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griff-us · 2 years

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TITLE: Can't Pretend Part: One | Word Count: 2,608 NEXT: HERE

PAIRING: Knight!Bucky/Princess!Reader (Black Reader)

WARNINGS: Violence, character death, gore, depictions of violence and death. Smut, eventually. Drama. Run-of-the-mill toxic masculinity. I will update as needed.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

SUMMARY: A bastard knight. An heir to a throne. Both forced to abide by the rules of their station---the roles they were born into. Will they be able to maintain the flames of their love, or be burned by them?

NOTES: I love court intrigue, and drama. I also love the idea of knight Bucky. So here is a butt load of it. I intend this to be multiple parts, though I am not sure how many. But, enjoy! Let me know what you think!

The sun is brutal even from underneath ornately ornamented awnings. Women sit among the makeshift wooden stands fans in hand as they fervently gossip about the latest on-goings and affairs of court. Such drivel; devoid of imagination or spark---always the same lackluster accusations and rumors. Y/N had not come to chat about such things; the tourney always interested her far more. The fanfare, the sport, and on occasion, the bloodshed. Steeds tough as steel gallop the runway on which men with more gall than the average noble ride atop. Metal clatters, men hoop and holler, and another knight is knocked from his horse. Yes, far more interesting than who is bedding who, and for how much.

Y/N claps along, back straight as a board. Tightly coiled locks pool from the crown of her head where they remained pinned. Gold adorns her skin in necklaces, earrings, and bracelets—her favorite choice as it accents her darkened complexion so tastefully. A perfect visage of her house; proper and fine. She watches with enthusiasm as the second round of riders enters. One catches her eye as he leads his horse toward her pavilion in a flashy show. Blackened steel glimmers beneath the sweltering sun; Y/N notes the wolf’s head pressed into the metal, and her heart nearly shatters in her chest. She knows that sigil anywhere.

As he nears, the knight lifts his visor to reveal hues like that of the oceans so far off. Y/N notes the beads of sweat that adorn his brow as he lifts his lance toward the bottom row closest to her. However, before the knight can speak, another woman stands. Y/N can’t help the curl in her upper lip at the sight of Lady Mistell. A crotchety woman so desperate to be wed again.

“I presume you have come to ask for my favor, Ser James?” Lady Mistell inquires with an upturned nose, as though she may consider denying the request. Odd though, that she would assume someone of such high station would ask the favor of a widow with no coin. Silence grips the stands then, and Y/N watches with an amused sort of smirk as all unfolds. So typical of James to make a scene. A shame then, he had been absent from court all these years.

“Apologies my lady—” Ser James bows his head, but his gaze drifts to Y/N who notices immediately, as she does with all things. “My princess…” A breath catches in the back of Y/N’s throat, and her mind reels with the implications of his coming request. Is he daft? “…it would be an honor to carry your favor.” All eyes turn to Y/N; there will be talk of this no doubt. There had been rumors of their budding romance much to the disdain of her father. In fact, the king had hated it so much he all but sold the knight into a fortuitous marriage of station and coin that sent him across the seas. To approach her in such a way, and after no warning of his impending return---well Y/N is sure the rumor mill is already churning. But… she must be seen as a gracious host. This is her tourney after all.

Y/N rises as her hands work to smooth the skirts of her dress. Each step down from under her awning feels as though it adds another ten pounds to her shoulders, but they are calculated and careful. Eyes remain on Y/N as though she were the centerpiece in a show, and she often is.

“Ser James.” The Princess nods to him once close enough, and slender fingers adorned with jeweled rings toss down the yellow ribbon that had been tied to her wrist---the color of her house. “Do well not to sully it, my knight.” Her tone is soft so that only he may hear. Y/N watches as the knight maneuvers to catch the ribbon and his gaze holds hers with a wide smirk as dexterous fingers quickly tie it to the end of his lance.

“I would not dream of it, my princess.”

-----

The day wanes. The sun and her restless rays begin to dwindle, and Y/N walks the grounds. Nobles and soldiers alike make their approach, each bowing their heads and giving thanks for her hospitality or commenting on the exquisite taste of the food and drink. She responds in kind with smiles and equal thanks for their participation. This is the matter of her station she finds so---tiring. The politicking, the people pleasing when Y/N wishes for nothing more than a bath and perhaps a book.

“You look rather bored, Princess.” That familiar voice brings her from her thoughts, and Y/N turns. Ser James stands, the bulk of his armor now removed, a tower compared to her rather small self.

