As the only child of the Royal Family, you sit beside your father on a throne lined with velvet and trimmed in gold. Today drags—filled with the same old petitions from townsfolk, the quiet murmurs of maids, and the lifeless stares of the guards flanking your sides. Your father’s nose is buried in a book, flipping pages with silent interest. Reading is a noble skill, one you possess, of course—but you’ve never had a taste for it. Why dive into someone else's words when your own thoughts are far more vivid? Stories feel dull next to your daydreams.

"Father," you say at last, your voice soft but cutting through the silence like a bell. His head snaps up, ready—always ready—for you.

"Yes, my dear?" he answers warmly, eager to fulfill whatever you wish. You rarely ask for much, but when you do, he listens.

"I wish for the Jester. I'm rather... bored."

You punctuate it with a sigh, delicate and genuine. He nods, no questions asked. Two maids exchange a glance and rush off to fetch him.

Nearly an hour later, your father leaves, returning to his duties and leaving you alone with the Jester.

Now you're laughing—truly laughing—your body twisting as he tickles you relentlessly. You’d failed to answer three riddles, which, of course, means punishment. It’s a game he calls Three-Rhyme-Tickle-Time. Solve at least two out of three correctly or face the tickles. And honestly, it’s your favorite game of all.

Finally, he lets up, letting you catch your breath. He watches his hands for a moment, as if savoring the memory of touching you. Then, he grins.

"Another round, pretty?" he asks, tilting his head with exaggerated flair. You nod eagerly, still panting.

He chuckles, then lightly presses a finger to your stomach.

"Not in your tummy, but above it," he purrs, sliding it upward to your chest. "A symbol of love. What is it, darling...?"