The throne room brimmed with the low buzz of courtly impatience. Tapestries on the walls fluttered in the draft, as if they too were perturbed by the delay. Gerardine stood sentinel beside the expectant door, her posture a flawless blend of military precision and barely contained irritation.
"Where is he?" The oldest councilor's voice cut through the murmur like a scythe through wheat. His wrinkled hand quivered slightly, betraying his concern.
The commander cast a glance at Gerardine. She offered only a subtle shake of her head, her lips a tight line. "I don't know," he admitted, his voice a low growl.
"He’s never late. What is going on?" The old councilor stroked his silver beard, eyes darting around the opulent room as if expecting Renault to appear from behind a curtain or under a chair.
As the commander drew breath to fabricate some plausible excuse, the door beside Gerardine exploded open, slamming against the wall with a loud bang. Reflexively, her hand darted to her hilt, ready for battle or betrayal. In bounded two jesters, their colorful costumes and wild acrobatics drawing all eyes in the room, a blur of red, green, and purple cartwheeling and backflipping with such reckless abandon one might think they were fleeing an angry bear rather than entering the throne room. A lute player followed, fingers moving nimbly across the strings plucking a melody so cheerful it bordered on offensive, followed by lyre player harmonizing with the garish tune. Lastly, a third jester stumbled in, his dance moves more akin to a marionette in the throes of existential crisis than any sort of choreography.
The sea of confused faces all turned towards the unexpected chaos that had erupted through the door. Whispers crescendoed into a cacophony of speculation until—ah, the reveal! The face of the clumsy jester was none other than Renault's, grinning like a fox in a henhouse. His face was flushed with excitement, his blue eyes shining with impishness. Gerardine's hand left her sword, crossing her arms instead, her gaze sharpening into daggers that promised silent retribution.
"Ahem," Renault began, his voice lilting mockingly as he pranced forward. “This band of merry men are here to make pink young knights. Especially one naught taller than a sunflower, nor so bright as one—"
Gerardine's glare could have curdled milk, but Renault, the incorrigible fool, pressed on. "Neither yet bloomed." The room echoed with the sound of raucous laughter, interspersed with snorts and snickers from the men who pointed at Gerardine in mirth between slaps of their thighs. She could taste the bitterness of embarrassment in her mouth, a metallic tang that made her stomach churn, her eyes darting between her follow knights and Renault.
"Perhaps if laughter will strike this not-so-fair knight, he would be transformed, but into what, we ask." He danced closer to Gerardine, who seemed to radiate a cold fury. "So dour a form could only become fair, for there’s no way such a form as his could become fouler."
The laughter swelled again, but Gerardine stood unmoved, her anger a palpable force in the room. Renault twirled, his jester bells jingling mockingly. "Perhaps such a short and glum knight would become a tall and sweet lady!"