“There are only so many ways to give gratitude to those who would rather you dead.” Her tone is light despite the subject matter, and she does well to hold a simple smile despite the grin that threatens to break across her face at his presence.

“From what I hear, my dear princess-“ he falls in step with her then, far enough apart not to gain the attention of prying eyes. “-they adore you, the people. Your people.” James peers down at her from the corner of his eyes, and Y/N’s signature smile drops to a frown.

“If you ask my father—”

“He is a fool.”

Y/N halts her steps, neck craning to hold Ser Jame’s gaze. She does not falter, and the edge in her tone is rather commanding. “You will do well to remember he is your King, Ser James.” A pause.

“Are you upset with me, princess? I do not remember you typically taking such a tone with me.”

Y/N snorts; something far different from her typical façade. It always came so easy around him, the way her knight could break down walls and barriers meticulously crafted. Like a mason building the most exquisite of temples, only to be brought down by some greater force. It is sad really, how he still has this effect on her. “If I remember correctly you left, not soon after promising to ask for my hand. Off to marry another, or so I heard from rumors. How is your wife, Ser James?” venom drips from the tip of her tongue, and James does not falter. He deserves this. Even if she well knows the games they must take part in---no matter how much it wounds the heart.

“Dead.” A simple explanation, still, he explains. “Not a week after our wedding. Consumption.” James tilts his head to the side while he watches Y/N’s face shift through a myriad of expressions.

“I—am sorry for your loss, James.” The world is still around them for a moment, seconds really. He wants to remind her of his nickname, one bestowed upon him when they were children. To hell with titles and perpetuity and this blasted game they both have been forced to play! Yet, he reframes. Instead, James bows his head gently, hues turning soft as though that may convey how earnestly he means the following sentence. “You have nothing to apologize for, my princess.”

“James---” Y/N reaches for him, only for the mindful knight to step back, severing any connection her mind may have imagined.

“You’ve others to attend to—” another bow, this one so much stiffer. “—until later.”

Y/N stands hands held at her middle as the man she loves walks away from her for the second time in her life.

----

“You will scuff the floors if you keep pacing like that, my lady” Natasha hums from across the room her languid frame tossed over the crushed red velvet fainting couch as she thumbs through the pages a book. Y/N huffs; her mind racing and anger threatening to froth over like a pot left to boil too long.

“How dare he show his face, unannounced, to my tourney only to tell me of his dead wife and lament his apologies to me!”

“Lament is a strong word.”

Y/N heaves another sigh, what would seem to be the hundredth of that moment and throws her body down near her friend. “I wish to never see him again.” Natasha sits up just as Y/N’s head falls into her lap. The two women had become fast friends since her arrival at court as a foreign dignitary to Y/N’s father. It had not taken long for the woman’s talents in espionage to make themselves known. Within a month’s time, Natasha had cemented herself as the King’s spymaster, and the Princess’s closest of confidants due to the amount of time spent in one another’s company. Now, the two are nearly inseparable, and rarely seen without the other.

“You are being rather unfair, Y/N.” eyes rise, a firm slant set upon Y/N’s lips. But, Natasha continues. “The man was married off due to your father’s disapproval. He had no say in his marriage. And to become a widower after such a short time.” A pause. “James could have cared for that woman and still loved you. Two things can be true at once. We both know he is not a cruel man, Y/N. He is forced to play a game he has no control over. As are you.” Natasha presses a single finger against Y/N’s forehead for emphasis.

“Yes. Yes. Born to rule and tasked with the problems of the kingdom only for mine to be cast aside.” Y/N rolls her eyes.

“You are not simply a princess meant to be wed to some lord, or prince for political gain, my lady. You are heir to the throne; love has no room in your life. The throne takes precedence overall.”

“I wish you would cease reminding me, Lady Natasha.”

Both women fall into a comfortable silence. Beyond the thick walls of Y/N’s personal apartments birds sing and servants mill about their duties. Somewhere off in the distance, a lute plays a languid tune just as the sun begins her descent from the sky.

“I have missed him.” Y/N finally relents her voice barely above a whisper.

“I know, my dear. I know.”

----

The end of the week brings yet another gathering of nobles, and no sign of Ser James. Y/N sits to the right of her father at their table fingers merely toying with the now cold bread on her silver platter. A band plays a tune at the other end of the hall, the sound loud and obnoxious beneath tapestries meant to bring warmth to the room. Y/N finds it suffocating. A fact most evident by the rather sour expression painted on her face.

