Chapter 8
Helena sighed and slowly opened her eyes, feeling disoriented. The first thing she noticed was that she wasn't in her own bed. No, this was a huge canopy bed, draped with soft blankets. Slowly, she lifted the covers and realized she was naked. Panic surged through her, and when she tried to sit up, unfamiliar pain and soreness between her legs stopped her. What had happened to her? Tears of terror welled up in her eyes, and she froze at the sound of a sigh. Someone was in the bed with her.
She swallowed hard before turning to look at the sleeping man. The king. Her husband. They had been wed.
Memories began to rush back. She remembered how hard she had struggled to control herself, to stop from breaking down. From panicking. She had tried to push away thoughts of their wedding night, but the entire day had been torturous. Then, she had been in his bedchamber, every instinct screaming at her to run, to hide, to escape. The small panicked voice inside her head had been deafening.
But she hadn't struggled or pleaded. She knew she couldn't. It was her duty as his wife. Fear, pain and the smell of alcohol had paralyzed her, and then… nothing. Had she passed out? Was he angry with her? The blood on the sheets told her their marriage had been consummated.
She startled as her husband stirred beside her, his eyes slowly opening.
Jon blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted to the dim light in the room. He noticed Helena sitting up beside him, the tension in her posture impossible to miss. Her wide eyes were staring at him, full of something between fear and confusion. His heart sank. Last night's foggy memories rushed back, wine, duty, and the crushing weight of expectation. He'd made a mistake.
"Helena…" His voice came out rougher than he intended. He cleared his throat and sat up, instinctively pulling the blanket higher to cover himself. "I…" He didn't even know what to say. How could he possibly begin to apologize for what had happened?
She didn't respond, just stared at him as though waiting for something. Permission, perhaps. Or maybe for him to shout at her. That thought twisted his insides.
"I'm sorry," he finally said, his voice thick with guilt. "I didn't… I never wanted to hurt you."
Helena's expression remained unchanged, her silence weighing on him more heavily than any accusation ever could. Jon ran a hand through his tousled hair, looking at the bloodstained sheets with a sick feeling in his stomach. She had done everything expected of her, and all he had done was make her feel like this, small, afraid, broken.
"I know it doesn't change anything," he murmured, "but I truly am sorry."
She blinked slowly, as if processing his words. Her voice, when she spoke, was soft, barely more than a whisper. "It's my duty, Your Grace. You didn't do anything wrong, I'm the one who needs to apologize for fainting. I… I think I drank too much wine, please, forgive me."
Jon stared at her, utterly confused. "Fainting?"
She bowed her head and nodded. "Yes. I… I hope I didn't ruin your night."
"What… What do you remember about last night?" Jon managed to ask.
She kept her eyes down, but he noticed a flush rising in her cheeks. "I… I remember our kiss. It was very nice. And… I remember we…consummated our marriage. I enjoyed that, you were very kind to me, Your Grace. I'm afraid I passed out after that. Again, I apologize."
Jon's mind raced as Helena's words sank in. She remembered none of it, not her desperate pleas, not the terror in her eyes, nor the tears that had broken his heart. Instead, she spoke as if last night had been some kind of duty, a formality she had completed without truly grasping what had happened. It felt wrong, twisted, somehow.
He swallowed hard, his throat tight. "Helena… you don't need to apologize. You didn't ruin anything."
She kept her eyes lowered, her posture stiff, the flush in her cheeks only deepening. "Thank you, Your Grace," she whispered, her voice small. "I'm glad I didn't disappoint you."
Disappoint him? That was the furthest thing from Jon's mind. He was horrified by how deep her fear and conditioning went, so much so that she couldn't even see that she had been hurt. She couldn't even recognize the pain she was carrying.
"Helena," he began again, his voice softer now, more careful. He needed to handle this delicately, needed to understand what she had endured before. "Last night… you said something after… afterwards."
Her head lifted slightly, curiosity flickering in her eyes, but it was tinged with apprehension. "I… I don't remember."
