long live the king
Two words mashed together to make one, tethered only by a measly hyphen. You relate to such a word for you too are the single product that resulted from the union of two different worlds colliding together. You are far from being unfamiliar with the term half-breed.
Officially, you call yourself galra. Your father is of pure galra blood; in fact, he hails from a prestigious lineage. Emperor Zarkon is respected among his people, the model of what a true galra should be like. Others look at him in awe and kiss upon the ground he treads, believing his existence to be that of a model galra. His tactics are simple and straightforward: to be stronger than his opponent. He’s harsh, but you’ve always been told that it is simply the way of the galra to act in such a manner. Maybe he was softer once upon a time, but you were either too young to remember such a time or simply weren’t exposed to him enough to remember. All you’ve ever known is that he leads the Galra Empire with an iron fist.
Sometimes, you wonder if your father used to dote on you. Maybe he used to think of you as his son instead of an asset and maybe he treated you like you were someone of worth. Whatever was left of such a man has disintegrated entirely, and you can only look at him with bitterness and resentment, much like the way most galra look at you.
You are nothing like your father. For starters, your blood is not entirely galra. You know you look distinctly different from others of your kind, and though your status as prince keeps others from slandering your name directly to your face, you hear whispers of “half-breed” on the lips of other galra. Looks somewhere between disgust and pity are cast your way constantly. You’re different. You’ve always been different. Nothing about your body, apart from perhaps the lavender color of your skin, resembles your father in the slightest. Your face is pointed and thin, your hair long and white, your body built lean and agile. You hardly look like a galra should; you hardly look like your father.
The way you carry yourself is not how a galra should act either. You are the antithesis of your father, and everyone around you reminds you of this. Your father is brash and willing to sacrifice everything for glory; you’re a thinker, waiting in the shadows for the right time to strike. Honor and glory are not things you care for. Victory is what you want. Your father would much prefer to throw everything away for his stupid sense of honor and his narrow goals, but you couldn’t care less about such ideals. The greatest victory was the only one that would sate your appetite, and if that meant sacrificing honor to achieve it, then so be it. Such an idea is particularly abhorrent to other galra; they are too familiar with your father’s ideas to even consider your own. Your own father pays little heed to you and what you believe is the best course to take to strengthen the empire.
You have to work harder than anyone else to gain the trust of your own people, despite being Zarkon’s son. You’ve always been looked down upon for being only half galra, and every day is a test to prove yourself. Every single day, you’re compared to your “perfect” father, and every single day, you’re always seen as the lesser of the two. Sometimes, you’ll even run into folks who’ve never even heard that Zarkon had a son, let alone believe he’d “taint” his own bloodline with a half-breed offspring. Perhaps even the emperor himself has been so ashamed of his half-breed spawn that he simply “forgot” to remind anyone of your existence; such a thought poisons your mind and only serves to make you resent him even more. You set out to prove everyone that they’re wrong about you. So you fight. You wield a sword and fight alongside your fellow galra, every action fluid and carefully planned out in mere seconds. The idea of the crown prince fighting alongside them boggles the empire, but you manage to impress those you fight with by not only showing off your skill in battle, but also with your way with words.
Some would argue that talking is hard. You would disagree. Spending incredible amounts of time with your own people has enlightened you to figuring out what makes them tick and what motivates them, and you use that to your advantage. They want to feel powerful, so you wax poetry about how their strength subsequently strengthens the empire. You talk of coming together to be even stronger, and they look at you starry-eyed and amazed. You offer a brand new idea: loyalty through alliance, not loyalty through fear. It’s not an ideal you truly believe in, but it is one that inspires the masses, and you know that you could use whatever support you could get if you ever want the chance to usurp the throne from your father to finally prove that you’re superior.
The soldiers you fight alongside hang onto your words and are enthralled by you, but the rest of the empire looks at you with disdain. They have not heard you speak. They have not watched you fight. They only know that you are different, and they proclaim that you’re no true galra. They stop calling you “prince” and start calling you “exile” at some point, finally deciding that you’re no longer worthy of any royal title. The sound of such a bitter-tasting word grates on your ears, and you wish that they would go back to calling you a prince.
You are all but forgotten about until your father lies on his deathbed. An encounter with the super weapon Voltron has left him injured and in a comatose state. Once his chances of recovery look grim, suddenly, you’re the empire’s only hope. They come crawling back to you, telling you that you must lead your people in your father’s absence. You happily take his place. You have neither the time nor the desire to stand at the bedside of a man who rarely acknowledged your existence -- your cares are focused only on the galra and what you believe is the best way to lead them. You do not rule like your father did. Instead, you use your gift of a clever tongue and feigned compassion to gather support rather than shows of force and installation of fear.
It is because of your way with words and your own mixed heritage that leads you to gathering your finest soldiers. Each of the four women you pick out to be your helping hands is of mixed galra descent. You relate to them on a level no one else can, and you firmly believe that such a connection keeps them loyal to you. They know how it feels to be called half-breed, much like you do, and they know how difficult it is to earn just a shred of respect. Their efforts in helping the Galra Empire do not go unnoticed by you, and you hand pick them as your best generals, despite the outcry of opposition from others of your kind.
You refuse to listen to such talk of disarray. You only prove to your subjects that you and your generals are worthy of strong titles, and naysayers are quickly silenced and punished for their treachery. When your rule is challenged by a potential usurper, you do not hesitate to fight back to prove your worth -- just like you’ve done your entire life. With finesse, you’re able to cut down your opponent in a duel, and you use the opportunity to spare his life and come across as merciful only to privately order your generals to send him to the worst outpost imaginable. You promise the masses that you’re different from your father, that you will bring about a golden age based on trust instead of fear.
It’s a load of shit, but it’s what the people want to hear. Of course you’ll feed such false information to them to get them on your side. You’re not above paying lip service to get whatever you want.
With your people satisfied with their new leader, you turn your attention to Voltron. The robot and its five paladins are the greatest threat to the empire, and you know that your best chance of survival is to put a stop to it. You engage in combat with the paladins when they are separated from Voltron, and you come to the conclusion that they are not much of a force to be reckoned with. Clearly, these were not the same paladins who were able to nearly kill your father. The more they worked together, though, you realized that they were stronger than you initially believed, and retreat was your best option.
The paladins of Voltron are not too bright, however. Their desire to aid others hinders them and forces them to try to help those in need at the drop of the hat, and you make sure to exploit this. You send a distress signal their way to lure them into a ship that contains some sort of transreality material allowing an individual to move from one reality to another. If they were lost in another reality forever, you win. If they emerged from the ship with the transreality material and you recovered it from them, that was also a win. The latter is what ends up happening, and all the odds seem to be in your favor.
Everything is going to plan.