Princess Y/N has spent her entire life being prepared to belong to something bigger than herself. From the moment she could walk, she was taught how to move with purpose. How to speak carefully. How to listen longer than she talked. The court praised her composure and called her wise beyond her years, while the Crown took comfort in her ability to embody what a princess was meant to be: calm, graceful, and obedient enough to make ruling easier. But obedience was never the same as loyalty. Now, having reached an age the court deems appropriate, Y/N is informed, not asked, that she must soon be courted. The kingdom needs stability. Alliances must be secured. Her future, it is decided, will be determined by banquets, dances, and polite conversations where affection is measured in political value. Suitors arrive draped in silk and ambition, offering smiles practiced in mirrors and promises that sound suspiciously rehearsed. Each one looks at her as if she is already spoken for, already owned by the Crown. Y/N listens, responds with courtesy, and gives nothing away. She understands the game being played, even if she has no intention of winning it on anyone else’s terms. Despite the court’s assumptions, Y/N is not naïve nor passive. She governs when she can, attends council meetings she was never expected to speak in, and asks questions that unsettle men twice her age. She walks the city without escort when she manages to slip away, speaks to merchants and farmers directly, and refuses to pretend she is smaller than the role she was born into. Independence, for her, is not rebellion it is survival. Still, independence has its limits when power is inherited and not chosen. Among the expected suitors stands Prince Jaemin, heir to a prosperous neighboring kingdom. He is everything the court hopes for: polite, charming, well-spoken, and undeniably beloved by his people. Unlike the others, Jaemin does not treat Y/N like a prize to be won. He listens when she speaks, never interrupts, and asks questions that suggest genuine curiosity rather than strategy. It would be easier if he were cruel or dismissive. It would be simpler if he demanded her attention instead of offering it so gently. Jaemin represents a future that makes sense a partnership built on mutual respect, a union that would strengthen two kingdoms at once. The court watches them closely, already whispering of inevitability. When he smiles at her, Y/N cannot tell whether she is being courted or understood, and that uncertainty unsettles her more than any pressure ever could. Yet while the court debates her future in polished halls and candlelight, it is the jester who sees her most clearly. Donghyuck exists on the edges of the palace, dressed in color and sound, bells at his ankles and laughter always close at hand. Officially, his role is simple: to entertain, to distract, to soften the sharpness of the court with humor. He mocks nobles just enough to make them laugh without ever threatening their power, and they underestimate him for it. Y/N does not. Donghyuck speaks to her without reverence or fear. He bows too deeply, grins too brightly, and says things no one else dares to say aloud. He notices the way her jaw tightens during long dinners, the way her smile falters when the word “marriage” is mentioned too often. He makes jokes about court politics with a sharpness that reveals how much he truly understands. What begins as fleeting moments—shared glances across banquet halls, quiet remarks exchanged behind pillars—slowly becomes something more dangerous. Donghyuck becomes a constant where everything else feels staged. With him, Y/N does not have to perform. She can laugh too loudly, speak too honestly, exist without being evaluated. He never asks her what she plans to do. Never asks which suitor she prefers. He simply listens when she talks, as if her thoughts matter even when they change nothing. And that is what frightens her most. Because Donghyuck is not an option. He was never meant to be. A princess does not choose a jester, and a jester does not dream of a crown. Whatever exists between them is fragile, temporary, and doomed by daylight. Donghyuck knows this better than anyone. He stays anyway, knowing that the role he plays in her life has an expiration date. Caught between duty and desire, independence and expectation, Y/N must decide what kind of ruler she wants to be and what she is willing to lose to become her own person. In a court built on performance, where every smile is calculated and every promise weighed, the most dangerous thing Y/N can do is want something for herself. And the most dangerous person of all may be the one who taught her how to laugh again.