The village was nothing more than a handful of stone cottages clustered along a muddy road. Chickens scratched through the dirt; smoke trickled from thatched roofs. Beyond the fields rose the castle of Lord Morningstar—tall, gray, and indifferent, its golden banners snapping in the wind.
Inside one of the smaller houses, laughter broke through the hunger.
The boy sat cross-legged on the floor, clutching his thin belly. His ribs showed beneath his patched tunic, but his eyes sparkled with life. His father balanced three wooden spoons in one hand, juggling them with exaggerated clumsiness until they clattered to the floor.
Father (grinning, bowing low): "And that, my boy, is how you don't earn a coin!"
The boy laughed until he coughed. Even in the cold, even with no bread on the table, his father's voice could light the room.
Grandfather, hunched on the stool in the corner, smiled faintly. His beard was white as frost, his hands trembling as he pulled a thin blanket around his shoulders. A clay cup of boiled roots—their substitute for medicine—sat untouched at his side.
Grandfather (raspy): "Better a fool with a smile than a king with none. Remember that lad."
The boy nodded solemnly. His grandfather's words always carried weight, even when spoken in riddles.
Father: "Bah, old man, don't fill his head with riddles before he can even count his fingers. What he needs is laughter!"
He scooped the boy up, tossing him into the air just enough to make him squeal with joy before setting him back down. The boy's cheeks hurt from smiling, but he didn't care. For a moment, the cold and hunger were forgotten.
That night, while his father mended his motley cap by candlelight, the boy sat with his grandfather.
Boy: "Grandpa, why do you always look so tired?"
The old man chuckled, coughing softly afterward.
Grandfather: "Because time asks a price, lad. My bones pay it now. But what I can still give you is wisdom. Do you want it?"
The boy leaned closer, eyes wide.
Boy: "Yes."
Grandfather's voice lowered.
Grandfather: "The world will laugh at you, child—for being poor, for being different, for daring to smile. But if you learn to laugh with them, you'll never be their prisoner. And if you learn when not to laugh… then you'll know where true power lies."
The boy didn't understand all of it, but the seriousness in his grandfather's eyes burned into him.
From that night on, two worlds shaped him: the warm, foolish joy of his father and the quiet, razor-edged lessons of his grandfather.
In the day, he practiced juggling with stones, imitating his father's tricks until his small hands blistered. At night, he repeated his grandfather's riddles, learning patience and learning how to listen.
And though hunger gnawed at them, though lords' taxmen took more than they ever gave, the boy grew with both laughter and wisdom entwined in his heart.
But medicine was scarce. His grandfather's cough grew worse. Each night, the boy prayed silently, promising that one day he would earn enough coin to buy medicine—enough to keep laughter and riddles both alive.
It was the promise of a child, but one he believed with all his soul.
The castle's great hall reeked of roasted meat and stale ale, but the boy's father carried himself as if it were a king's stage. His bells jingled faintly from his patched motley, his painted grin a mask hiding the bruises that never had time to heal.
Father (singing):
"Three lords drank from a cup of gold,
One grew rich, the other old.
And the third—ha!—he lost his shoe.
So now he hops, just like you!"
The drunken nobles roared. Some with laughter, some with irritation. One hurled a bone across the hall that struck his father's cheek. Blood welled, but the jester only bowed lower.
Noble (slurring): "Dance, fool! Dance until you drop dead!"
Father twirled clumsily, bells ringing. His ankle twisted, but he forced the pratfall into a gag, slamming flat onto his back. The hall erupted—some in cruel delight, others in bored jeers.
Another lord upended a goblet of wine over his head. A third struck him with a staff when the wine-soaked grin didn't amuse him enough.
When the jester stumbled out of the castle later that night, his ribs aching, his motley stained with wine and blood, he carried something in his hand: a half-stale loaf he'd snatched from the feast table.
Home was a flickering candle in the window. His son rushed to greet him.
Boy (brightly): "Papa! Did they laugh tonight?"
His father, beaten and bruised, forced a grin. He knelt, pressing the loaf into his boy's hands.
Father: "Of course they laughed, my boy. Laughed so hard they wept. And now—look! Dinner for us!"
The boy's eyes sparkled. He didn't notice the way his father's hands shook when he tousled his hair. He didn't notice the bruise already blooming across his cheek.
Grandfather saw. He said nothing, but when the boy went to sleep, the old man caught the father by the wrist.
Grandfather (hoarse, low): "You can't keep letting them break you."
Father (quietly, still smiling): "As long as he smiles, I can."
The old man's eyes softened, sorrow in their depth. But he said nothing more.
Nights became weeks, and weeks became months. Each time, the nobles mocked, beat, and punished the jester. Each time, he came home with torn clothes and laughter ready on his lips.
The boy learned to juggle with pebbles, imitating his father, giggling as they clattered to the dirt. His father clapped, his eyes bright even through pain.
But the boy also learned to listen to his grandfather's coughing in the night, the sound scraping weaker and weaker as medicine grew ever further out of reach.
Between the laughter and the riddles, something began to form in the boy's heart. He did not yet understand it, but it sat there like a seed in shadow:
Why must joy be beaten? Why must fools suffer while lords laugh?
And though he smiled with his father and solved riddles with his grandfather, that seed would not stop growing.