THE CAMERA AND THE CROWN

This is the world of Grayson, the seven-year-old Crown Prince who treats the monarchy like a personal i********: feed and the palace like a very expensive, very shiny prison. Think sharp suits, sharper insults, and a ritualistic media team that treats his every bowel movement like a breaking news alert. Chapter One: The Morning Ritual (and Other Tragedies) The sun rose over the Aethelgard Palace, but it didn't dare shine until Grayson’s curtains were electronically parted. Grayson sat upright in his canopy bed, wearing silk pyjamas that cost more than a public library. He didn't wake up; he rendered. Within seconds, four Paparazzi Priests in hooded robes scurried into the room, their cameras clicking in a synchronised, rhythmic pulse. "Ugh, Father Thomas, the shutter noise is a B-flat," Grayson drawled, rubbing his eyes with a gold-threaded cloth. "I explicitly requested an A-minor for 'Early Morning Contemplation.' It’s like you want me to look haggard for the 8:00 AM dump of the Royal Feed." "Apologies, Your Radiance," the priest whispered, bowing so low his forehead touched the marble. "The Algorithm demands a raw, unfiltered look today." "Raw? I’m a Prince, not a sushi roll," Grayson snapped. He grabbed his phone—encrusted in conflict-free diamonds—and checked his mentions. "Only 4 million likes on my 'Sleepy Prince' reel? I’m being shadow-banned by the universe. I can feel it." The Sister Problem Grayson marched into the Breakfast Hall, his cape trailing behind him with a dramatic swish. His younger sister, Rihanna, was already there. She wasn't eating. She was staring into a bowl of alphabet soup, her eyes glazed over like a haunted doll. "Rihanna, darling," Grayson sighed, sitting at the far end of a table long enough to host a bowling tournament. "You’re wearing a potato sack again. It’s Tuesday. On Tuesdays, we wear 'Quiet Luxury,' not 'Famine Chic.'" Rihanna didn't blink. "The letters in the soup are forming a portal, Grayson. They say the Prime Minister is actually three raccoons in a trench coat. Also, your soul smells like hairspray and desperation." "My soul smells like Le Labo Santal 33, you little weirdo," Grayson retorted, checking his reflection in a silver spoon. "And don't talk to me about the Prime Minister. I blocked him on w******p because he used a 'laughing-crying' emoji. It’s so 2019." The Barking Critic Under the table, Barnaby, the family’s Golden Retriever, let out a massive, bone-shaking bark. To the rest of the world, it was just a dog being a dog. To Grayson, it was a voice like a sarcastic British butler with a hangover. "WOOF. BARK-BARK." ("Oh look, the tiny tyrant is awake. Is that a velvet waistcoat? You look like a magician’s assistant who got fired for being too annoying.") Grayson dropped his spoon. "Excuse me? Barnaby, I will have you turned into a very stylish rug! That waistcoat is bespoke!" "Grayson, who are you talking to?" his mother, the Queen, asked without looking up from her tablet. "The dog! He’s judging my aesthetic again!" Grayson shrieked. "WOOF." ("Your aesthetic is 'spoiled milk,' kid. Now give me a piece of that bacon or I’m going to tell the Daily Mail you use filters on your Zoom calls.") The Celebrity "Drop-By" Grayson’s phone buzzed. "Oh, thank God. Harry Styles is at the gate. I invited him over to see if his hair is as bouncy in person as it is on TikTok." "Are you going to have tea with him?" the Queen asked. "Tea? No. I’m going to have him stand in the foyer for three minutes so I can take a selfie with the caption 'Casual Mornings with the Besties,' and then I’m sending him home," Grayson said, standing up and smoothing his hair. "I don't actually talk to celebrities, Mother. They’re just living filters for my brand." He checked his lighting one last time. "Father Thomas! Get the ring light! If Harry looks better than me in the wide shot, you’re being exiled to the Midlands!" "WOOF." ("Good luck with that. He’s got better bone structure than the entire bloodline.") "I HATE YOU, BARNABY!" Grayson screamed, as the priests began filming his dramatic walk to the foyer. Should we move to Chapter Two, where Grayson tries to host a "Relatable Pizza Party" for the peasants, but realises he doesn't know how to chew without a silver fork?