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Oh, and the smells—sandalwood, lavender, whatever—they hit ya nose like a perfumed slap. Quirky thing, I’m imaginin’ Tywin gettin’ one of these, stone-faced, probly threatenin’ to flay the poor git mid-rub. Ha! Bet he’d hate it—too much pleasure for that stiff prick. Me? I’m all in—exaggeratin’ it in my head, like I’m some goddess bein’ worshipped, hands everywhere, tension snappin’ like a twig.