Summary: In which her majesty, Princess Iseult Teagan Nessa Deirdre Amalie Clarisse Siobhan Isabeau de Kimanch'e of Kimanch'e muses on her beauty, her money, and how to get more of both and decides that capturing Prince Caspar's heart is a good way to go about the last two. Unfortunately, Prince Caspar, the stereotypically handsome, slightly cynical, tough, angry prince is looking elsewhere- to Kimber, the stereotypically beautiful, vulnerable, melodious, spunky, young, happy, highly magical princess has caught his eye. Iseult's got a foolproof plan, though- well, she does if Caspar and Kimber's grossly overused behaviour doesn't kill her before she can even speak two words to the prince.

A/N: I should probably be working on Zero Gravity. But Zero is one chapter long, has maybe two readers, and is on hiatus, and I like this right now. So, I am writing it… got a problem, bitch? Yeah. I thought so.

I often have a problem with my lack of… gumption, too. Ah, well. Onto the story!

…

Once upon a time, there lived a beautiful princess by the name of Celia. Her long, golden locks shone brighter than the sun itself. Her beautiful, wide blue eyes were deep and soulful, more enchanting than Aphrodite and the moon together. Her skin was creamy and white and smooth, porcelain skin. Her lips were blood-red and her soft cheeks like roses. She was modest, too, like all good princesses. She had a laugh like the gentle tinkling of bells, and her singing voice would have enraptured even the sirens. Not only was she more beautiful than Helen of Troy, but she was kind. Even the cruelest of people with the coldest of hearts could not resist her helpful, loving nature. But Celia was by no means a pushover. She was tough and strong. Her magical powers easily shadowed those of even the most powerful witch. She was spunky and could fend for herself, but she did have a weakness: she wanted love more than anything.

All-in-all, Celia was spectacular. People raved over her, came for miles all over to see her, to court her, but she always said no: she would wait for the one that she truly loved.

So, all things said, Celia was exactly like every other princess to ever have graced a fairytale. She was nothing special—all the princesses' hair either shone like the sun or was darker than the inky night. All of their eyes were wide, soulful, and enchanting. They all had perfect lips and skin and cheeks and eyelashes and they were all spunky and kind and tough and not a single one of them would accept anything but true love. Even the princesses that were born commoners were like this.

As much as I'd like to tell you that the princes quickly grew bored, they did not. Every one of the handsome, slightly cynical, tough princes adored these princesses, and the princesses adored their handsome, cynical, angry princes right back.

I have a few of the princess requirements: (a) an obscenely long, highly unpronounceable name: Iseult Teagan Nessa Deirdre Amalie Clarisse Siobhan Isabeau of Kimanch'e (which sounds remarkably like gibberish: Is-old Tee-ghin Ness-uh Deer-druh Ah-muh-lee Claw-rys Shi-vahn Is-a-bow. Honestly—what kind of hearing-impaired blithering imbeciles would name their daughter such a nonsensical string of garbage? It's particularly horrid when I'm being addressed—"Hello, good day to you, your royal majesty Princess Iseult Teagan Nessa Deirdre Amalie Clarisse Siobhan Isabeau de Kimanch'e. Lovely hat."), (b) no real last name (although people often pretend that de Kimanch'e is my last name, when all it really is, is a strange, formal way of saying 'of Kimanch'e', which is—naturally—the place that I'm from), (c) beauty that cannot be rivaled by mere mortals, or even mere immortals (beautiful, waving fiery hair that reaches nearly to my bottom; soulful, blue eyes; pale, flawless skin that glows almost like a night-blooming cyrus; a slender, waiflike figure; full, red lips; rosy, blushing cheeks; curling, inky lashes); tough, clever, and able to fight for myself; an enchanting laugh; and awe-inspiring magical powers.

This is where the similarities end. I am vain and cynical and rude. I am distinctly lacking in any singing abilities. I have absolutely no desire to fall in love, nor would I care to go on any sort of adventure. I also don't want to disguise myself as a peasant/ boy/ male peasant. I would like a fair amount of money to add to the money I already have. I adore handsome men, but I prefer them naïve and lavishing me with praise to cynical, cold, adventurous, and dark. I am not particularly spunky, and my so-called kindness couldn't even melt God's heart. I don't have a mysterious, hidden heritage, I am not sixteen, I am not the youngest (I am the only child—well, legitimate child—to the King of Kimanch'e and therefore the eldest), and I don't give charity to anyone. Anyone. If that horrid enchantress from Beauty and the Beast were to come to the door of my palace, I would turn her down faster than a nanosecond could fly by.

Now that we have established that, not only am I unlike your typical fairytale heroine (in fact, it seems that I'm much more of a typical fairytale villain), it my distinctly unfortunate displeasure to inform you that this is my story. If I didn't have one to tell, I can assure you that I would be a much happier person.

It seems, though, that it is a requirement for all princesses—heroines or not—to have their own stories to tell. Damn.