"You talked about someone," Jon pressed gently, trying to piece together the mystery of her past. "You mentioned a bad man. Someone who had hurt you."
The words hung heavily in the air between them. Helena's expression faltered, her eyes widening ever so slightly before she quickly lowered them again, her fingers trembling as they gripped the blanket. She said nothing, but Jon could see the fear returning, like a shadow creeping back into her mind.
"Helena," Jon's voice was firm, though still kind. "You don't have to be afraid. Whoever hurt you, he's not here. You're safe with me. I won't hurt you."
She remained silent for a long moment, her lips parting as if she wanted to say something, but the words wouldn't come. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely audible. "I'm not afraid… of you."
Jon wasn't sure if that was true, but he didn't push her. He could see how fragile she was, how deeply ingrained her need to please him was. It wasn't her fault, it was the trauma she had suffered before coming into his life.
Guilt gnawed at him. He had wanted to protect her, to be a better husband than the situation had forced him to be. But last night… he had failed her.
"I need you to know something," Jon said softly, his tone as gentle as he could manage. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to. Not with me. Not ever. You're my wife, but that doesn't mean… you don't owe me anything."
Her brow furrowed, confusion evident on her face as she slowly lifted her gaze to meet his. "But… it's my duty," she whispered, as though the concept was all she had ever known. "I'm supposed to…"
"No," Jon interrupted softly, shaking his head. "It's not. Not like that. I don't want you to feel like you have to do anything because it's expected of you. I want you to be free to say no, Helena. I want you to feel safe."
The vulnerability in her eyes cut him deeply, as though she was trying to understand something she had never been given before, autonomy, choice, safety. She blinked, as if the idea was foreign, as if it was something she had never thought possible.
"I… I don't know how to be that," she admitted quietly, her voice trembling. "I don't know what to do."
Jon's heart broke a little more. "We'll figure it out together," he promised. "But you don't have to pretend for me. Not anymore."
Helena stared at him for a long time, her expression a mixture of confusion and disbelief. Slowly, she nodded, though Jon could see that the weight of everything was still there, lingering in her eyes.
"I'll… try," she whispered, though her voice lacked conviction. "But I don't want to fail you, Your Grace."
Jon's jaw tightened. "You won't," he said, shaking his head firmly. "And please… call me Jon."
Helena's lips twitched in what might have been the beginning of a smile, but it quickly disappeared. She looked down again, still holding the sheet close to her body as though it was a shield.
Jon felt a rush of protectiveness surge through him. Whoever had hurt her before, whoever had made her believe that this was all she was worth, he would find a way to undo that damage. He didn't know how long it would take, but he would give her all the time she needed.
"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked. "Are you hurting?"
She hesitated for a moment before replying. "A little, but I think that's normal."
Jon nodded slowly, the concern in his eyes deepening as he watched Helena cling to the sheet, the weight of her answer hanging between them. He hated the idea that she had been hurt, even in the slightest, and yet her calm acceptance of the pain unnerved him. It was as if she expected it, like it was just another part of the duty she had resigned herself to.
"It doesn't have to be," Jon murmured, more to himself than to her. His mind was racing, trying to figure out what to do or say that could possibly make this easier for her. But nothing felt right, nothing felt enough.
"Helena," he began again, his voice gentle but steady, "I'll have a healer come check on you, just to make sure. You don't have to be in pain."
Her eyes widened slightly at the suggestion. "No, no, please, I'm alright. If… If you could give me a day or two before… before the next time…"
Jon's heart sank at her words. The way she spoke, so tentative, as if bracing herself for refusal or punishment, made his chest tighten with guilt and anger. He took a slow breath, trying to steady himself, and then met her gaze, his voice firm yet tender.
"Helena," he said softly, stepping closer but making sure to keep enough distance so she didn't feel trapped. "There won't be a next time until you want it. Until you're ready."
Her brow furrowed in confusion, as if what he was saying didn't quite make sense to her. She opened her mouth as if to protest, but Jon quickly continued.
