meal at last.
"Has Ser Tyland done something?"
The loud clack! of her knife hitting the floor made her jump. Done something? What was Larys talking about? Had he been spying on her? But no, she hadn't done anything, unless he had a way to read her mind and innermost desires. A hand traversing her stomach—
"What do you mean, Larys?"
Without looking at him, she leaned down to pick up the knife and cleaned it as casually as she could . His gaze bore into her in a way that had her shivering , was something bothering him? The moment she made eye contact, Larys started eating again with renewed vigor, as if he hadn't said anything in the first place.
A few more agonizing moments passed before he started speaking. "You have not talked lately about him," A pause again, "I thought he had displeased you."
No, Ser Tyland had not displeased her . Or pleased her. Or anything at all regarding her pleasure.
The fact that Larys had noticed when she didn't talk about the man was troubling in itself , especially when she was doing everything to keep her turmoil to herself. Had she really been that obvious? That, more than imagining how Ser Tyland's hand would feel on her naked skin, made her flush to the roots of her hair. Larys would surely ask her now.
She couldn't wait for him to uncover her. "Our talk last time opened my eyes to the true nature of— Ser Tyland," Not a lie, she continued. This was going well. "And I've decided to be more aware of my interactions with him, as you recommended. My father might have advocated for his appointment to the Small Council, but I don't know if he is on our side."
Not a lie either, technically. She was more aware now of him , of her body, of their interactions limited as they were. It was unbearable. As for the other, well, Lannisters were always self-serving , their goals came first, she supposed, though Ser Tyland's had been aligned a long time ago with theirs. He never opposed her, that was true, and seemed less keen on Rhaenyra's ideas, but one could never know a man's heart completely .
Or so she reasoned.
Before she could get lost in deciphering what could be in Ser Tyland's heart, Larys finally replied with his typical unreadable expression. He could not agree more with Her Grace's cautious approach to an ambitious man like Lannister , he said, if she wanted to take his advice, she should look to her knight too, Ser Criston, who Larys suspected had less than godly matters in his heart.
This , she dismissed as usual. It was not strange for Larys to make his dislike of Ser Criston clear. Yet Ser Tyland ...
Dinner passed without another incident. The matter was seemingly forgotten in between the juicy morsels of gossip Larys shared with her. Even still, she kept on her guard, eyeing the Lord Confessor throughout the meal. It would not do to slip again and make Larys suspect her of— of indecent conduct with a member of the court!
Though, if a scandal broke out it would do him good to get caught in it seeing as he was the one who started it.
No. That would not happen because nothing was happening. And it would not happen.
The Royal Sept did not help her clear her thoughts when she went late at night before falling asleep. While Septon Eustace lit the Crone's lantern, he did not stay with her during her prayers , his helpers, holy brothers of no particular rank usually left her alone and closed the sept's doors when she finished. It gave her peace, but most importantly, it gave her a respite from having to pretend that she was not being tormented by impure thoughts during the day.
Before, she noticed Ser Tyland everywhere and was puzzled about his presence, but now she shamefully hid herself from him, avoiding any contact whatsoever in fear that she would reveal herself and spill her secrets like the garden fountain spouting water endlessly. She imagined his horrified face and her ladies looking at her with disgust. She could not meet with him at all.
She prayed to the Crone to give her wisdom, to light her path out of this dark, heavy cloud around her, touching her and going deep in places she dared not name. She prayed at that altar because the Crone had seen much more than the Maid with her flowery innocence or the Mother whose only worries were her children. The Warrior and the Smith were not her gods and to ask for justice from the Father, left a bad taste in her mouth for she did not think she had been wronged . As always, it was her own foolish desires and wants, her old friends.
The Crone was closer to the Stranger, closer to a blissful ending where none of what had happened to Alicent mattered. So she prayed for clarity , she prayed for an ending.
And as she prayed she imagined steps going up to the same altar as she , someone kneeling on the same pillow where she rested. With her eyes closed, she felt the warmth of his body reaching to hers, not touching, never touching but feeling nonetheless.
