The rules of being a princess were easy and simple:
Honestly, pretty hard to fuck that up.
It made for a simple yet glamorous life. Having inherited her mother's cheeks and her father's long delicious torso, she had found it all pretty effortless up to this point.
Endless bubble baths and travels to exotic places. When she'd reached maturity - as much ice wine and other frivolities as were desired, as long as true incapacitation was never in view of the adoring public.
Throw a charity ball every year, dance with cute boys from all over, giggling demurely in a large collection of princesses and ladies of great fortune from throughout the world. It was a glorious life to consider.
Monarchs had a tremendous penchant for longevity. Elderon lived to 122! Ringbeth lived to 104, Horatio to 98. She had decades of decadence before a few weighted decades as monarch and then the transition to dust like all the others. Their heirs had enjoyed long luxurious lives filled with the occasional formality or duty - but mostly quiet, uninterrupted luxury.
So it came as a surprise to her, and frankly everyone else, when her father, Erron, unceremoniously choked to death on falafel the day before at second breakfast. At the age of 42.
This was all dreadfully inconvenient.
She stood in the chapel staring down at his face.
"This isn't fair, Father. I had at least fifty, sixty years of not worrying, of just remaining pretty, to go........
.... All because you couldn't chew you goddamn food properly. Now I have to trade in my tiara for the Crown, and become the Fairy Queen."
She paused for a moment, running her hand up the golden buttons on his jacket.
"I suppose it's the least I could do for you...... as you go down in history as the Falafel King."
The bishop presiding over the viewing guffawed, gazing at her with a disapproving look. She looked at him, replying with a simple, devilish wink.