The Story of the Princess

In the magnificent palace of the Goryeo Dynasty, where golden roofs gleamed under azure skies and gardens bloomed with flowers from every season, lived Princess Mi-young, daughter of King Dae-jo. Unlike other princesses who spent their days learning embroidery and music, Mi-young could often be found in the palace library, reading ancient texts about governance, philosophy, and the lives of common people.

“My daughter,” King Dae-jo would say with a mixture of pride and concern, “while I admire your love of learning, you must remember that a princess’s duty is to marry well and support the kingdom through a beneficial alliance.”

Princess Mi-young would bow respectfully to her father, but in her heart, she believed that a princess’s true duty was to serve her people with wisdom and compassion, regardless of whom she married—or whether she married at all.

As Mi-young approached her eighteenth birthday, the pressure to choose a husband intensified. Suitors arrived from kingdoms near and far, each bringing gifts of gold, jade, silk, and precious stones. The palace buzzed with excitement as nobles debated the merits of each potential match.

“Prince Jin from the Eastern Kingdom brings the promise of military alliance,” advised Minister Park.

“But Prince Woo from the Southern Kingdom offers trade agreements that would fill our treasury,” countered Minister Lee.

“And Prince Hyun from the Western Kingdom has the largest army in the region,” added General Kim.

King Dae-jo listened to his advisors, but ultimately turned to his daughter. “Mi-young, you have heard the arguments. All three princes are honorable men from powerful kingdoms. Which alliance do you believe would serve our people best?”

Princess Mi-young stood gracefully and addressed the court. “Honored Father, respected ministers, I believe the question itself reveals a flaw in our thinking. Instead of choosing which kingdom’s strength to borrow, should we not focus on developing our own kingdom’s wisdom and capability?”

The court murmured in surprise. It was unusual for a princess to speak so boldly about matters of state.

“What do you propose, my daughter?” the king asked, genuinely curious.

“I propose a test,” Mi-young replied with confidence. “Let each suitor demonstrate not what his kingdom can give us, but what he understands about good leadership. Give each prince one month to improve the lives of our people in a different region of our kingdom. The one who succeeds best will prove himself worthy—not of my hand, but of our respect.”

The king raised an eyebrow. “And if none of them succeeds to your satisfaction?”

Mi-young smiled mysteriously. “Then perhaps our kingdom needs a different kind of leadership entirely.”

Intrigued by his daughter’s unconventional approach, King Dae-jo agreed to the test. Prince Jin was assigned to improve conditions in the mountain villages, Prince Woo was given responsibility for the coastal fishing communities, and Prince Hyun was asked to help the farming regions increase their productivity.

Meanwhile, Princess Mi-young requested permission to travel disguised as a court scholar to observe each prince’s efforts and learn more about the true needs of their people.

In the mountain villages, Princess Mi-young watched as Prince Jin attempted to solve problems through force and authority. When villagers complained about difficult travel between settlements, he ordered hundreds of workers to build a grand stone road, but he chose the route based on maps rather than consulting the people who actually traveled the paths daily. The result was a beautiful but impractical road that bypassed the places villagers most needed to reach.

“The prince means well,” an elderly villager confided to the disguised princess, “but he decides what we need without asking what we actually want.”

In the coastal regions, Prince Woo focused on increasing trade profits but ignored the fishermen’s growing concerns about depleted fishing grounds. He negotiated lucrative contracts to export more fish than the sea could sustainably provide, and when catches began to dwindle, he simply ordered the fishermen to work longer hours.

“This prince sees only numbers, not people,” a young fisherman’s wife whispered to Mi-young. “He’s so busy counting coins that he doesn’t notice our nets coming up empty.”

In the farming areas, Prince Hyun took a different approach but made similar mistakes. He introduced new farming techniques from his own kingdom without considering whether they were suitable for different soil and climate conditions. Many crops failed, and farmers who had fed their families for generations suddenly found themselves struggling.

“The prince’s methods work in his land,” an old farmer told Mi-young sadly, “but he assumes that what works there must work everywhere. He doesn’t listen when we try to explain our different challenges.”