Her heart was hammering inside her ribcage. The prayer to the Crone was still spilling from her mouth without her having any say in it ; she felt his presence so acutely she feared opening her eyes and finding herself alone. So she kept like that, very still and very quiet. What would he be wearing? Another fur-lined coat, no, no coat, it was late , he would only be wearing a silk shirt, puffy sleeves tight at the wrists like the one she had seen on him during Helaena's last name day. Yes, just like that. Burnished hair unbrushed, barely touching his neck, that if she were to put her mouth very close and breathe in and out deeply, it would not produce any perturbation to him.
Alicent didn't know if he prayed to the Crone as well, but she liked to think he would not mind doing so with her. He would clasp his hands gently, for this was not a show of strength, but of piety , and she would follow with her eyes from the hanging, translucent sleeves (where the shadow of his solid arm would not move her ), to his wristbone and from there to count each of his graceful fingers again and again until she could name quickly and painless each of the light freckles dotting them.
She swallowed, closing her mouth quickly, for it had been panting without her permission, the prayer forgotten amidst everything.
She stood up. She was alone and the light of the lantern had been blown out .
Sleep eluded her, for she kept punishing herself by forcing her mind to think of something else, something inoffensive and dull that would lull her to oblivion. Instead, she was more active than ever, both in her head and in her body. Her modest nightgown was too heavy on her, the ruffles too itchy, and the fabric stuck uncomfortably to her damp skin.
The next night was the same, and the next and the next one. The Small Council sessions were torture for her and most of the time left her in tears wishing her father was there instead to take care of everything while she tried to sort herself out.
Ser Criston, loyal to the last, never said anything but was constantly giving her looks filled with pity, which annoyed her so much she decided to assign him to Aemond instead who had taken up to sneaking into the Dragonpit without permission. Sometimes she could read him too well and she didn't like what she found there. What a pity the Queen cannot shoulder the King's duties while he sickens and sickens. Ser Criston had never believed in her strength only in her vulnerability.
She could, she could do it. Reluctant as she was to admit that Lord Strong was any help, biased as he was towards Rhaenyra, she knew she could burden him with other duties. He did not give her pitiful looks but he was gentler than ever when he asked about her well-being and even kissed her hand before saying his goodbyes. Oh, what a charmer! She thought amused at his attentiveness. if Ser Harwin had half the charm of his father , it was no wonder Rhaenyra had spread her legs happily for the brute.
As punishment, she went to Viserys and spent her day with him. She tended to his needs and dismissed the servants when he asked for a bath, she was his wife, and it was her job to do so . It had been some time since they had shared more than a few words, she realized and immediately felt guilty that she was becoming careless. There was no end, no escape from her misery.
Wives were supposed to desire their husbands, or at least, enjoy when they made use of them for begetting children. Alicent could not really say what she felt when she was with Viserys. Fear, once, numbness, pain. Now it was different. She felt exasperation and pity , sadness and even contentment when it was one of Viserys' good days. What else ought she to feel? Never truly felt the joy her mother used to speak about when she held Aegon or any of her other children either .
It was different when she thought of Ser Tyland, she admitted, but then again, they were not husband and wife and hers was a matter of the flesh, sinful and surprising, embarrassing, irritating, frustrating. She wanted to get out of her skin and find peace that only praying in the sept had given her. Childish longings wrapped up in adult anxieties.
After the Hand gave his final recommendations relating to the topic of the day , the council was adjourned noisily. Chairs were moved and goblets dranks as the rest started leaving the chamber. As always, Alicent was the last to leave, dazed and with a light headache forming in between her brows.
The thing was, she was not the only one still there.
"Your Grace," It was Ser Tyland who had stayed behind, still clutching his wine goblet in a particularly tight grip. She breathed through her nose deeply. "I was hoping—"
"Ser Tyland." She interrupted accidentally and almost covered her mouth like a child saying a dirty word. Rude! She thought and bit her inner cheek to stop herself from embarrassing herself further.
He laughed self-consciously.
Alicent had never heard him laugh before.
"Forgive me—"
"I've—"
Oh, how mortifying. She had to go, now. So she said it.
"No, don't," He stopped her with the barest of touches on her arm. "I've been meaning, hoping, that I could talk to you, Your Grace."
It was the second time he had called her by her title . How she missed being Lady Alicent if only to hear him speak her name out loud.
His touch felt like a brand on her and he was wearing a gold doublet underneath his coat. What did it all mean? She couldn't bear to see how well it looked on him, how it made his green cat eyes look even brighter, how instead of the smoldering gaze he used to wear in her imagination, he looked worried and anxious, his lower lip abused.
