"It does," Claudius admits, as though it pains him to admit. His voice has been so flat, that slight grudging tone stands out starkly. "Galahad would like one, I think. We've a table fringed with a heated blanket, but nothing this heavy and ... comforting." It feels childish to say it, that the soft shelter of a blanket and the weight against his back can be comforting. If he were a child (for the third time) he'd want to pull it over his head and make the world disappear.