The Lord Chamberlain was, as expected, the first to respond to their royal host once he and the Lord Marshal had risen to give courteous bows to His Majesty, Alreis all but ignored in the corner of the room.  As all concerned took seats but the spotlight-dodging leading man, the Lord Chamberlain cleared his throat sharply and went straight into the formalities.  "Good morning, Highness.  I am Neville Rocken, Lord Chamberlain of Rashaille and official ambassador for His Royal Majesty King Roswain XIX, Crown Ruler of the Unending Kingdom of Rashaille and Emperor of the Greater Holy Lands,"  one could all but hear the sigh in his voice as Neville spouted off the rhetoric so commonly repeated in meetings.  Roswain and his council alike held such ceremony in monotonous distaste, but tradition was tradition, and in some ways stronger than law.  He droned on for several more lines yet, declaring in a dry and tired tone things everyone in the room already knew about how they were here in accordance with the treaty to discuss the particulars of the marriage, at which point many gazes from the other size turned to the Lord Marshal, greying and stout old soldier that he was, a weathered oak of a man.  Eyes widened in moderate surprise, and Alreis was uncertain if he saw a look of disgust or two before Arthur, the Lord Marshal, quickly read the situation and prevented things spiraling out of hand.  "There seems to be a misunderstanding," he began, raising a hand swiftly as if trying to halt their thoughts, "the man in question, Alreis Enstringe, is back there."  He gestured towards the corner in which the spotlight-dodging leading man stood, head brushing the ceiling even with his back slouched as he leaned heavily against the windowsill.<br/><br/>"Mh."  The soldier-turned-princeling grunted plainly, even that simple vocalization rumbling forth as though the very tundra itself spoke through him.  If one was sensitive enough, they could detect the faintest rumbling in the floor beneath them when he spoke; his battlecries were said to slay his enemies by tearing open the very earth beneath their feet.  Hyperbole, of course, but it served well to indicate the inexplicable weight of his voice.  "Alreis Enstringe.  'The Cold Steel of The Gate'.  Soldier.  Now though, I suppose, I'm expected to be a groom instead."  He stooped, pushing off the window and bending at the waist to avoid slamming his head into the ceiling.  "I would like to be clear, old man," he addressed Frost's father quite frankly, pale blue eyes piercing the man to the depths of what he thought himself to be, "that Roswain was the one who demanded this farce, and not you.  Is that correct?"  He easily loomed over all present, dominating the room more or less with a frigid disinterest.  "Because I have a very low opinion of the man responsible for tying me down to a woman who almost undoubtedly wants no part in this."  A quick nod lead to the spearman slouching into a seat opposite his evident wife-to-be.  He examined her silently, frozen eyes picking apart every detail and analyzing her impersonally.  She certainly held a bit of charm, and attractive enough that if he had been asked to marry her when he was younger he would have jumped at the opportunity.  But that was Alreis before he was reforged in a flame that burnt even stone into smoldering cinders; now she was simply a Snow Fairy to him, princess status notwithstanding.  Worse yet for her, she was potentially an obstacle in his mission, a hindrance he would need to handle swiftly, but delicately; having armies pursuing him would certainly be damning to his hunt.