“Go and dance, daughter.” The King ushers her forward with both hands; fat fingers adorned in countless rings and shiny things. Spoils of war, and conquest. Y/N sighs gently but abides by her father’s wishes. His temper has been that of a wild dog as of late; content one moment and then rabid the next. She stands, golden gown of satin and lace cascading down each step toward the center of the hall. The band halts its tune in time for someone far off to announce her presence. All cease their movements for a moment to bow or courtesy in respect. Y/N nods solemnly in return, hands clasped at her front while she waits for one brave man to ask her for a dance. The others continue about their jig.

“I don’t remember these gatherings being so boring.” As if summoned by the Gods themselves, Ser James all but manifests from the crowd. Y/N smiles gently, not before correcting her features and donning her typical stoic glance.

“Perhaps because you spent all your time at court galivanting around and challenging noblemen to duels.” James beams at Y/N, happy to hear her speak what seems so fondly of his time spent at court. His lips curl just so in that way they do before he laughs.

“Yes well….” He pauses, chin upturned, and brows taught at their center. “I don’t really have an excuse for that.” Y/N chuckles softly to herself, mindful of the eyes that watch over them. “Come, dance with me, Princess.” Ser James holds out a hand to her, and it is as if the world freezes for a moment.

There are implications to this dance; implications in everything Y/N is seen to do. To dance with a man all but sent from court for the fault of asking for her hand in marriage? To dance with a man who returns to court, unannounced, so shortly after the death of his wife? Scandalous. Salacious. But he stands before her in dashing attire; the sigil of his house forged by his own hands sewn into blackened tunic. His hair half pulled back to keep from his eye’s cascades down wide shoulders and stubble has begun to sprout since their last meeting at the tourney ground. Handsome indeed, and by Gods she want nothing more than to take his hand and dance as they used to.

“You are still in mourning, Ser James.” Words tumble from her lips before any thought can really be applied to them, and James’s lips turn into something akin to a frown.

“I am rather tired of all these unspoken rules, and I know you are as well, Princes. Once dance? As we used to.”

Y/N nods absently and slips her hand into his own, so massive in comparison. She wonders briefly as he tugs her deeper into the dance floor how they may feel against her skin. The band begins another song, one she and James had waltzed to plenty of times while hidden away in the gardens. Both fall into step with one another easily; Y/Ns palms against his own, the other pressed against the broad expanse of his chest. This close he smells of leather and grass. She levels her gaze past him while James sweeps her across the floor. There is no tell how much more of her demeanor she may lose were she to become lost in his eyes.

“I see you have not lost your touch.” He speaks suddenly, rocking the princess from her thoughts. Y/N peers up, her heart hammering in the center of her chest.

“Surprising. I have little time to dance between classes and lectures.”

“How boring. No more nightly escapes into the woods?” Ser James inquires with a knowing smirk, and Y/N can not help but roll her eyes.

“I am too old for such nonsense.”

“And who told you that?” his head dips lower, the point of his nose skimming the defined line of her cheek. His breath fans past her ear; Y/N sputters, brows creasing and jaw tight. Everyone. From her ladies in waiting, to her father, to his advisors---you are too old to enjoy such things, Princess. An heir must always be seen as dignified. Heat envelopes her face; embarrassment evident. And after a moment’s silence the sudden realization of just how undignified she seems now grips her.

“Y/N….” James regards her with concern, and it is as if she is snapped back into reality. The princess pulls away suddenly, hands clasped at her front. James watches as sadness seems to overtake her.

“Thank you for the dance, Ser James.” She nods and begins her walk back to her seat by her father’s side. James bows stiffly and watches her retreat; not before the hardened gray hues of the King glues him to the spot. The king need not say a word. James can decipher enough from looks alone.

Leave.

And so, he does.

#bucky imagine #bucky barnes imagine #bucky/reader #bucky barnes/reader #knight!bucky #buck barnes fan fic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes/you #bucky barnes x reader #y/n insert #Sebastian stan #black reader #ff tag

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griff-us · 2 years

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TITLE: Can't Pretend

PART: Two | Previous WORD COUNT: 2,727 NEXT: TBA | Around Nov. 1st PAIRING: Knight!Bucky/Princess!Reader (Black Reader)

WARNINGS: Violence, character death, gore, depictions of violence and death. Smut, eventually. Drama. Mentions of syphilis. Run-of-the-mill toxic masculinity. I will update as needed.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

NOTES: Thank you all so much for the comments and reblogs on the last part! It really gave me the strength to power through crazy work weeks and being sick to get this written and out. I hope you enjoy! Come chat with me about the fic if you'd like, and reblogs are always super appreciated!

