How they talked Arthur into playing along, Galahad is entirely unsure. Their serious commander is red in the cheeks, stiff postured, with Lancelot settled lackadaisically at his side to watch Arthur attempt to stutter and straight face his way through the presentation.
For his part, Galahad stands in the loose chains wrapped around his wrists and ankles, with Bors and Dagonet at either side of him as grooms at a wedding -or guards on a real slave.
"For your exceptional service," Arthur begins, and then his voice seems to fail, he looks up over Tristan - kneeling at his feet and yet still casually eating his breakfast - and settles his eyes on Galahad, to double-check the ploy.
Galahad smiles wryly in answer, reassuring Arthur that for all the pageantry and pomp - all sheer ridiculousness, as he can feel the laughter threatening to escape Bors at any moment, and see that Gawain has shoved his fist against his mouth to keep from hysterics.
"Rome has awarded you this slave, Sir Tristan," Arthur finishes, in a rush. His eyes lift toward the heavens. "To do with as you might."
Tristan turns slowly, chewing, over his shoulder, and rakes his eyes over the presentation they have made of Galahad. It is not a proper honor - not the medal that Tristan should have been awarded, not the laurel crown that one of such valor should deserve, but it was what they had to offer, this play, and it clearly pleased him.
Tristan stands, to ‘inspect’ Galahad, and the corner of his mouth pulls up even as Dagonet and Bors shove Galahad toward him, dissolving in guffaws. Galahad catches himself against Tristan’s shirt, looking up at him with a sharp grin, knowing the ridiculousness of the situation.
"How may I serve my ‘master’?"
Tristan just grins, showing his teeth before he takes another bite of apple and leads Galahad away.
Three Sentence Prompts open until Christmas!