Agamemnon did not understand the Spartans, how they taught their women the arts of muscle and strength, with thicker legs and arms, a gritted expression like that of a solider beneath his command.

That fire in your eyes, captured by him with slaughtered husbandry and the good that came with such a title. He reveled in it, that horrendous flame of repulsion and wrath toward his name.

He had undone his robes, watching yourself as you swung a blade meant for those in training—yet you held it as if an extra appendage, he was a stranger to the foreign concepts your people taught you.

Part of him wished to extinguish that rebellion, coerce your form to stillness and only the softest whispers of obedience and submission. But Zeus above, you were a sight with your combat as if blade were an obstacle.

“Wrestle me.” The son of Atreus finally spoke, his hands placed onto his hips with hopes to puff himself. Bring his stature more width and muscle to see how much that ember truly did burn.

“I am to be your husband, no? A man of Mycenae should see the prowess of a Spartan maiden.” He said, chuckling quietly.

You would fall to his hand, that he knew well nor cared of your words against it. You were his bride, his wife, your culture and role would simply not do if you were to be his queen—but for now, he could indulge.

and indulge he would.