The King's Wife |Kylo Ren x Reader|

XXIII-Flames of War

The morning is cool. Fog floats lazily in gray and white wisps that curl in feathery, hazy tendrils. It creeps over the grass, the stone, and the dirt almost menacingly, hiding the ferocious mass of the palace behind a shadowy curtain, through which its dark silhouette stands like a giant. Even the majesty of the gardens has been swallowed and consumed, ready to be spit back out at the sign of first light.

With the dreariness of the conditions, the palace sleeps. The noises that float through the fog are detached--disembodied--as they reach your ears. Voices are low as figures move about the stables; faces ridden with exhaustion from a sleepless night.

You too, share the same shadows beneath your eyes and dull skin as the servants and stable-hands who flit about. Their hushed voices and quick movements feel almost quiet and loud at once. You can't help but crack a yawn as you stand patiently, waiting for the strings of your leathers to be tightened.

"Done, Your Grace." The small voice of the stable hand informs you. "How do they fit?"

Frowning, you tug at the neckline that sits just below your collarbone. The leathers may as well have been a corset, with two panels shaped to your form in the front and back, and ties criss-crossing along the sides to close the gap between them.

"They're quite snug." You comment, wrinkling your nose.

"As they should be, Your Grace." The young man bows his head.

With a sigh, you thank him and he flits off to assist one of the other knights whose squires are busy running errands. In the stalls, the horses are impatient. They dig their hoofs into the straw on the ground and toss their heads, sensing the anticipation in the air.

You stifle another yawn that threatens to pull at your mouth. Glancing down at yourself, you observe your own unusual attire. You'd worn riding britches before, but that included a long jacket that fell well past your hips. In these tight pants, you feel just as exposed as a common prostitute might feel visiting the palace.

"Good morning, Your Grace." The astonishingly awake voice of Sir Vicrul pulls your attention away from your clothing.

"Morning," you all but mumble. "Why are you so chipper?"

"We're used to rising before the sun." Vicrul glances at one of his companions--Kuruk--as he trudges past. "Some of us do handle mornings better than others."

You bite back your amusement. As your eyes travel over the familiar crew of the Knights of Ren--sans their armor--you catch the gaze of one of the other knights accompanying the party, who smirks back in return. "These other men..." you trail off, lowering your voice for only Vicrul to hear. "Who are they?"

"Some of our finest. The best fighters we have. Most of them fought in the same wars we did." Vicrul follows your gaze and shoots a withering scowl at the knight who had been ogling you in your pants. The soldier quickly looks away, fumbling with the straps of his saddle. "Pay no mind to them. Is your horse ready?"

As if the stablehands had been waiting for their cue, one of the young boys steps forward with your horse's reins in his hand. He bows his head, passing on the reins to you. You beam up at the face of your stallion, Ciaran, who gladly accepts your kind hand as it strokes down the length of his nose.

No sooner do you have Ciaran's reins in your hands, do the stables suddenly go deathly silent. Curious, you turn, only to find the dark silhouette of your husband approaching from the fog. As he enters the barn, murmurs of "Your Majesty" fill the air. Heads bow and bodies bend at the waist.