"You're my wife, not my prisoner," he said, his voice low but full of emotion. "I don't want you to feel like you have to ask for more time. You don't owe me anything, Helena. We'll take things as slow as you need. I don't want to hurt you again."
Helena's hands tightened on the sheet as if she was trying to make sense of his words. For a long moment, she didn't say anything, just looked at him with those wide, unsure eyes. Then, slowly, she nodded, though he could see how hard it was for her to believe what he was saying.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Jon gave her a small, reassuring smile, though inside he was filled with a storm of regret and frustration. How long had she lived like this, believing she had no control, no choice? How much damage had been done to her before she ever became his wife?
He wanted to take her pain away, to make her understand that she didn't have to live in fear anymore, but he knew that would take time. Time and patience. And he was determined to give her both.
"Are you hungry?" he asked. "Would you like some breakfast? We can have it in bed if you don't want to get up yet."
"Yes, please," she replied quietly. "I am a little hungry."
Jon nodded, relieved that she was at least willing to accept his offer. He took that as a small step forward. "I'll have something brought up for us," he said, trying to keep his tone gentle and comforting.
He walked to the door and spoke to a guard, quietly instructing him to send for breakfast. As he closed the door again, Jon looked back at Helena. She was still holding the sheet close to her, as if she was using it as a shield between herself and the world.
He hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to do next. His instinct was to comfort her, to sit beside her, but he didn't want to crowd her. So instead, he sat in a chair near the bed, keeping his distance but staying close enough so that she knew he wasn't leaving.
As he looked at her, a very disturbing thought crossed his mind. Had she been forced into this marriage? Had Tyrion known how deeply traumatized his niece was? Had he pressured her to accept Jon's proposal? Jon didn't want to believe that, but the thought wouldn't leave him alone. Helena had been kept prisoner for years by her own mother. That alone could have been enough to break a person. And who knew what horrors she had endured during her captivity?
Jon's thoughts darkened as he considered Helena's past. The years she'd spent as Cersei's prisoner, the scars, visible and invisible, that she must have carried. He didn't know the full extent of her suffering, but it was enough to explain the fear in her eyes, the way she clung to the sheet, and her quiet, obedient demeanor.
Had Tyrion known? He didn't want to think his friend would knowingly put Helena into another situation that would cause her pain, but it was hard to ignore the possibility. Perhaps Tyrion, like Jon, had been focused on the political necessity of the marriage, blind to the personal cost for Helena.
Jon's hands clenched into fists at the thought. He felt a surge of anger, at Cersei, at whoever had hurt Helena in the past, and at himself for being part of this. But none of that anger would help her now. She didn't need his rage; she needed his patience, his gentleness.
As the thoughts churned in his mind, he realized that the best way forward was to gain her trust slowly, to show her that she didn't need to be afraid of him. He wouldn't force her to talk about her trauma, but he would give her the space and support to heal at her own pace.
The knock at the door interrupted his thoughts, and the servant entered with the breakfast tray. Jon thanked them quietly and set the tray down on a small table near the bed. He hesitated for a moment, then carefully approached Helena with a plate.
"Here," he said softly, offering it to her. "Something to eat."
She looked at the plate, then back at him, before reaching out to take it, her fingers still trembling slightly. She murmured a quiet "Thank you," and began to nibble on a piece of bread.
They sat in silence for a while, the soft clink of plates and the distant sounds from outside the room filling the space. Jon kept his distance, though he kept watching her from the corner of his eye, making sure she was all right.
When she finally set the plate aside, Jon stood up. "Would you like me to stay, or would you prefer some time alone?"
Helena looked at him, uncertainty flickering in her expression. She opened her mouth, as if to say something, then hesitated. Finally, she shook her head. "You… you can stay, Your…Jon," she corrected herself quickly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Jon gave her a small, reassuring smile and sat back down in the chair, relieved that she didn't want him to leave. This was only the beginning, and he knew it wouldn't be easy. But he would be there for her, however long it took, to show her she wasn't alone.