Chapter Text
"A mistake."
Helaena blinks, sitting upon the small couch, her new septa sat beside her, needle and thread strewn upon the small table before them. The quiet of her mother's sitting room makes her septa's admonishment loud. Helaena feels herself cringe with mild panic. Having only seven years and recently begun learning the craft of taking needle to thread, she had yet the experience that so steady came to Septa Florence. Helaena's fingers are short and clumsy, clumsier still with a threaded needle held between. She looks up to her septa's quiet stare before her eyes fall over her work- a cloth within a hoop, her awkward stitches shaping into a small flower. But there was a long stitch were there were smaller. She hadn't noticed the inconsistency, had been too focused on following her septa's teachings, listening as she spoke of histories and the grandness of Old Town, the stones of the city winding into marvelous spires, books upon books to read within it's libraries.
Helaena had not seen the strange stitch, too loose and too long, easily snagged and undoing the stitches after. It is a failure she knows. She waits for Septa Florence to take her hoop from her, to exchange the cloth with a fresh one, a sigh on her lips, impatience in her eyes. It is what she expects because it had been her mother's reaction, those first few days of her instruction, before her Queen mother had grown weary of watching Helaena make mistake after mistake, always making her start anew, always disapproving and mind elsewhere than with Helaena's slow imperfection.
Helaena quietly pulls her needle from it's thread, careful to place it in the pincushion and not on the seat beside her- She had done so once before. Aegon had given such a yelp she had clasped her hands to her ears to block the curses shouted and her mothers scolding to both daughter and son. It is a scolding she is not eager to repeat, though it did ensure her brother did not intrude upon her lessons again to scoff and stomp in boredom.
She offers her paltry embroidery to the septa and waits. Septa Florence only raises a brow.
"Well then, am I meant to undo your work for you?" Septa Florence says, brow raised, her own hoop in hand with her own neat stitches. Helaena flushes, clutching the edges of her hoop tighter to herself for a moment before holding it out again, hopefully.
Septa Florence is unmoved. Only stares in return and sets a pressure in Helaena's chest, sinking her heart down.
"It's a mistake," Helaena says, attempting to be agreeable. People like agreeable girls. Her mother always says so. "I- I need a new cloth."
Then Septa Florence does something odd. She laughs and for a few moments her severe demeanor is shaken by the surprised chortle. Heleana feels her face flame. Once again someone is laughing at her. She silently sets her hoop down, confused as to what she has done wrong. Helaena is always doing things wrong. A princess should be better, should know not to make mistakes, to be laughed at so. But she holds only seven name days and the world is so very big and she is so very small. Small and strange, plump and meek. Helaena is as un- Targaryen as they come. The other children at court had long since set to calling her 'simple Helaena' or 'Creeping Helaena.'
Helaena does not mean to be simple minded. She does not intend to creep either. But she is quiet, and the loud rush of children often confuses her. She does not understand their games and their jokes, not when they are often aimed at laughing at her for being too slow and too soft.
She does not like to be laughed at, but the last time she had given voice to anger, she had bitten a nobleman's son and he cried and she'd been sent to her rooms and she didn't understand why they were allowed to invite her to play if all they wanted to do was laugh at her. She was only told that such behavior was 'unladylike', nevermind that she thought the other children ill mannered as well.
She knows she's unladylike. She's strange and creepy and she likes bugs over flowers and is a disappointment to her mother. Her mother never looks at her with pride. Only reluctant warmth that is often tempered by cold judgement the moment her sister Rheanyra and her 'plain faced' sons come into view.
It is a confusing point in Helaena's mind. Mother says pretty things are well liked. But the Princes Jacaerys and Lucerys are as comely as their mother, her half sister. Mayhaps they do not take after Rheanyra much in colors but they are handsome enough to please the eye. Heleana does not know why her queen mother recoils from them so. They have good manners and are always polite to her. Mother always praises Aemond for his good manners, she does not understand why she does not praise the Velaryons in the same way. She knows they would not have given her cause to bite them, they would not laugh at her as her septa does now.
Helaena looks down at her work, careful to not make a sound or allow her tears to fall. Crying girls are ugly. Aegon said that often and mother says charming girls are pretty girls. And pretty things are well liked. Helaena isn't charming at all, so at the very least she should not cry.
"Blessed gods, that sent me back to youth," Septa Florence said at last, swiping her eye. Tears? Her septa had been crying? But she was smiling, lines around her eyes and mouth but not curled in that sneering way of disgust that she had been getting more used too from her elder brother.
"The spitting image of your grandmother you are, that for a moment I thought us within Old Town and the young lady Alyrie Florent sat before me. Though you have much of your mother's wide eyed look, like a fawn new to the world, if not her coloring."
Targaryen. White blonde hair and pale lilac eyes. The marks of royalty set within a strange mix of Hightower and Valyrian features. At times she had wished she'd had her mothers copper hair coloring, her hazel eyes that turn dark or green depending upon the light. Helaena's coloring, though striking, only seemed ghostly, unlike her older half sister and brothers.
At seven years old Princess Helaena Targaryen knew she was a haunting thing.
But Septa Florence had compared her to her mother? Her grandmother? Both great beauties, so maybe she isn't so ugly as the other children of court say. Septa's aren't to tell lies after all.
