"My queen to be is your age equivalent of twelve. It'll be some years before she is ready to take a throne...and there is...a possibility that she might reject me as her commander."

If there was anything that he'd learned in his plus ten millennial, it was that nothing was guaranteed. And while nine years may seem like nothing in the life of an old wraith, situations changed like the wind as of late, and he could be dead long before he even got the chance to meet his possible mate.

And there was more.

Queens rarely got to choose their mates. If a commander was killed, the one who killed him took his place. She could reject him, true, but this was rarely the case as a dead commander meant he'd outlived his usefulness and his murderer was far superior.

However, when a female was ready to strike out on her own, she had the luxury of choosing whomever she wanted. Commanders without queens were the first to be considered of course but he'd known males of the lowliest of ranks chosen over war-decorated commanders. For he'd been that lowly male once.

"Very well, we'll hold off on this little..." No, not experiment... "Therapy. until after Atlantis." he said. No use letting her fly into a panic when this was all about NOT panicking.