Royal

They don't understand . . . the servants, the townspeople, none of them; no one gets it. They all want to be me. They all want to be rich and have someone do their cooking and cleaning and shit for them, to always have something to eat and nice clothes to wear. They can't see beyond the surface. They can't see the strain I'm under, to be brave, to be polite and obedient to my father but still learn how to lead. They don't know what it's like, to have people pressuring you, day after day, month after month, year after year, your whole life, to be perfect, to grow up to be handsome and strong and brave and the prince that every citizen of Camelot desires. They don't know what it's like to have a father who expects the best from you, and every failure feels like the end of the world. They don't know what it's like to have the whole kingdom watching you, waiting for you to become the best king Camelot ever had, to be willing to give your life for your people even while ruling over them and telling them what to do, how to act. They don't know what it's like to be raised to believe something and never be allowed to disagree.
They don't know what it's like to be a prince.
They all want to take my place. They don't understand that sometimes – just sometimes, mind you – I would give anything to take theirs.