With a touch, it would all go away she knew. A fingertip to the center of the wound, to press on it until it bled again and see that he was as affected as she. But she stayed her hand, balling it to a fist on her sides.
What could possibly be worrying him when it was she who couldn't walk through the hallways in fear she would meet him there?
When he didn't continue, just stared at her in a way that made her want to regress to bad habits, she gritted through her teeth, "Then speak it, My Lord."
He cleared his throat.
"Have you ever been to the Westerlands?"
She stared at him. Was she actually asleep and her brain was playing a prank on her? To be in a situation where he spoke monotonously of his homeland and still feel— feel something? To still be hanging from every honey-sweet word falling from his lips? Was she truly so lost?
When no reply was forthcoming, he cleared his throat again.
"Deep in the Westerlands, sadly nowhere near mine own home in the Rock, there are extensive forests covering miles and miles of fertile land. Some of my brother's vassals organize weeks-long hunts in them, boars, foxes, fawns, you name it! I was not made for this, unfortunately, it was always Jason who exceeded in matters of ... sport." As he spoke, he grew more and more excited (his homeland, being one of his favorite subjects, she was sure), yet at this point he faded and in his handsome face, she could see he was debating something within himself. If only she could reach into it and draw it out ... "Of course, this is of no real interest to the Queen."
"No, it is!"
Ser Tyland graciously did not remark in the breathlessness of her speech, nor the eager tone in which she begged him to continue. She didn't think anyone had ever spoken to her with such charming artlessness, but she still had no idea where ane of this was going.
"I'm glad you think so , even if I did not partake in the hunt, the forest was, is, one of my favorite places in the West. An odd thing to say for a Master of Ships, is it not?" Oh, she laughed with him , of course she did. What else was left to her but to follow along and hope for a resolution, to see his eyes light up as he finally found someone who would listen to him? "I speak of the forest because there dwells a little beast, a type of marten, that we Lannisters have skinned for their fur for centuries even before the dragonlords landed."
"I know what a marten is, Ser Tyland," She replied amused . It was so nice to tease and joke harmlessly with someone. How she wished the conversation never ended! She would give anything to keep being seated in front of him and hear him speak of all the animals he knew by name. In Rhaenyra and Lord Lyonel's chairs, so close to each other, Ser Tyland and her, knees scandalously touching as he spoke with enthusiasm.
"Forgive me, my Queen, but this marten is different from the rest. We call it 'sable' for its color but it ranges from a very deep dark one to sometimes one lighter than cream. For its rarity, it's the most expensive kind of fur in Westeros. If I may—" And without waiting, he boldly took her hand and confidently put it on the fur of his box coat to caress. "In all directions, it has the same quality, unlike fox or any other. Do you feel it?"
Yes, she did indeed feel it.
Ser Tyland kept her hand on his chest for longer than it was appropriate, and for a wild moment, she thought he might put it to his mouth to kiss. Her heart was heavily beating in her chest and she prayed to the Seven-faced god that he did not feel it too , her ears were ringing and her mouth too dry to try to speak about him taking this liberty. Oddly enough, it was another thing she wanted to say. To do.
Only his warm hand on her prevented hers from falling right back to her side and seeing as she did not protest (for how could she?), he moved her hand up and down, firmly caressing the fur over his heart as he started speaking once again about the qualities of such animal. She did not hear a single word.
The lining was, of course, that and more of what he said about its softness. Targaryen did not seem to favor warming garments, preferring leather and silk, linen for simpler configurations, she knew and learned when she used to ready Rhaenyra's wardrobe for her. King's Landing was ever hot in her childhood and Viserys, as she became his wife, like his daughter, liked his silks even as the seasons progressed.
Although she did not remember the last time she touched fur of such quality, she was more fixated on the body heat permeating the place where her hand was. He ran as hot as her husband, she thought with wonder, but it did not repulse her at all, nor did she think of Viserys collapsing on top of her, sweaty and spent, but she thought of Ser Tyland's cocooning her safely in the warmth of him . Fur and hand and the bright glint of his smile.
This was the closest she'd been to him , she realized , and the startling thought almost made her drop her hand from him. This close she could smell him too, not musky like Ser Criston or perfumed like Larys, but different. She was suddenly so dizzy.
