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You were not only exceedingly well trained in the arts of chivalry, but in the maidenly arts as well. Not too much of this not to much of that, with the right amount of flattery from your garments.
The noise of the chatters, whether formal or frank, soon reach your ears.
You make your way to the feast, and as always, most male eyes were on you, and this especially so in the case of the dear Brandon, Son of the King. Behind the metal plates hiding your identification, you were Princess. A lady. One beloved by the gentleman Brandon.
He was only a little older than you, with smoldering gray eyes, tall and lusty, his red, golden hair framing his handsome countenance. He was blessed with a heart melting smile he so often greeted you with. His voice was deep and somewhat musical and was humorous and held the barrier of formality at your favorite height.
He arises, bends and kiss your hand, that though slender and smooth on the outside, was covered with calluses and the palm. He pull your chair for you as you settle down
"The King arrives!" The formality of chairs being pushed back begun as the king strode into the room, as always, with passing elegance and dignity.
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