Chapter 13

"Thank you," Jon murmured absentmindedly as Garth filled his goblet.

The cupbearer gave a brief bow in response. Jon's gaze drifted back to the empty bed. Helena was spending the night in the Queen's quarters. It felt strange, but somehow, he had grown used to her presence, and he found himself missing her company. Especially now, with Sansa having left King's Landing to return to Winterfell and Arya on her journey across the sea. Both he and Helena had been preoccupied with their duties, gradually adjusting to the routines of their lives as king and queen.

Helena, in particular, took her responsibilities seriously. She had clearly won the hearts of the smallfolk with her humility and empathy. She personally oversaw food deliveries to the orphanage, distributed meals to the poor, and worked closely with Tyrion to organize the rebuilding of the city's damaged areas.

Jon took a deep sip from his goblet, his thoughts swirling like the wine in his cup. The silence of his chambers was stark, interrupted only by the occasional crackle of the hearth. The room, though familiar, felt emptier without Helena. It was strange, he hadn't expected to miss her presence this much, but her absence had slowly crept up on him. It was only after several nights without her that he realized just how accustomed he'd become to her soft voice, the quiet exchanges they shared before bed, and even the simple comfort of knowing she was near.

He had come to appreciate her in ways he hadn't foreseen. At first, their marriage had felt like another duty, a responsibility to the realm and an alliance forged for stability. But now, after watching Helena dedicate herself to her new role with a quiet grace, Jon had grown to admire her. She worked tirelessly, never seeking recognition but always striving to do what was best for the people. The smallfolk loved her, and even Tyrion had praised her for her practical insight during council meetings.

And yet, despite all this, their personal connection still felt… distant. They were both so consumed by their duties that they rarely had time for each other. He wondered if she felt the same. Did she miss him when they were apart? Or was she content with the distance between them?

Jon sighed, staring into the fire, its warmth doing little to ease the cold gnawing at his chest. Was this what their marriage would always be? A partnership built on respect and duty, but without the deeper connection he longed for?

Garth returned quietly to refill Jon's goblet, pulling him from his thoughts. Jon waved him off with a brief nod and set the wine aside. He didn't want to drink tonight. What he wanted, though he wasn't entirely sure how to ask for it, was Helena.

Pushing back from the table, Jon stood and headed for the door. Maybe it was time to speak with her, not about duties or their responsibilities, but about them. He wasn't sure what he'd say, or if it would even change anything. But sitting here in silence wouldn't solve anything either.

"Send word to the Queen's chambers," Jon instructed Garth, his decision made. "Tell her I'd like to speak with her before bed."

"Yes, Your Grace."

Jon felt calmer after making his decision. He stood and headed to the bathing chamber, intending to wash up before Helena arrived. But as he stepped out, he froze at the sight of a naked woman sprawled across his bed. He recognized her instantly, Lady Cynthea, a widow and distant cousin of Sam's. She had sought his attention before, but never this boldly.

"Are you lost, my lady?" Jon asked, keeping his voice steady despite the tension simmering beneath the surface.

Lady Cynthea smiled seductively. "I thought you might enjoy some company, Your Grace," she purred softly. "A man like you shouldn't have to sleep alone."

Jon's expression darkened immediately, his frustration mounting as he took in the sight before him. How many times would he have to deal with this? Even after his marriage, he had been offered prostitutes as well as mistresses. Lady Cynthea's boldness, while irritating, wasn't entirely unexpected given her previous attempts to garner his favor, but this was too far. He felt a sharp anger rise within him, not just at her, but at the world that seemed to continually forget who he was, and worse, who he had married.

"I'm not alone," Jon replied, his voice calm but cold as steel. "I have a wife. And I'm certain you know that."

Cynthea's smile faltered slightly, but she pressed on, her tone still sultry. "Your Grace, I can offer you things she cannot. Pleasure without complication… Isn't that what every man wants?"

Jon took a step closer, his jaw tightening as he held her gaze, unmoved by her attempts to seduce him. "What every man should want," he said evenly, "is respect, for his wife, for his vows, and for himself."

Her confidence crumbled a little more under his words, but she didn't back down entirely. "But…"

"You will leave my chambers now, Lady Cynthea," Jon interrupted, his voice turning cold as ice. "And I will ensure this never happens again."

Before Lady Cynthea could reply, the door opened, and Helena entered, carrying a painting wrapped in cloth.

"You asked to see me..." Helena began, but her words faltered as she froze, her eyes falling on the woman lying on Jon's bed.

Lady Cynthea gasped, quickly scrambling to her feet and hastily gathering her discarded maid's dress from the floor.

"Your Grace," Lady Cynthea murmured, her voice barely audible.

"My lady," Helena responded, her expression carefully blank, her voice steady despite the tension.

"Helena," Jon began urgently. "This isn't…"

"It's fine, Your Grace," Helena interrupted, forcing a strained smile. "I understand."

Jon's heart sank as Helena's expression shifted into one of forced composure, a mask he recognized all too well. He could see the hurt beneath it, even if she tried to hide it.

"Helena, no," Jon said, stepping forward, his voice urgent. "This isn't what it looks like."

Lady Cynthea, sensing the tension and the gravity of the situation, quickly threw on her dress and, with a muttered apology, rushed out of the room. Helena's eyes briefly flicked to the fleeing woman, then back to Jon.

