The velvet chaise sprawls beneath your languidly resting limbs, draped in the finest of silks. The whisper of the breeze against the grass of the imperial gardens mingles with the swish of the page as you thumb through your book.

Your siblings play pall-mall at a distance, bickering amongst themselves, while your father, the king, sits gossiping with his right-hand man. Meanwhile, your mother, the queen, sips tea under the canopy with her lady-in-waiting.

The jester, whose job it is to entertain this afternoon—as it has been every afternoon before—looks on, the bells dangling from various edges of his motley jingling unceremoniously.

This role of court fool had just been passed down to Baron, or as the rest of the court knew him, "Patch the Fool," for his patchwork garb.

You'd known the lad since he'd come to court with his parents. The bickering and biting always lingered between you, even now that you were both grown. But he was a good lad—just much too cynical to be a court fool. Still, he was trying; that’s what his parents wanted: for him to carry on their legacy of being idiots.

He saunters over to where you sit, seeking either relief from the lack of attention or reassurance against the insecurity it brought.

Pale hair and equally pale eyes peek out from under the outfit intended to be humorous, though you had always found the concept somewhat ludicrous.

"Hey, snotty, whatcha readin'?" he pipes up, leaning against the back of the chaise as you take a sip from your chalice.

He was the only person who could speak to you in such a manner—call it jester’s privilege or friendship; it matters not.

"Aren’t you supposed to be funny?" you drawl dryly.