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At the head of the service stood a solitary figure, clad in battle raiment save for a windswept cloak that clung to his broad shoulders. He looked fit for a painting, his face was set in a grim countenance, a thoughtful light far behind his eyes of grey iron. The king had been mad as a rabid dog, Torm had seen the lack of sanity first hand. But he was still his liege, and with the passing of The Prince as well, it was not difficult to spend minutes regretting the events that led to this occasion. He'd learned how to mourn long ago. 

Anyamara and Sharles both gave their eulogies, though Torm didn't really watch to see who gave more regret over the deaths of the royal family. Politics would come later. Though Sharles nervousness didn't escape him. Even now he felt his father's voice at his heels, tugging at his heart whilst his honor counterbalanced the evil thoughts dwelling within.

Behind him he could hear whispers, drawing him out of his reverie. Faint murmurs of what he assumed were upstart malcontents smelling blood in the water, and he turned. Not with his entire body, but he did not hide his wintry gaze. He could win a maiden's heart with a smile, but his glare promised a duel of iron swords. He wasn't so cynical or bullheaded that he thought all manner of stately discussion was made with forked teeth, but there was a time and a place. The service was mercifully concluded shortly after, the dukes and barons howling once again. Garthon the Venerable placed his hand on Torm's shoulder, the old master-at-arms locking gazes for a moment with him before they both smiled. 

"How about a drink to warm the bones?" He offered the Wolf, his voice like grinding stone. Nearly seventy winters and he still had the strength of a knight in him. Torm trusted no one more, except maybe his horse. The man had practically raised the Archduke. For his part, Torm placed his hand on the elder's and shook his head, glancing at his lieutenant. Einon the Tall was already eyeing up every lass with long legs and longer lashes in the crowd. 

"I need to bandy words with my...peers." Torm said, regret evident. He gestured toward Einon with his head. "Get a drink with that one, and make sure he doesn't go after a woman that could have him hanged." 

"No promises," Garthon replied, and he pushed Einon with one meaty hand. "Come on, boy. Don't make me whip ye in front of all the lords n' ladies." 

Torm gave a laugh showing his teeth. It showed how young and full of life he was, when the stern facade faded. He wanted to find Sir Jorin Longwall, probably the man he respected the most and knew the best in the entire city. But as it were the man was likely busy with his duties, and so he would instead find another Archduke or Baron he wasn't entirely acquainted with. It would do to engage and see who among the two claimants was more widely favored, and he wanted to see who outside his realm he could potentially trust, no matter the outcome.

[hider]Torm stands up front, disapproving the scheming behind him while lost in his own thoughts. He dismisses his two retainers to find those he could speak with, if nothing more than for appearance sake.[/hider]