A languid fire licks the salted stone of its hearth confines; shadows wriggle against rug-adorned walls and idle chatter fills the room. Servants pace the space with offerings of, wine, water, and bits of food. The daily council meetings have become a recent responsibility for Y/N. As heir to the throne, she must be savvy in the ways of ruling, and these grueling meetings of men thirsty for war is no different. It has become less about governing the realm, but rather the people her father has entrusted to run it. Old men so stuck in their ways. Exhausting.

Two heavy-set doors creak open, and through them, Y/N enters. Golden fabric trails not far behind her; tight ringlets of hair bounce at her shoulders. All rise, their heads bowed, as customary. She floats silently across the room, sure to hold eye contact with each man she passes. They look down on you, my daughter. Do not let them. That is what her father had told her so many years ago. Funny indeed, how the man always seemed to be right about the way of things.

“Gentleman.” A dismissive tone; a signal for them to be at ease. “Ser Samuel, please---” Y/N extends a single hand across the table as she eases into her seat. “---indulge us in the reports of our borders.”

A tall, wide man stands from his chair. With no hair to be seen on his head, the glow of the fire shines dully off his darkened skin. Stubble creeps into his cheeks, no doubt the man has had little time to shave while ensuring the borders of the kingdom are kept safe. “Thank you, Your Royal Majesty.” Samuel clears his throat, looking then to the many men that surround the table. “The southern, eastern, and western borders are secure. Our treaties and tariffs hold well with little insubordination on the matter. For all accounts and purposes, things are peaceful…for the moment.” The surrounding men bang the tabletop with hoops, and hollers of HERE HERE. But they cease the moment Y/N raises a hand.

“You all forget our northern border. What of the situation there?” so like the council to withhold information. A smart enough plan when dealing with the king. In his older years, the man has come to crave war the old days- and has been known to lose his temper when given news he finds distasteful. Often without a thought for the cost. Y/N would keep their lands, peoples, and coffers safe if possible.

“The north—” Samuel blanches, gaze shifting to Y/N with a worried sort of look.

“Well, Ser Samuel?”

“The North---”

“Is full of nothing but savages, ma’am!” Another bolsters from his seat, the legs of it screeching against the stone floor. Y/N tilts her head curiously.

“Pardon, Mister Hammer?” the man seems to remember his place, head bowing slightly as if to apologize. Y/N regards him with a keen eye. Justin Hammer has been less than a proper ally to the throne in his time spent in her father’s council. Greedy for war, due to his steak in most of the armories in the kingdom, Y/N has no doubt his thirst for war with the northern realm is driven by greed.

“I only mean to say that the northern people are a simple lot. For all the trouble they cause us a simple excursion with enough fortifications---”

“Fortifications bought from who, I wonder, Mister Hammer?” Y/N can’t help the smile that blossoms across her lips. The room quiets then as a few others stifle their laughs. Hammer apologizes and quickly takes his seat again.

“As it were, gentlemen, war is not on the table. While our coffers are stable, I would like to see them fluffed, not drained.” Idle murmurings of agreement sound around the room, and Y/N stands. “Ser Samuel, I would like daily reports of the issues that seem to plague us from the northern realms. Keep a keen eye on their movements and inform me immediately of anything…out of the ordinary. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Your Royal Majesty,” Samuel calls from the end of the table, a fist slammed to his chest, over his heart, in a salute.

“As for the rest of the kingdom, I would like copies of reports from each of you daily as well. And gentlemen…” Y/N pauses to ensure each man in the room has given her full attention. “I do not care for lies. Be honest in your reporting. I can not fix a problem if I am left unaware of it, am I clear?”

Murmurs of acknowledgment sound clear, and Y/N nods.

“I am glad we understand one another.”

-------

Back in her room, Y/N deflates. Slippers are kicked to the corner, hair pins tossed atop the vanity, and the ties of her correct loosened. Council meetings were always just as stressful as they were tiring. Most attempts to rally the men behind her cause and concerns are met with overly embellished explanations as to the true nature of things. Idiots, she thinks. As though she were not the daughter of a wartime king. Trained to defend herself, hand er kingdom. As though she were not the firstborn forced to ensure endless lectures on warfare, and politics.

