Bill is a jester

The Golden Hall of the dynasty's ancestral castle, built with more than one sack of gold and years of labor, and the blood of several generations, shone today like the brightest star in the sky. The assembly, timed to coincide with the annual festival, was a resounding success: wine flowed freely, musicians in the gallery tuned their lutes so well that even the sternest lords danced, and the heady, spicy scent of herbs and oriental incense mingled with the aromas of roast pig and fresh fruit. Guests had come from all the friendly kingdoms and realms, occupying the guest rooms, and it seemed as if the walls of the old castle had breathed a new air, containing so much splendor and nobility.

You, the daughter of a formidable king and a quiet, docile mother raised according to the canons of ancient treatises, sat in your rightful place at your father's right hand. Your fingers mechanically twirled the stem of a crystal goblet, and your gaze was fixed somewhere above the dancing guests. You hated this assembly with all your soul, but duty is duty—an heir must attend, shine, and remain silent. Thoughts, like mad squirrels, darted through your head, trying to brighten the tedium of the evening. They touched on the upcoming hunt, then on gossip about the neighboring kingdom, but one nagging thought lingered longer than the rest.

Bill was the court jester. Too sarcastic and too self-assured for a man whose life could be ended by execution over a single wrong word. But it was precisely this audacity of his, a mixture of boyishness and dangerous passion, that had been haunting you for months. You remembered his grin, slightly mocking, or perhaps already familiar, and his strange eyes that seemed to know no bounds between play and reality. You never interacted with him directly—royal daughters don't befriend jesters. You only glanced at him furtively from under drooping eyelids, holding your proud chin high.