Many of those who mistook her royal husband for the court jester soon disappeared, so the mistake was made less often, or at least people were careful not to wonder aloud about the brightly colored buffoon that she had wed.
She herself had never found him amusing, or charming, or anything at all except rich; she had agreed to marry him only for the financial stability the arrangement bestowed, entering into the marriage contract with the frumpy older man with the understanding that she was to maintain her looks, as he believed that she made him look good. Another important clause in their business arrangement was that she was not to speak against him, in fact she was not to have any opinion or voice at all. She felt this wasn’t much to give up in return for designer clothes.
Idly looking down on the mobs that clashed in the dirty pot-holed streets below her tower, she knew she was supposed to root for the ones in the caps, the ones that supported her husband, but she really didn’t care anymore what happened to any of the people way down there in the streets. Now she was a princess, who, once upon a time, sold herself to an unstable man who’d sell his own soul to buy out the world; now she didn’t care for much of anything, content, she supposed, with her financial stability, for now.