"I understand, truly," Helena repeated, her voice unnervingly calm. She lowered the wrapped painting, her hands trembling slightly as she placed it carefully on a table nearby. "You don't need to explain."

"No, you don't understand," Jon insisted, moving closer to her, desperate to make her see. "She was here uninvited. She came in on her own, and I…"

"I believe you," Helena interrupted softly, though her gaze remained fixed somewhere just past him, avoiding his eyes. She gave a small, tight smile that only deepened the knot of guilt in Jon's chest. "I just..." She paused, taking a shaky breath, clearly struggling to steady herself. "I didn't expect to walk in on... something like that."

Jon's heart clenched at the vulnerability in her voice, the tension between them thickening. "That should never have happened," he said, his tone low but firm. "I'll have a word with the guards. She's been trying to... gain favor with me before, but I've never entertained it." He took a step closer, his voice softening with sincerity. "I swear to you, there's nothing between us."

Helena nodded, but her expression remained unreadable. "You've been nothing but honorable, Jon." She hesitated, then added, "But maybe I'm just… not what a man like you would want." Her voice was barely above a whisper, and Jon felt a wave of guilt crash over him.

"That's not true," Jon said firmly, his hand reaching out, but he hesitated, unsure if she would accept the gesture. "Helena, you're my wife. And I respect you more than you know."

Helena stood silent for a moment, finally lifting her gaze to meet his, and he could see the flicker of doubt and hurt in her eyes.

"I brought you something," she finally said, her voice soft as she gestured to the painting wrapped on the table. "A gift. But... maybe now's not the best time."

Jon's chest tightened, realizing how much care and thought she must have put into it. "Helena, I want to see it. Please."

Helena hesitated, her fingers fidgeting with the cloth that covered the painting. Finally, she pulled the cloth away, revealing a beautiful portrait of Ghost. The likeness was remarkable, the direwolf's fierce, yet loyal eyes captured perfectly.

Jon stared at the painting, struck by the skill and tenderness in every brushstroke. "It's… it's incredible," he said softly, his voice filled with genuine awe. "Helena, this is…thank you. Truly."

But Helena remained distant, her arms crossing protectively in front of her. "I'm glad you like it," she said, her voice flat, and Jon knew in that moment that he hadn't fully reached her. Not yet.

"Helena," Jon said, stepping closer, his tone pleading. "This isn't about what I want in a wife. This is about you and me, and I don't want you to feel like you're not enough for me. You are. You've already proven that."

Helena shook her head slowly.

"I… I know I have failed to fulfill my duties as a wife," she said quietly. "Apparently, everyone else sees that too." She paused and looked at him, her expression unreadable. "I want to share your bed tonight. I want you to take me."

Jon's breath caught in his throat, Helena's words hitting him with a force he hadn't expected. Her offer, so blunt and yet filled with vulnerability, tugged at his heart. He could see the uncertainty in her eyes, the fear that she was inadequate, that she had to make up for some imagined failure.

"Helena…" Jon's voice was soft, but firm as he stepped closer to her, closing the distance between them. He gently placed a hand on her shoulder, but didn't pull her any closer. "You don't have to do this. Not because you think it's what I want or what's expected of you."

Helena's eyes flickered with a mixture of emotions, though her body remained still. "But I do want to," she insisted, her voice trembling ever so slightly. "You said there wouldn't be a next time before I wanted it. Well, I do. I want to be your wife."

She wrapped her arms around his neck, gently pulling him down. "I want to kiss you, Jon, and I'd do it right now if you weren't so tall... so, please, lean down."

Jon blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in Helena's determination. Her words carried a delicate balance of vulnerability and strength, and for a moment, he struggled to find the right response. But as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, her resolve was clear.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth despite the weight of the moment. "Alright," he murmured softly, leaning down to close the gap between them.

Their lips met gently at first, tentative, as if testing new ground. It was nothing like the clumsy kiss they had shared on their wedding night. Jon felt a flicker of shame even remembering it, silently hoping Helena wasn't thinking of it either.

As he pulled her closer, his hand rested on the small of her back, holding her with a quiet intensity. In that embrace, he wanted to shield her from everything, her doubts, her insecurities, and the lingering shadows of painful memories.

When they finally pulled apart, their breaths mingled in the quiet space between them. Jon rested his forehead against hers, his heart racing, but his voice steady.

"Helena… I don't want you to do anything you're not ready for."

Her grip on him tightened as she whispered, "I am ready, Jon. I want this. I want you."

He searched her eyes, looking for any sign of hesitation, but all he saw was her resolve. She had made her choice.

Jon nodded slowly, his thumb gently brushing over her cheek. "I want you too. And I promise, I'll be gentle this time."

Helena smiled as she kept her arms around his neck. "Thank you," she whispered.

Jon leaned down again, his lips brushing hers in a tender, unhurried kiss, letting her guide the pace. He hadn't fully realized how much he craved this closeness, the comfort of being near her.

As their kisses deepened, Jon moved slowly, staying attuned to her every reaction. He wanted to ensure that, this time, everything felt different.

When they finally parted, Jon pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead, his breath mingling with hers. "Do you still want this?" he asked, his voice soft as his thumb traced the curve of her cheek.

Helena nodded, her voice barely above a breath. "You've been good to me. I trust you."

Jon met her gaze, his own emotions churning within him. Trust, her trust, was not something he took lightly. He would honor it, just as he would honor her. "I won't let you down," he said softly, meaning every word.