Prince Taffe the Weak

You are Prince Taffe. A weedy, unremarkable youth who just turned eighteen. Unremarkable in looks, wits, physique, charm. Unremarkable in every respect save one.

As of today, you were king of Itheria.

But, despite the crown that would rest on your crop of shit-coloured hair, you were a king in name only. In recent memory, the long-reigning royal family of Itheria had become weaker than it had ever been. You were to rule just as your father had, a mere puppet of the two men who were the true power behind the throne.

The royal steward and the Royal Chancellor, who both commanded massive lands, influence and coin, had your family over the throne, as roughly as they would have any cheap whore. You didn't like it, in fact, you hated the setup, but there was nothing you could do. All his reign, your father, had spoken to you, of his fears, of what might befall him, your mother, you, if he tried to assert himself, if he tried not to give in to their every demand.

You were far from the man he was. And today, the Steward and the Chancellor would remind you of that, a sort of ceremony, albeit an unofficial one, but one as important as your coronation had been.