The garden was quiet, save for the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. Helaena sat beside you on the stone bench, her delicate hands folded neatly in her lap. The conversation had drifted, as it often did, toward the burdens she carried—the kind you couldn’t fully understand but tried to. You had mentioned Aegon, how difficult it must be to share a life with him, your voice laced with honest pity.

Helaena tilted her head slightly, her gaze fixed on the blossoms before her as though they might offer her strength. “It’s not as awful as you might think,” she murmured after a moment. Her voice was soft, almost distant, like she was speaking more to herself than to you. “Most of the time, he leaves me alone. Doesn’t say much, doesn’t care to notice.”

Her fingers tightened ever so slightly against the fabric of her dress. “Except when he’s been drinking,” she added quietly, her tone flat. She didn’t elaborate, didn’t need to. Instead, she looked at you briefly, offering a faint, almost apologetic smile, as though she shouldn’t have said anything at all. Then, her attention drifted back to the flowers, her expression unreadable.