After observing all three princes, Princess Mi-young returned to the palace deep in thought. When the month ended and the court reconvened to hear reports, each prince proudly presented his achievements.

“I have built magnificent infrastructure that will last for centuries,” Prince Jin announced.

“I have increased trade revenue by thirty percent,” Prince Woo declared.

“I have introduced advanced agricultural techniques from our kingdom,” Prince Hyun proclaimed.

King Dae-jo looked expectantly at his daughter. “Well, Mi-young? Which prince has proven himself most worthy?”

Princess Mi-young rose and spoke with quiet dignity. “Honored Father, each prince has demonstrated valuable skills—Prince Jin’s dedication to lasting improvements, Prince Woo’s understanding of commerce, and Prince Hyun’s knowledge of innovation. However, all three made the same fundamental error.”

“And what error was that?” the king asked.

“They all assumed they knew what was best for our people without truly listening to what our people actually needed. They brought solutions from their own kingdoms instead of developing solutions with our people.”

The three princes shifted uncomfortably, beginning to sense where this was leading.

“Therefore,” Princess Mi-young continued, “I respectfully decline all three proposals of marriage. Instead, I request permission to serve our kingdom in a different way.”

The court erupted in surprised murmurs, but King Dae-jo raised his hand for silence. “Speak, my daughter.”

“I propose to travel throughout our kingdom, not as a princess seeking a husband, but as a leader learning to serve. I want to work with our people to understand their challenges and develop solutions together. After five years of such service, if our kingdom has grown stronger and our people more prosperous, I will have proven that a woman can lead effectively without the political alliance of marriage.”

The king was quiet for a long moment, considering this unprecedented proposal. Finally, he spoke: “And if your experiment fails? If our kingdom suffers without the security of a powerful marriage alliance?”

“Then I will accept whatever marriage arrangement you deem best for our people,” Mi-young replied solemnly. “But I ask for the chance to prove that strength comes from understanding, not just from armies and trade agreements.”

To everyone’s surprise, King Dae-jo smiled. “Your mother always said you inherited my stubborn streak and her clever mind. Very well, my daughter. You have five years to prove your theory.”

Over the following years, Princess Mi-young traveled extensively throughout the kingdom. But unlike the foreign princes, she lived among the people she served. She spent months in mountain villages, learning traditional crafts and understanding the challenges of isolated communities. She worked alongside fishermen, learning about sustainable fishing practices and seasonal patterns. She planted crops with farmers, understanding the rhythms of soil and weather.

Most importantly, she listened. Instead of arriving with predetermined solutions, she asked questions: “What works well in your community? What challenges do you face? What ideas do you have for improvement? What resources do you need to implement those ideas?”

The results exceeded everyone’s expectations. Villages that had been disconnected began sharing resources and knowledge. Coastal communities developed sustainable fishing practices that actually increased their long-term prosperity. Farming regions learned to combine traditional wisdom with carefully adapted innovations.

When Princess Mi-young’s five years ended, the kingdom had indeed grown stronger—not through military might or trade dominance, but through the strength that comes when people feel heard, valued, and empowered to solve their own problems.

King Dae-jo formally declared his daughter the Crown Princess and heir to the throne. When other kingdoms heard of her success, marriage proposals arrived from princes all over Asia—but now they came with offers to learn from her innovative approaches rather than simply to gain military or economic advantage.

Princess Mi-young did eventually marry, but she chose a scholar-administrator from her own kingdom who shared her passion for collaborative leadership. Their wedding was celebrated not just in the palace, but in every village, town, and city throughout the kingdom, because the people felt that their princess had chosen love and partnership over political convenience.

Years later, when Queen Mi-young told this story to her own children, she would always end with the same lesson: “Remember, my dear ones, that true leadership is not about having all the answers. It’s about asking the right questions and listening carefully to the wisdom of the people you serve. The strongest kingdoms are not built on fear or wealth, but on the foundation of trust between rulers and citizens who work together toward common goals.”

And indeed, Queen Mi-young’s kingdom became known throughout Asia not for its military power or vast wealth, but for something far more valuable—as a place where every voice was heard, every person was valued, and every problem was solved through the combined wisdom of people working together.