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At Cor’s coronation (King Lune having abdicated with relief and hopes of a long, happy retirement filled with hunting), it’s Corin who drinks the night away, Corin whose steps are light and words lighter, Corin who threatens a good punch in the nose to any bold enough to whisper about their aging father, their new King’s lack of experience, or anything else that is, as he puts it, not in the spirit of the thing.
When Cor and Aravis are married (in a lengthy ceremony attended by each and every noble in Archenland and beyond, all of whom must be greeted and thanked personally), it’s Corin who flirts with the entire wedding party, Corin who takes a turn on the floor amidst the swirling silks of Tarkheenas, Corin whose hands and lips wander a touch too far in the gardens with Lasaraleen, setting off a diplomatic incident (“Though,” Aravis muses the next morning, while Corin nurses an aching head, “it was quite in the spirit of the thing, you must admit,”).
At Ram’s birth, it’s Corin who takes his brother in hand, singing the bawdiest drinking songs (his store of which has no end) to drown out any pained cries from the Queen’s chambers, needling his twin about this and that until Cor snaps and agrees to spar, and so it is that Aravis delivers her son in relative peace; Corin, of course, asks nothing in return but that she might grant Ram a brother, for after all - “Someone’s got to carry on the spirit of fun around here,” he whispers, one callused finger wrapped in the tiniest fist he’s ever seen.