Y/N groans, crossing the space of her room in search of her wine carafe. Seldom does she partake in drink, but days such as today call for one. In her focused search, Y/N nearly misses the skewed rug just by her bed. Its edge had folded over itself, the entire thing crooked on the floor. A single brow cocks high, eyes scanning the space.

“I suggest you come from your hiding spot. I’ve little patience today.”

A creak in the floorboard prompts her to turn, and from behind the wardrobe, a familiar frame creeps from the shadows.

“Ser James, this is rather inappropriate.”

The man grins, and her stomach is suddenly a fluttering mess. James eases closer, eyes taking in her unkept state. He wonders if he is the only man to ever see her in such a state. “Come, princess. How many times had I snuck my way to your rooms before?”

“When we were children, it was excusable. You’re lucky the guard on duty didn’t catch you.”

“He did. Ser Steven and I are childhood friends, remember?” James shoots back with a proud little smirk.

“Yes. Of course. Well, make yourself comfortable then.” Y/N motions to the small table at the center of the room where she typically takes her meals. Ser James nods, his massive frame nestled tight in the rather small wingback chair. Y/N sits across from him and pushes a glass his way.

“You look upset.” He notes while she pours him his own glass of wine.

“Council.”

“Hmm.” James hums, fingers rifling through the basket of cheeses, fruits, and cured meats between them. “Yes, Samuel mentioned meetings have been…tense, as of late.” Y/N nods and tucks her feet under her bottom. She watches while he snaps a few heavy grapes from their vines. He sits in his usual dress, black leather, and gray linens. No armor, only a small dagger strapped to his thigh. No doubt there are several more.

“They refuse to tell me the truth half of the time. Samuel even tends to sugarcoat his reports with me. And do not get me started on Mister Hammer!” Y/N tosses her hands up. To hell with the lot of them.

“Hammer is a scoundrel, a snake.” James eases back in his seat while boot-clad feet thud against the tabletop. Y/N frowns, leaning forward to shove them off.

“I could say the same for you, my knight.”

James grins, as though he were proud of himself. And in a way, he is. It is difficult to pry affection from Y/Ns lips. It had not always been so. He can remember when they were younger, the way in which they so fervently cared and craved one another. Stolen kisses behind tapestries, long strolls through the gardens.

“You forget, I was born in a barn.”

“Yes, how could I forget.” Y/N plucks her cup from the table and drinks in earnest. As if the swirling red liquid may help clear her mind some.

“I know it sounds unfair, my lady, but you will have to prove yourself to them. They will not truly respect you until then.” James offers the best advice he can give, and the kind he knows will work. After all, he would know the turmoil of earning respect among peers and superiors as a bastard knight.

“You are beginning to sound like my father, Bucky.”

“I should certainly hope not.”

A small laugh bubbles from Y/N lips and James falls into a comfortable silence as the two of them enjoy their drink and watch the clouds float by against a hazy blue sky. It is times like this that Y/N missed the most. Idle moments spent with Ser James. Neither of them needed to speak much, perhaps the occasional discussion of news within the kingdom or the adventures of their day. But to sit in silence, comfortable in herself, in her body---not a moniker of authority or an image of the crown. But, entirely herself. Such a thing brings a sense of comfort and peace Y/N has not known since his departure from court all those years ago.

“What are you thinking about?” James asks rather suddenly. Y/N does not move her gaze from the window; instead, she shrugs, the point of her chin resting in the center of her upturned palm.

“That I have missed this.”

James hums in agreement reaching across the table to grip her hand. His thumb rubs gentle circles into the skin of her knuckles. Y/N does not falter, nor pull away. Instead, she remains still, eyes slotting shut at the contact. When had she become so touch-starved?

“I have missed you, Y/N.”

“I know.” A moment of silence. “I have missed you too.”

-------

“How do you find them, the members of my council?” the King lounges against fluffed pillows and heavy knit blankets in the gardens. The same place Y/Ns mother had spent much of her time before her passing. She can remember digging the brick-lined beds for a patch of daisies. This place, with gravel paths, bright and lively flowers from across the kingdom, and waning willow trees, holds peace for both father and daughter. Y/N approaches with a sigh before taking a seat on a single stone bench by the king.

“Old, and crotchety.”

This wrings a chortle from the king; not before he falls into a fit of coughs. Y/N watches with a creased brow. The king has fallen ill over the past year; a disease that attacks one mind, and body. He will wither away to a liability, is what the doctors had told Y/N. His ailment is known as the kind to drive kings into madness. And yet, no one in the realm, or those beyond, know what to do. To call for his quiet, and merciful removal, is nothing short of treason. But, to allow him to spin the kingdom into mayhem….

