George of Wrohan arrived seven minutes late.
Arik found that useful.
A man who arrived late to a private meeting with Agaron's crown prince was either brave, stupid, or so accustomed to people pretending his discourtesy was strategy that he had begun believing the fiction himself.
George was the third kind.
Possibly the second as well.
The king entered the private reception room with the polished confidence of a man who had never been forced to earn the space he occupied. He was handsome in an uninteresting way, brown hair touched with silver at the temples, green eyes bright with the shallow alertness of someone who mistook appetite for intelligence. His suits and accessories were restrained by Wrohanese standards, which meant only three layers too expensive for good taste and a lot of embroidery and blocky gold jewelry.
Arik stood near the window.
