Brat Princess Isabella Cranky Princess Has To Get Up //free\\ (2027)

By 7:30 AM, the situation had escalated. Princess Isabella had built a pillow fort around herself and was armed with a jar of marmalade (projectile potential) and a silver spoon (bludgeoning tool). The servants had retreated. The knights were pretending to check their armor in the hallway.

“He has brought a gift. A pony.”

Psychologists might say she’s overwhelmed by the pressures of the crown, but the Head Maid says she’s just "not a morning person." Her crankiness is legendary; she once declared that the birds outside were singing "off-key" and demanded they be relocated to a different wing of the palace. Finding a Way to Get Up

Her name is Princess Isabella. But you probably know her by her unofficial, hard-earned title: brat princess Isabella Cranky princess has to get up

"Strawberries are out of season in my heart," Isabella declared, finally poking her head out. Her hair was a wild nest of blonde tangles, and her lower lip was thrust out in a practiced pout. "I had a dream that I was a cloud, Martha. Clouds do not have to study geography or practice the harpsichord. They simply float. I wish to float."

“Fine,” she muttered. “Tomorrow I will get up. But I won’t like it.”

Accusing the sun of being "unnecessarily bright" and "intentionally intrusive." By 7:30 AM, the situation had escalated

In the Princess Isabella game series, the nanny often provides guidance to the princess; similarly, a "nanny" figure is usually the only one who can successfully get a bratty princess out of bed.

The servants gasped. The knights saluted. The queen wiped a tear from her eye.

“Day 142: The sun rose again. I have filed a formal complaint.” “Day 143: My hair is too heavy. I blame gravity.” “Day 144: Someone said ‘good morning’ to me. I had them sent to the stocks.” The knights were pretending to check their armor

"You cannot make me get up," the muffled voice declares. "I am a sovereign entity wrapped in goose down. The laws of physics do not apply to me. Also, I hate breakfast."

Isabella, who wore yesterday’s tiara like a smirk, rolled over and made a noise that sounded suspiciously like thunder in a teacup. “Ten more minutes,” she mumbled into her pillow, which muffled the sound of the crown tilting askew.

She rolls.

“You did wake,” she said, simple and satisfied.

She peers out from her blankets with wide, innocent eyes. “Elara, my dearest friend,” she coos. “What if… I get up at noon instead? And in exchange, I promise not to banish anyone to the Bog of Eternal Stench. That seems fair, doesn’t it? A win-win?”