Steam rose in lazy swirls from the bathwater, curling around the figure of Renault as he reclined with a cloth draped over his face. The silence of the chamber was thick, almost tangible. With a sudden movement that sent ripples across the surface, Renault yanked the cloth away, his brow knitted with distress.

"Ugh," he groaned, the sound echoing off the high ceilings. His thoughts churned like the water around him. “What is wrong with me? This was always the plan. She deserves this. She—”

Images of Gerardine cascaded through his mind unbidden: her stoic presence in his father's dimly lit bedroom, the unwavering gaze as she witnessed the old king's last breath; her commanding voice during those dusty afternoons of swordplay, "Pick. Up. Your. Sword."; the way she flung her hair back, beads of water glittering in the sun; her triumphant grin, sharp enough to cut steel, as Sir Heloise lay in the grass defeated; the memory of her bow, so full of rage, after his fist met her cheek; the fire in her eyes when she hurled juggling balls at him in a fit of pique; her laughter – that rare, uninhibited melody which seemed to come from a place deep within her.

And then, the image that made his cheeks flare hotter than the bathwater: Gerardine beneath him, her identity no longer hidden by armor or pretense, but revealed in the moonlight as undeniably, breathtakingly woman.

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Gerardine jumped as the council chamber doors exploded open with a bang that could wake the dead. She let loose an unladylike "Holy fuck", just as Renault barreled out. The hall, thick with the musty scent of old books and older men, instantly brightened with his grinning presence.

"Sir Gerard!" he boomed, striding across the chamber like a conqueror. Before she could react, he was upon her, his hands clasping her upper arms as if they were comrades just seeing each other for the first time in years. "We're going hunting."

"Ah, joy," Gerardine groaned, her voice dripping sarcasm as Renault's infectious excitement failed to penetrate her annoyance. Yet, when he tugged her from her post, her body complied with an uncharacteristic limpness—resistance was futile against the human whirlwind that was Renault.

"Come on, no sour faces," he chided cheerfully, reading her like an old friend, much older than they actually were. "Don't worry! No horses and horsing around this time."

"Promise?" she asked, her eyebrow arching in mock hopefulness. Renault only laughed in response, leading her away from the drudgery of duty to the promise of adventure—or at least, his version of it.

***
Deep within the forest, trees whispered secrets to each other as Renault and Gerardine treaded through the underbrush. Bow in hand, Gerardine's eyes couldn't help but wander over to Renault. Clad in his hunting leathers, he cut a dashing figure among the greens and browns of their woodland playground. He was all focus, eyes scanning, every muscle tensed for the hunt. And then there was her, trying to remember why she had agreed to this.

Catching her gaze, Renault's eyebrow quirked up. "What?" he asked, his voice laced with a playful challenge.

"Nothing," Gerardine responded too quickly, her cheeks warming just a smidge. "I'm just waiting for your next prank, sire."

Renault's smile bloomed like a rose in summer. Eyes closed, head raised to the heavens as if in silent thanks, he proclaimed, "I'm giving you a reprieve for the day."

"Generous," Gerardine deadpanned, offering him a blank-faced stare that should have been enough to wilt flowers. "How kind of you, your majesty."

His laughter echoed through the forest, birds taking flight from their sanctuary in the trees. There was something unsettlingly charming about Renault in these moments—unburdened by the weight of his crown, free in a way that made Gerardine's heart perform strange little flips. But she'd never admit to that, not even under pain of torture.

"Oh, am I getting to you?" Renault's voice was a tease, his grin wide as he leaned in, close enough that Gerardine could count every speck of mischief in his eyes.

"Perhaps my nerves," she retorted, arching an eyebrow in mock defiance, "but not my funny bone."

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Renault sat at the head of the long, oak council table, a mischievous glint in his eye as he manipulated a peculiar bag with his fingers. With a squeeze, it erupted into a scandalous sound that echoed off the stone walls, and he couldn't suppress the grin that spread across his face. The gathered councilors, however, were far from amused, their brows knitted together in collective annoyance.

"What?" Renault asked innocently, looking around at the sea of scowling faces.

"Sire, could you please focus?" implored the councilor with glasses perched precariously on his nose. His tone held the same weariness one might reserve for a child who had asked 'why' too many times.

But Renault, undeterred by the plea for seriousness, refilled the rubbery pouch with another gust of breath and pressed it once more, releasing yet another flatulent symphony into the solemn chamber. "Is this funny?" he queried with the enthusiasm of a bard presenting his finest ballad.

The councilor with the impressive beard, whose face was lost somewhere within the thicket of hair, leaned forward. "What is that?" he grumbled, voice deep and resonating like an old war drum.

With a flourish fit for a jester, Renault waved the strange object through the air. "It's a sheep’s stomach treated with wax," he explained, as if unveiling a grand invention.

The oldest councilor, wrinkles mapping out the trials of countless tedious meetings, sighed deeply. "What do you plan to do with it?" he asked, dread seeping into his voice.

Renault's smile broadened, eyes twinkling with the promise of mischief. "I’m going to fill it with air and then put it on Sir Gerard’s seat at dinner. It will make it sound like he farted."

As if on cue, the councilors released a chorus of groans, a sound Renault was becoming all too familiar with. He scanned their faces, puzzled. "What?"