“They attempt to withhold information from me. They think me simple.” Y/N continues, leaning forward to pour her father another cup of tea. He nods, jaw set.

“They will, even when you take the throne.” A long pause settles between the two as the king gulps hungrily at his tea. Y/N watches, her eyes drawn to the wrinkled and thinned skin of his hands. She can remember the brilliant, valiant, and fair man he had once been when she were younger. A model king. A benevolent ruler. Years of war, stress, and the loss of his beloved wife have soured his soul.

“And what of that bastard you chose to knight, hm? I see he has returned to my court.”

Y/N blanches. The topic of Ser James was a foul one for the king. Each one of their conversations of the man turned into screaming matches until the King had him sent away. Married off to another. Y/N tilts her head as eyes suddenly find much more interest in the leaves above them.

“I haven’t seen him.”

“Lies.” The king hacks another brutal cough and dabs at the corners of his mouth with a blood-specked cloth. “I was told he had snuck into your rooms—"

“Father---”

“NO.” the man bellows, more coughs wracking his thinned frame. “I stood by when your childhood fantasies were just that, fantasies. You turned tail and knighted a bastard stable boy in hopes his new station would make marriage any less…. undignified!”

Y/N stands, a frown pressed to her lips. “And what of it father? There was no issue when you married mother. Half of the realm knew of her occupation; a—”

“Don’t you dare, Y/N.”

“a common whore!”

Y/N watches as her father’s eye all but bulges from his skull; features darken, and he struggles to rise from his seat. “You will not see him again!” the king sputters, voice hoarse and breath heavy as he attempts to catch it. “You will not speak of him, see him, or look at him. I’ve enough of this, child! You will wed whom I command and take my throne with dignity, not some bastard whoreson stable boy! I command it!” Y/N watches her father’s fit with wide eyes, and her hands remain clenched by her sides. It is unfair, like everything else in life. Destined, no, doomed to wield a power she never wanted. Doomed to marry whatever man her father deems fit. Tears prick the corners of Y/N eyes. Head bows, a stiff acknowledgment, before she turns sharply on her heels and marches back toward her rooms.

-------

A young boy dashes through wide corridors packed with nobles and servants. Lit lanterns cast irregular shadows against the walls as the sun sets. Many call after him, fists shaking in anger, their calls of displeasure echoing off of the stone. He ignores them, a single parchment clutched within his palm much like an animal in a death throw. He pushes his legs faster, harder until it feels as though his heart may burst at any moment. There is little time to stop and catch his breath, the urgency is too great.

Ser Samuel had not told him of the letter’s content, only that he was to go straight to the king and rest for no one, not even himself. The boy remembers the severity on Ser Samuels’s face; the way his brows dipped in concern.

“Come another day, boy. The king dines with a select few tonight.” A guard orders from his post at the door of the great hall. The boy sucks in a massive breath.

“I have urgent news from the northern border, Ser Samuel sent me with his sigil.” He produces a single coin stamped with a hawk. The guards look between them before opening the door. The errand boy staggers into the room, and the band that had been playing a marry tune dies off. The nobles present go quiet, and all look to the intrusion.

“What is the meaning of this?!” the king bellows from his place at the head of the table. Y/N stands, a gentle hand upon her father’s shoulder. She surveys the room before nodding to the boy.

“Explain yourself, young one, with haste.”

“The north---” he heaves, unable to speak while waving about the parchment in his hands. Y/N advances quickly, her skirts held in each hand while she speedily ascends the staircase. Nimble fingers pry the paper from the boy’s hands, and she ushers for the servants to bring him water before cracking the wax seal and reading.

“Well, daughter?” the king calls from his perch, and for a moment, Y/N can not find the correct words. Her heart hammers between each rib, an eerie dread pooling in the pit of her stomach.

“Our northern border has been breached.”

Gasps and shouts resound. Men begin their chatter, women cling to their husbands, and the room begins to spin around Y/N. The king stands of his own volition, and all quiet in anticipation. Y/N looks to her father, eyes wide, and mouth open. He nods to her, and then to the guards.

“Gather my council. We are at war.”

#knight!bucky #knight!bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #bucky imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes/reader #bucky barnes/you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x you #ff tag #cant pretend #y/n insert #black reader #Sebastian stan

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