"Forgive me again for intruding, Your Grace," He was saying , finally releasing her from his spell. They sat again, closer than before , somehow they'd been standing up while Alicent touched him. Touched him in the Small Council chamber alone. None of what was happening was more real to her than her dreams. "But I've taken the liberty of ordering a sable blanket at my own expense for your use at night."
And with those shocking words, he began explaining how he had seen her waste over time (asking for her forgiveness again and again), dark circles under her eyes, hair losing its lustrous beauty, speaking less and less during council and letting the brazen Princess Rhaenyra walk all over her. Ser Tyland did not want to appear like he was stepping beyond his limits, he said, but a servant of the realm's only goal was to serve his queen. So he asked himself, is there something he could do for her? And there was, for if she were losing sleep, only a covering of the most expensive fur found on the West would soothe her as it did him. And if it wasn't something she wanted, then she could decline his gift from him and let them forget his audacity and part as friends.
He did not have it here with him , obviously , but it would be waiting for her in her rooms if she accepted it.
Up until that moment, one of many firsts, Ser Tyland had been confident, sometimes stuttering due to the quickness of his mind before his mouth could form the words, but never hesitant. Right now, he was looking down, reflexively tapping his fingers against his tight.
Alicent smiled and grasped his hands in between hers and thanked him most heartedly, foolishly, hopelessly entangled in the moment.
She did not stop once in the day , she did her chores, visited Viserys who was doing better, accompanied her children to their lessons, and even got the courage to pick up the quill and write a letter to Oldtown telling her father all the happenings in the capital. When Talya asked what should be done with Ser Tyland's gift, the giddiness almost broke through. But she could be patient and wait as long as it took for the day to end.
As her maids undressed her, she couldn't help but shake. Her nightgown fluttered around her form like a veil on a nervous bride; her hair down and brushed a hundred times to give its shine back. Finally, she turned around and gasped, for the cover was a gorgeous sandy color that reminded her of wheat but most of all of him, and when she touched it her hand sank deliciously into its airy softness.
Servants dismissed and the last candle extinguished, with only the light of the moon making its way into her chamber, she wrapped herself in it. The sables had been stitched expertly and she reminded herself to thank Tyland (Tyland, what else could she call him now that he gave her this precious gift out of worry for her?) for it, not a single imperfection marring the light color of the fur, a gift fit for a queen, indeed.
No thoughts entered her head, only the wanting and the feel of such a luxurious thing on her skin, her cheeks, her naked arms and legs. This is what it must be to be wrapped in him, she thought, deliriously, sinking her nose in it to try to smell Tyland on it, that clean smell of soap and the hair oils he favored. The weight of the blanket on her neck gave her goosebumps, the friction pebbled her nipples underneath her shift and her legs clenched unconsciously, deliciously.
No tossing and turning like other nights, no late night sept praying, she would lie in her bed and sleep and dream and luxuriate in Tyland's (Tyland!) gift. How thoughtful he was, how observant and kind to think he could do something for her and do it without even asking for anything, or at least not in that treasured moment they shared in the council chamber, just an anecdote and the willingness to make her life better. She did not remember the last time someone had done something similar for her. Her life seemed like a constant give, a constant wear, but how could've been if it wasn't so ? If she had been destined to someone else?
Alicent did not often indulge herself , to do so led to perdition, or so her old septa always said. But lately, it was all she did, so she did it now too , wrapped in Tyland's kindness.
A hand slowly crept down her body, between the sable and her shift, following the lace and reaching the place she had not often thought about until now. Her fantasy played behind her lids as her fingers sought and probed and wetted themselves in her, her other hand fisting the sable and moaning out his name in between mouthfuls of it.
She grounded herself on the heel of her palm and wished desperately that it was his, bigger and more experienced, filling her, teaching her, and telling her it was alright or about the Westerlands , it did not matter to her as long as it was Tyland and his buttery cadence in her ears. At long last she peaked with a shudder, the sable sticking to the wet spots of her sweat, saliva, and spent.
For once, she did not feel revulsion or disgust. Half sleepy with the ghost of another's hands on her skin, she sat on the bed and shrugged off her nightgown, throwing the sweaty thing to the floor , after she roughly cleaned her fingers on it. Naked as a babe she wrapped herself in the sable and did not dream of anything at all.