My loyal, royal subject - Kingbury

Chapter 1

"Samuel, I'm sorry but you have to go to America. Nobody else has your intelligence, your speaking skills- do it for Britain!" King George told Samuel. The shorter boy was nearly crying, shaking visibly.

"Sir, I," Samuel stopped. He didn't want to disappoint the king. He couldn't. "I'll...I'll do it."

"Thank you. You will be rewarded for this."

-Time skip to when Sammy gets to New York-

Sam stepped off the boat, his papers and books in a bag which he gripped tightly, anxiously rubbing the scratchy fabric of the strap with his thumb. First things first, he shuffled to a nearby hotel, pushing through the crowd.

"Hello, may I, uh..purchase a room? For um, s-six months...?" He stuttered out, the realization of him being away from Britain- away from his home, for so long finally setting in. The person at the hotel desk simply grunted and nodded, mumbling about payment as Samuel scrambled to get his money out. He put it down on the table, and as soon as he was told what room he would be staying in and got his key, he rushed upstairs, into his room.

He unlocked the door, dashing inside and practically slamming it behind him. He slumped against the door, hyperventilating and trembling as he ran his shaky hands through his hair and down his face.

"What am I going to do?" He muttered, sighing. He already knew that these Americans wouldn't accept him, or like him. He would be so lonely, he would get harassed, people would want to hurt him, to-

He stopped his thoughts there. He didn't want to even imagine what people would do to him. He heard the stories, of British "loyalists" being tarred and feathered. With a sigh, he dragged himself to his feet, looking around the room he would be staying in for the next 6 months, or longer.

A small bed was in the corner, the frame seemed to be almost falling apart, and the mattress had nothing but a thin blanket over it. Against the wall on the opposite side of the room was a wooden desk and chair.

He sighed, putting down his bag on the desk. He pulled out his papers and books, stacking the books neatly off to the side and spreading his papers out. He smiled softly at a drawing of the king that he had made before he left. Sliding into the chair, he stared at it.

Before he even realized, a tear dripped onto the paper, then another. He pulled back, wiping at his eyes. Why was he crying? He couldn't be missing the king, could he? Sighing, he pushed his papers aside.

But he faltered as he was about to put the drawing into the pile.

And he left it right in the center of the desk.