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!"

The council chamber buzzed with the kind of hushed tones usually reserved for gossiping courtiers, yet King Renault's mind was miles away, lost in plans for jokes and jests in a much more focused way than usual. He started when the oldest councilor's voice sliced through his scheming.

"Sire, might I ask why you’ve appointed Sir Gerard as your personal guard? Were your previous guards not satisfactory?"

Renault blinked back to reality, casting a wary glance toward the heavy oak door. "Keep your voice down," he whispered conspiratorially, "Sir Gerard is just outside the room."

"Ah, yes, but your majesty," the Oldest Councilor continued, undeterred by potential eavesdroppers, "wouldn’t it be better if Sir Gerard remained in his duties as sword master? He’s very well suited for that.”

"Indeed, I agree," Renault admitted, stretching his arms wide as though to embrace the whole council with his confidence. "But he is also the person I trust most in the kingdom." His declaration fell into the room with the weight of an unsheathed sword, and silence enveloped them all.

"Is there a particular reason sire trusts him so much?" The question hung in the air. The councilors seemed both shocked and insulted.

Renault shifted in his seat, the throne suddenly feeling more like a hot iron spike than a seat of comfort. "Well, uh, he's proven himself as a teacher, a, uh, champion in my name, and, uh, as a stalwart man of honor." Each 'uh' punctuated his discomfort like jousting lances hitting their mark.

"Do you still plan to marry him off before you marry, your majesty?" The oldest councilor's eyes narrowed, sharp as the tip of an arrow.

A smile tugged at the corner of Renault's lips, a sign that the gears in his mind were turning with some mischief. "Yes, but he has laid me out a challenge before I can." Renault tented his fingers in front of his face, peering over them like a general surveying a battlefield.

The councilors exchanged glances, their curiosity piqued. "What is the challenge? Perhaps we can help, sire."

Renault's determined gaze, eyes alight with the fire of a thousand jesters, pointed to the door where the knight in question stood on the other side. "To make him laugh."

A collective groan escaped the councilors, their heads dropping as though their necks could no longer bear the weight of such a monumental task. Renault's mirthful eyes betrayed none of the gravity they felt.

Outside the room, leaning casually against the cool stone wall, Gerardine's lips curled into a smirk.

***

The grand hall glittered with candlelight, its warmth barely touching the chill of formality that hung in the air. Gerardine sat rigidly next to Renault's gilded throne, a plate of roasted fowl before her as untouched as her patience. Renault, ever the playful monarch, extended his hand with a chicken leg, dropping it onto her plate with a cavalier flourish.

"Why did the chicken refuse to play cards?" Renault quipped, a mischievous glint in his eye.

Renault's boots thudded against the marble as he strode into the grand hall, a hush falling over the assembly like a velvet curtain. He didn't miss the way conversations died on lips, how every eye turned to him with bated breath. With the ease of one born to it, yet none of the arrogance, he ascended to the head table and sank onto the throne that seemed as much a part of him as his crown.

A side door creaked discreetly, and in slipped Gerardine, her insignia and sword pommel catching flecks of torchlight. She leaned back against the wall, an island of stoicism in a sea of finery.

Renault gaze swept across the courtiers' wide, expectant eyes. "I owe all of you an apology."

The collective gasp from the crowd could have filled the sails of a galleon. Renault pressed on, undeterred. "Recently, I fell back into princely habits unbefitting your king. As such, I gave one of my most dedicated knights an order that was grotesque and tyrannical."

Across the room, Gerardine crossed her arms.

"I was fortunate that the knight in question understood honor better than I and refused my immoral order," Renault continued, his voice steady but laced with humility. "I beseech your understanding and your forgiveness in this misstep in my carrying out the duties as the servant of my people." A sheepish smile tugged at his lips. "After all, I've only had the job a month."