Every day this little piece of shriveled manhood threw taunts in her direction. His flaccid face and adult acne were not abrasive, it was his lack of manners and decorum. Who comes to the royal kingdom and insults the royal court? Apparently he considered himself immune, that or he loved the taste of foot. Rancid thoughts clouded his lackluster eyes, and he still saw his past visage in gleaming surfaces and mirror reflections. A man whose vanity was thick enough to choke on. She prayed he would choke.
Verbal waste spewed forth from his lips around the dinner table, and everyone laughed with false cheer. She fumed in silence, for decorum was a mantle all too heavy upon her shoulders. She longed for the day she could toss manners aside and throttle his fleshy neck with two hands. She would need two hands to encompass the circumference of that tree trunk.
Violence was a play all too familiar in her thoughts whenever she was in his presence. Him along with all his twittering sycophants were not yet banned from the castle. The queen turned a blind eye, so long as the discussion of bylaws occurred and the parchment was filled with the appropriate information. Once she ascended on the throne, she would reenact her favorite scenes of the Red Queen.
A new parliament was in order, time to clean out the cobwebs and burn off the pestilence that clung to the seats of those hypocrites. For the moment, she breathed. She focused on breathing. Him and his leeches would not force her to reduce herself. A moment of turmoil is worth it. She could not jeopardize her opportunity. She could not risk her moral ground.
Oh the historians were always biased when reporting the on goings of the knights at the round table. Once again she ran her fingertips across the scars on the surface of her section. The wood was marred with knife wounds and sword markings. This was not a room for intellectual discourse alone. The anger roiling in her stomach was proof of that. If her sword was at her side, a weighted length of fine steel and iron. That weight would fly despite her delicate wrist. Her father taught her well. The present queen, so insignificant she had not yet garnered a title, would only sit another year. Then, she would make her father proud and become the Silver Queen.
She would become a queen of truth and justice. Lies must be purged from the kingdom. Her sword would be her symbol, her weapon, and her strength. This jester, a disgusting soul on the velvet seat to her right, would be the first to go.
It was enough.