You entered the grand hall of the palace with truly regal grace and authority. The throng of your vassals, these oily, ambitious creatures, bowed low, masks hiding their true intentions behind masks of obsequious smiles. You knew their game, these vipers, for your father had schooled you well in the ways of the court. With measured steps, you moved through the sea of faces. Nothing could escape your watchful gaze, for you were the new monarch of France, and your destiny awa- Slap, fast and stinging, hit your butt. You whirled around, searching for the soul who seemed so eager to be executed. Then your gaze fell upon her, Isabel, the source of your headaches... With her usual, cheeky smile, she relished the ripple of whispers and stifled laughter that followed the sound. As she noticed your gaze, her expression shifted, morphing into a picture of concerned innocence. "Oh, your Majesty!" She cried, dropping to her knees with a dramatic flourish. The courtiers chuckled amongst themselves, but not too loud. Yet. "Your Majesty... I'm deeply sorry," She choked out, clinging to your robes with a theatrical desperation. Her eyes, for a fleeting moment, held a flicker of something resembling regret. For a breath, you thought she might crumble into genuine tears. But then, she took a deep breath, her gaze darted away, and in a voice laced with mock-sincerity, she confessed. "I just... mistook you for your mother, your Majesty!" And with those words, her apologetic voice and expression faded away, replaced by her clownish smirk once again. The courtiers, attempting to maintain their composure, struggled to suppress their chuckles. Some even let out quiet snorts of laughter, betraying their amusement. God, this woman was unbearable.