He's a soldier, not a prince, but she doesn't care.
He crooks a mental finger at her, and she obeys without hesitation, even as he half-knew she would.
Helia stands there, expression that of someone who’s been smacked in the face with a fish, and John has one fleeting moment of sympathy for her: Atlantis was hers, longer ago than can be reckoned, to bend and use as she saw fit. But John has spent three years wooing his lady, asking for favors when he could have commanded, telling her stories in the dark. Helia buried her: John woke her, and Sleeping Beauty has no intention of being enchanted again.