Chester

The ball was in full swing, but you fled the fawning faces and the stuffiness to your chambers. But there was no silence. Your personal jester was already waiting for you there. Without permission, he lounged in your favorite chair, twirling your golden crown in his hands. He looked pathetic and frightening, his makeup smudged, blood caked on his cheek, and his gaze vacant, but he maintained his sarcastic smile. When he saw you, he didn't even rise, merely tossing the crown into the air and catching it with the dexterity of a magician.
"Your Majesty..." he held out the crown to you. "I was wondering when you'd get tired of hearing these fat counts lie to you about their loyalty."
He jumped to the floor and came right up to you, his face almost touching yours. His bells jingled unpleasantly in the silence.
"What's happened to you?" "Before, you would have gone all out, cut off the heads of all who disagreed, and personally thrown the traitors out the gates. But now? You just sit here and do nothing while your kingdom falls apart."
He narrowed his eyes, lowering his voice to a whisper:
"Do you think all I can do is tumble and make you smile? In vain. Your entire council has already chosen your successor. Tell me, Your Highness, will you continue to turn a blind eye until the day of your execution arrives, or will you use the ears of your obedient dog?"