You will never be a real knight. You have no fiefs, you have no steed, you have no demense. You are a peasant twisted by ale and wine into a crude mockery of chivalry's perfection.
All the “chivalry” you have is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back squires mock you. Your kinsmen are disgusted and ashamed of you, your “vassals” laugh at your churlish appearance behind closed castle gates.
Commonfolk are utterly repulsed by you. Hundreds of years of feudalism have allowed peasants to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even hedge-knights who “pass” look churlish and uncouth to a nobleman. Your suit of armour is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to rescue a damsel and take her home with you, she’ll turn tail and bolt the second she gets a whiff of your peasant ancestry.
You will never be merry. You wrench out a fake smile every single feast and tell yourself it’s going to be ok, but outside the castle walls you do not notice the frenchmen creeping up like a warband, ready to seige your castle under the unbearable weight of their trebuchets.
Eventually it’ll be too much to bear – you’ll buy a sword, put on your armour, mount your palfrey, and plunge into the enemy formations. Your leige will find you, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to live with the unbearable shame and disappointment. They’ll bury you on the manor with a headstone marked with your peasant name, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a knave is buried there. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a skeleton that is unmistakably a commoner.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.