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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

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: 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.”