"You knew my mother?"
Septa Florence nods, something like amusement in her voice. "Aye. Many years ago now. Her mother as well, though she and I had known each other in youth. Youth is gone from me now, the Lady Alyrie as well. But to have lived to see her daughter and grandchildren, I count my blessings and send my thanks to the seven to allow me such."
The older woman sounds wistful, if a bit sad. Helaena had heard her grandmother had died quite young, her own mother unwilling to speak on her more than that. She tilts her head in question, hoping to hear more of her mysterious grandmother, the one her grandfather had never brought himself to remarry after. The lady that Queen Alicent was always said to hold such likeness to.
Septa Florence continues her work though keeps Helaena in the corner of her eye, the smallest upturn of her lip easing Helaena. "You tilt your head like your grandmother. She was a perfect lady in every way, ramrod straight except when curiousity took her. Then she'd forget the world and look only at what was before her. A snake could slither alongside her for hours and she'd only sit and read her books. Might even study the snake simply to know of it first hand."
Snakes? Her grandmother had studied such a creature? Something of the knowledge sent a thrill through her. Snakes were not bugs, but they were creatures that slithered and crawled much like the caterpillars and centipedes in the gardens. She had been told time and again that she was the least Targaryen of her family, with no Hightower at all but this… Mayhaps this was where her odd habits came from? Maybe she was not so strange at all? Her grandmother had been loved dearly. Even now, if her septa thought to remember her still with such fondness. Maybe she could be fond of her too?
"Though she was taken with asking plenty more questions," Septa Florence continued, with a shake of her head, "Drove our septa's mad- 'Why can't I learn the advanced maths? Why only the house numbers? How does a woman get with child? If it requires men then why do only the women carry the load? I have many questions, Septa Parlene!' God's be good, even the maesters were baffled by her. Thank the gods her father thought to sent her to ward in Old Town to leave her to find answers in her books."
Helaena studies Septa Florence, dressed neatly in her white robes, blonde hair free of it's hood but tied in a simple braid down her back. Her septa had been looming and watchful these past few days and hours. Her mother bringing her in order to take over Helaena's teaching and maths and writing. Her mother had other matters to attend to- the ailing king, the court, the council, her elder troublesome brother.
She'd expected no laughter from Septa Florence. Nor the warmth of her smile before the woman quickly caught herself, humming and giving a tap of Helaena's hoop with her own. "Keep to your work. Undo the mistake if you must, but it is wasteful to throw away what is done when it need only be fixed with a little patience and time."
Helaena blinked owlishly at her small flower embroidery, the flaw glaring as her mother's eyes do.
"The mistake is too big." She'd have to pull out half of the stitches. Half an hours work undone.
Septa Florence only hums, much is her way. "Did your mother teach you that?" She tsks. "Seems she hasn't broken that bad habit of hers. Never could bear an imperfection or forgive herself for an ill mistake.". Septa Florence looks only at her own work and tuts. "Ah, a stitch misplaced. Well, no use in tears." She promptly pulls the thread, quick and practiced. Heleana watches, fingers loosening their tight grip over her own hoop. She does not know why it transfixes her so. Thread undone, quiet and without complaint.
A mistake. But an easily forgiven one.
Septa Florence begins again.
She gives Helaena an unbothered look. "Tis not a mistake so large if it can be pulled and stitched again with effort. No need to waste. Better not to haste." She continues her work, ever diligent.
Helaena ponders for a moment staring at her cloth. Thinks of the first few days of her learning and how her mother had swiped her hoop from her, handing her a ready one, already expecting Helaena's failure. She'd felt the weight of her gaze, impatient and passing judgement before she had even laid a stitch upon fabric.
She didn't like the jarring disappointment of her work thrown away so easily by mothers hands.
"Your mother's bad habits needn't be yours, princess."
Helaena doesn't respond to her septas words. Her septa does not seem to mind, doesn't push her face to look at hers, demanding eye contact, demanding words, demanding demanding…
Perfection. That was what was asked of her. But Heleana was Heleana. Bugs and oddities and all. If she could have fixed herself to her mothers tastes she would have.
But she can't. So mayhaps if she could give the appearance of the thing…
The way things looked. That is what her mother always said. It was important.
Helaena begins to pull the thread, unminding of her lost work. She hadn't minded the mistake before even, but if she could do it again, do it better, well she found she would like to.
The cloth wouldn't be perfect. Wouldn't be, even if undone, the material stretched slightly from the pulling. But she could make something of it still.
Septa Florence remains silent for a few moments but for once Helaena senses approval. It heartens her like never before.
"My grandmother…" she finds it within her to say, needle still moving. "She liked snakes?"
Septa Florence laughs. Helaena does not think she is laughing at her this time. Laughter is good she finds. It is a sound that does not grate when used kindly.
When her mother returns to her rooms Helaena shows her her flower, made neat. For once her mother smiles at her, calls it lovely, calls her darling. It feels a small victory. Heleana does not even mind her mother stroking her cheek so much, only stiffens slightly.
Her mother did not have to know that she had undone the thread. Heleana only had to make the work pleasing. The flaws were only for her and Septa Florence to know.
A small secret well worth her mothers good mood and the ease of Helaena's own heart.