[ She watches him most carefully. No, there is little to read there, not even from the dance of his hands, where she might read on a fighter otherwise. That was the trick. Don't watch their faces, those were all gile and misdirection. Watch the hand that moves to a blade. In this case, she keeps an ear to the movements of his men.

The rest stays on him. Maps quickly the casualness with which he sits, the shift forward of his shoulders. He is savage; not that he is a savage, but it's there, just under his skin, the construction of it. A propensity to violence, that settles around him. No doubt, something he carefully cultivated. A reputation maintained by centuries worth of actions. Worn so very, very well. ]

I did always wonder which one you were. King Horick, Bjorn Ironsides? [ Voice soft, loud enough to be heard only between them as the merriment picks up about them, eyes flicking up to is in something that might be demure except that she never, never is. She's a Queen, she lowers her eyes for no one.

Her fingers still on the tankard, drawing it in his close. She didn't quite have the taste for it, besides she wanted a clear head. Whatever advantage that might give her. ] Rollo, the Duke of Normandy? [ gives a smile, slightest bare of teeth. ] They all are spoken of when your name is mentioned.