(More often than not, Gwenaëlle knows when he's feigning it; she says let him be, he's sleeping and pesters one of the healers to reheat the tea that had been brought with a bit of fire, later, discreetly slips in something that could be described generously as 'medicinal' to make it a bit more appealing.)

"Guenievre," she supplies the name (she could tell him the truth, who will he tell? the lady of the skies?), lowering her hands a little in her lap but not immediately setting aside her sewing; she hasn't managed to poke herself in the fingers but she did break a needle on her thimble earlier, so she isn't immune to the stressors at play, just...accustomed. "I will. I thought it was a good idea, but I don't..." A wiggle of her fingers. What the fuck does she know about trimming a man's beard. "She knows, she did for my lord. I thought you'd like that."

Managing a bit of a fuck you to the Comte even from his deathbed, that's no small achievement, probably. She isn't sure he's quite at the making those jokes point, though, keeps it to herself.