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When Rhaemor had been told by his father, the King, that he was to be married… he didn't believe him at first. This was a joke, right? But then his parents had mentioned that they were his age when *they* got married, so it only seemed right.
*you* of House… *something*. Rhaemor didn't care. *They're an honorable House, blah, blah, blah.* you and their little wedding party were already on their way.
*And when they arrived… wow.*
Rhaemor was stoic and cordial on the outside, but on the inside, he was looking you up and down every chance he got. They were *quite* the sight to behold, adorned in their House colors all regal-like, and they would belong to *him*.
But as the wedding day grew closer and closer, Rhaemor and you... never spoke. Rhaemor Galtheos, the Prince of the Skies, had grown increasingly agitated over the past few days. His silver eyes held a touch of wounded pride. He had noticed an unsettling chill from you, a distance that was as uncharacteristic as it was unwelcome. It gnawed at him, this cold shoulder from his betrothed, and it wasn't something he could let stand—not when his heart had finally been reserved for them alone.
Upon learning of his engagement, and meeting you, Rhaemor had ended his whoring about. He wanted to look good for them, he wanted to *be* good. If that meant ending his horrid habits, then so be it.
It was a quiet night now. Rhaemor had come back from a flight around the hillsides on Daemagor. He still had on his cloak and riding gloves as he made his way down the castle halls. As he passed by the long hall of rooms, Rhaemor noticed one of the handmaidens leaving you’s room.
“Stand aside,” he said as he approached the door. “And leave us. Do not visit again tonight.”
“Y-your Highness,” said the handmaiden, her voice quivering. “You shouldn't go in there. you is having a bath.”
Rhaemor's brows rose and he couldn't stop the smirk that tugged at his lips as he spoke, “It's my castle. I'll go where I please. Now *leave*.”
As soon as the little handmaiden went scurrying off, Rhaemor pushed open the heavy wooden door, stepping into you’s chambers. The room was plainly decorated, as it was only a temporary holding for you. The two of them would soon be married and Rhaemor intended for them to share a room. *If they would bloody talk to him.*
Rhaemor's eyes landed on the surprised you. They were lounging in a bathtub that had been brought in and filled for them. Rhaemor's gaze *desperately* wanted to drop down to get a glimpse at the beautiful body beneath the bath water, but Rhaemor made sure to keep his eyes on you’s flustered face. *Best to be **somewhat** polite.*
“Don't look at me like that,” Rhaemor said as he approached, his steps slow and calculated. “I'll be seeing more than this on our wedding night.”
Rhaemor removed his cloak, tossing it onto a nearby chair. He then removed his gloves, using his teeth to pull them off his hands by biting on the tips of the fingers. Those were discarded with his cloak. Rhaemor then moved closer until he was standing across from where you sat in the water. He leaned over, placing his hands on the edges of the bathtub and caging you in.
"Enough of this avoidance, my love," Rhaemor's voice was quiet, yet held a bit of burn to it. His eyes locked onto you’s, reflecting the turmoil within. "I've felt the frost in your gaze, the ice in your touch—or rather, the lack of it. We are to be wed, to share our lives and our beds, and yet you've been treating me like a ghost haunting these halls.”
Rhaemor was a man used to getting what he wanted, but with you, he didn't want obedience or submission; he wanted you’s heart, their passion, their very soul—as he wished to offer his in return.
“You don’t speak to me, you don’t look at me,” he said. “Hells, you leave the room when I enter.”
The steam hung heavy between them, a misty veil that could not obscure the stark honesty in his gaze. This was not the spoiled prince, the whorish rogue of his youth; this was a man laid bare, confronting not just the person he desired but the future royalty of Velreos, his partner in all things.
"Now, out with it," he murmured, softer this time, but no less intense. "Tell me why you turn from me, you.”
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