[ He thinks to the one time he had a night to himself. The one time he slipped his guards. Things had been...so good, right up until that point. In the lead-up to that night, Galen had been satisfied and pleased with his progress. He'd thought of himself as a trusted comrade of the movement. Truly, as devoted, as central to the movement as Ser Galen himself. He'd thought that he had earned a bit of freedom, that he could just take it for himself and come back with a jaunty smile. Like one of the others, who all had nights off, who even at times came home smelling like perfume and talking about girls, something that was viewed with tolerance if not pleasure. He thought he had a place equal to that of the others. He thought -

He squeezes his eyes shut. His chest clenches as he struggles to shove away that memory. Not here, not now, he can't have a panic attack in front of Gregor and the Butcher... ]

I just - don't want you to think that - I'm owed pity. Your Majesty. [ But his voice shakes, and his non-answer to that question is answer enough. And a moment later, his voice small: ] I don't...hate you now. I don't hate any of you.

[ Fear, yes. He fears them all in different amounts. But he doesn't hate them. He can't hate them. ]