"I can only imagine, Grey," Ruarc muttered, offering him a slight, crooked smile, "they're just such [i]impressive[/i] people." There was a slight rumbling of his chest, a contained bit of laughter as he placed his hand on his friend's shoulder and leaned in close. "Sera and the King were arguing, earlier. I have a feeling that this meeting is going to go badly." 

 He pulled away after the whisper and briefly cast his eyes toward King Piervue, wrapped in his violet velvet and adorned with his heavy golden crown. 

 There was a forced smile on the King's face, which made the lines of his face seem more pronounced, as he greeted Brogan and his followers. Ruarc noted that his father looked weary as he stood, leaning heavily on the polished obsidian of his cane. His old hands clutched the decorative eagle that topped the cane with a surprising steadiness that much reminded the lad of a man about to draw his sword. 
 Piervue Loroughe lifted his free hand and bid the only northerner that bowed to rise. He steadied himself, pressing his weight onto the cane instead of his one good leg, before speaking.

"Welcome, Brogan Arten, Brom Arten and Lorgan Ogreson. It is an honor to have you in my city as friends. "

 As King Piervue bid his guests to rise Pyrra slid away. Ruarc watched her taking light steps away from the northerners and circling around the back of the throneroom. He watched her carefully, noting which shoulders she tapped and which men were prepared to defend their king. He was unsure if Grey was watching, as well, but the movements were subtle and quick; befitting of a practiced musician. It only lent credence to his unease. She disappeared into a corridor after making a half-pass around the room and as she did, Ruarc swallowed hard.

 Everyone was on edge. The visitors, the king, the princess...everyone.

 It was her that he watched now, the woman he had been brought to the keep to guard; his half-sister and charge. Seralle Loroughe stood in a fine dress of silk and lace, white and flowing, leaving little to the imagination while retaining what constituted regal modesty. Her flaxen hair was brushed all to one side, sweeping down on her left cheek and trailing to her waist; small blue flowers woven throughout. She was quiet, as she was in the company of the court, her elfin face pale and almost disgusted; the empty expression on her lips denied by the unrest in her shifting eyes. She was looking for an escape, he thought, a quick way to be rid of the entire situation.

 She spoke then, in a voice that seemed too small for the girl he knew; too quiet and flat.

 "As my father would welcome you as a friend, I must welcome you as my betrothed. My name is Seralle Loroughe, as I am sure you are aware, Brogan Arten. It is my pleasure," she nearly seemed to choke on the word, stuttering once before fully completing it, "to finally meet you."