I started out with a plan. A genuine, honest-to-goodness plan.
Step 1: Don't end up as a bitter, dungeon-dwelling villainess.Step 2:Win the king's heart using charm, adorableness, and emotional manipulation (since I'm a baby and that's my one talent set).Step 3: Live out a long, happy life in a castle with hot food and indoor plumbing.
But then. I got bored.
I mean, I was literally an infant. What was I to do? Stage a revolution from the crib? Enlist the other babies in a resistance army? No way. That was effort.
So I did what I did best: nothing at all.I slept, heard the maids chat about palace scandals, and flailed my limbs every now and then for enrichment. I once forgot about my "don't die in a dungeon" plan entirely. Motivation? Never heard of her.
Eventually, however, even I tired of being a floppy bag of potatoes. I made the decision—against my natural nature—to attempt doing something. Anything. I began with the fundamentals: wiggling my fingers. Then some neck muscle building. You know, the standard baby gym equipment routine.
Much to my surprise, the maids went crazy about it. I would have solved world hunger judging from the way they clapped and shrieked when I pulled off successfully not faceplanting during tummy time.
As for Daddy Dearest, still a no-show on most days.
On the few days he deigned to visit me in his royal glory, I was always caught unaware.
He'd strut in, imposing and kingly, all sulky eyes and "I have unresolved trauma" vibes, and my initial thought would be:Whoa, who's the cute guy?
And then:Oh, right. That's my dad.Yikes.
In my defense, it's difficult to bond with your dad on a paternal level when your father visits once per solar eclipse and chastises you as if you were a radioactive potato. Nevertheless, he was absurdly good-looking. It got me wondering about my own face. I started to eagerly anticipate the day I could glance into a mirror and affirm that yes, I too was crushingly lovely.
With that motivation, I formally resumed Operation: Win Daddy Dearest.
Step 1:Desist from vomiting on him.Step 2: Try baby talk and cute sounds to express affection.Step 3:Cry strategically whenever he attempts to leave me.
Did it work?
Well… sort of. I think?
The first time I babble-babbled at him with my best "I love you, don't dungeon me in 15 years" voice, he just looked at me like I was a particularly baffling riddle. Then he gave me to a maid and exited.
Rude.
So I escalated.
Next time, when he tried to put me down and leave, I fired up the big guns—instant, dramatic crying. The "heartbroken baby left behind by cold emperor" variety of crying. I even added some hiccups for added drama.
Sadly, I think it had the opposite effect.
He wasn't moved. He was irritated. Like I was a clingy ex who texted him at 2 AM.
Back to the drawing board.
But hey—I was learning. And babies are nothing if not determined. I had time. I had chubby cheeks. I had cuteness turned to deadly force. He could resist me only so long.
Most likely.