If it was poor luck that almost killed her, it was good luck that kept her alive — or perhaps a blessing from the Old Gods, though she could never decipher their purpose in such a horror. Dragged from the bloodied earth, she was stitched together and watched over constantly under careful care. It hardly seemed enough, but Hellan's deep wounds eventually started to heal — and would go on to bind together with tough scar tissue that would forever mark her torso. Even with sealed flesh, however, Hellan could never return to her former glory. A massive scar was the least of her troubles. Whether the blade damaged her insides in some unknowable way, she caught a mysterious infection when she was so opened up to the world, or she just didn't heal right, physical ailments took root in Hellan and refused to let go. It was assumed that she'd start to feel better once she got on her feet, but her body replied with severe pain, fevers, weakness.
It had been long since arranged that she marry the next year, but her would-be bridegroom saw her diminished state, demanded to see her scars, and deemed her grotesque and, more relevantly, unfit for childbirth. It's true, she didn't look capable; the state of pregnancy would surely tear her in two, would it not?
She worked hard on gaining her strength, and over time gained her sturdy muscles back. She became more adept at concealing the fact she was in pain, that she tired far easier than she used to, that sudden flares of disabling illness would strike her down long after her wounds had scarred— and that she'd re-live her own felling every day in the cage of her mind, but as a result her bonds with her family began to crumble as she withdrew into herself, and into stationary hobbies like knitting, writing, and reading and deciphering old tomes.
In a another year, given a dubious blessing by a maester and a midwife, her mother pressured her intensely to convince everyone she could indeed bear a child. She did just that, with a man of little consequence to her, and survived her son, Tiernan.
She was soon married to a Stark, the uncle of the head of house by the name of Gidion, and left Bear Island for Winterfell — leaving her young, out-of-wedlock child in the care of family. It was not a favourable arrangement for bride nor groom; not only was Hellan already twenty-two and had an illegitimate child, she was cold and distant and bore little promise as a wife. But Hellan utilized her teachings in etiquette and her sharp mind to fit in among the great Stark nobles — as well as her budding, fated to bloom, dependency on milk of the poppy to help her cope — and also proved to be a solid advisor. A better advisor than a wife. She bore her husband a son, Wylliam. Her pregnancies drained her so much that she did everything she could to prevent another child. Nearly. When her daughter Genevra was indeed born, she didn't touch the baby girl for weeks.
Hellan was protective of her children, and insistent upon instilling in them the same lessons she learned as a child, as well as passing on her love of reading and penmanship, but perhaps she should have been a septa rather than a parent. Whatever her shortcomings and shames, Hellan was always careful to maintain the stature and honour of House Stark and her bloodline. It was her husband who ultimately brought the most dishonour onto her family when he deemed it necessary to help an old friend desert the Night's Watch. If only Hellan could have advised him against that tremendously poor decision. Knowing the consequences of his actions would mean shame to his family, he sent them far away south to Oldtown while his fate hung in the balance.
