You Win or You Hide,
Or
The Adventures of Charlie and Chuck in the Mysterious Kingdom.
A/N: I have no idea how this happened. Wait, actually, I have a pretty good idea. This is what happens when I get sucked into Game of Thrones whilst desperately awaiting Season 9 of Supernatural. Semi-crack AU. Probably ¾ crack tbh.
Disclaimer: characters belong to Eric Kripke/CW, who love fanfic. Any similarity of setting to G.R.R.M's iGame of Thrones/i is certainly not co-incidental, but easily constitutes fair use. Not for profit.
1. Charlie.
If Charlie were the hero of this story, she would have warned the knights Winchester about Lord Crowley's treachery the moment she suspected it. When had she first suspected it? Probably years ago, deep down – the first time she met him even. Certainly long before he became the King's Chief Advisor. Unfortunately, Charlie was no hero, so when Crowley dispatched her to summon the Winchester brothers, she merely obeyed him. She knocked politely at their chambers, but got no answer, and one of the maids directed her to the archery range.
"Has he arranged for our execution?" asked Sir Samuel dryly. His breath made white mist in the cold air.
"Um, no?" Charlie offered, rubbing her hands together. "I mean – not that I know of."
"Like he could pull that off," Sir Dean snarled, and released his arrow too jerkily. He cursed at it hit above the bullseye. Sir Samuel raised an eyebrow and his brother glared at him. It was commonly known that whilst Sir Dean was the superior rider and swordsman of the brothers Winchester, Sam could usually best him at archery. Sir Samuel was considered the more genteel and scholarly knight, which reasonably, Charlie thought, ought to make him her favourite. In truth, though, she had a definite soft spot for the rough and outspoken Sir Dean: she believed him to be a kind man, and honest, steadfastly loyal to the King and the Prince Castiel. When Charlie were eventually forced to marry, she hoped it could be to a man of that sort. He might even be understanding of her – affliction.
In truth, at her age, she should be married already. She wasn't a girl anymore. But her parents were dead, she had no family, and her marriage wouldn't benefit anybody. She looked young, and she was a good page. For the moment - touch iron – nobody was bothered enough about her to tell her to put a dress on.
The Winchesters put away their bows, grudgingly and with deliberate slowness. They headed for the keep. Charlie paused, considered, than ran after them, hurrying to match their long strides. The knights shed their furred cloaks as soon as they entered the fire-warmed castle, handing them off to stewards. Charlie stamped clinging snow from her boots.
Lord Crowley's chambers were sumptuously appointed. The broad wooden doors were hinged and edged with silver, and mosaic tiles set around them depicted the Dragon, the sigil of his House, soaring in battle at the side of the Eagle, the sigil of the King.
"Come!" he commanded as Sir Dean raised a hand to knock.
"What the – how does he ido/i that?" Sir Dean exclaimed.
Charlie glanced up and down the empty corridor and gulped. Lord Crowley had eyes everywhere. Impulsively, she reached out, put a hand on Sir Dean's arm. He looked down at her. Charlie held his gaze, not brave enough to say anything but hoping she could put 'be careful' into her expression, 'he's planning something'. Sir Dean nodded shortly. Charlie dropped her head, allowing her red fringe to fall in front of her eyes.
Charlie entered Crowley's chambers ahead of her charges and bowed low:
"Sir Dean and Sir Samuel of Winchester, my lord," she announced, a sweep of her hand heralding the knights. One advantage to being a Page was access to most places. In this way, Charlie liked to think, she heard and saw enough to know her enemies from her friends.
"Ah!" said Lord Crowley, smiling nastily. He stood, clapped his hands together, and came around his wide oak desk to greet his visitors. The Winchesters bowed, as slightly as they could get away with.
"You sent for us my Lord?" Sir Dean glared.
"Yes, yes. I have here a letter for Lord Azazel of the Southlands." Crowley brandished a scroll closed with his wax seal. "Deliver it to him."
Sir Samuel raised his eyebrows expressively. The Good King had no business with Azazel, a cruel Lord, who kept his holdings in the fiery Southlands. It was a sevennight's hard ride to Azazel's castle and a sevennight's back: hardly the sort of errand to spare one Kingdom's best knights, leave alone two.
"Why don't you send your steward?" Sir Dean asked, and waited a beat too long before adding, "My Lord."
"Because I'm sending you," smiled Lord Crowley. "Both of you. State business you know. Terribly important to have people you trust."
A weighted pause. Lord Crowley was the second most powerful man in the Kingdom and the King's confidante. His record of service was impeccable, unwavering for over thirty years. And yet. Charlie didn't trust him, and she knew the Winchesters didn't either. He'd made his dislike for them known in multiple subtle ways, little put-downs, tasks inappropriate to their station. Charlie worked hard to keep him from noticing her. There was no way for Samuel and Dean to refuse his order.
"As you will, my Lord," said Sir Samuel tightly. The knights bowed and Crowley dismissed them.
"You boy, get me some wine," he said shortly to Charlie. She did as she was told.
Prince Castiel was walking in the gardens, alone, and Charlie was spying a little bit. She had a secret idea about the Prince, and though to even think it was probably treason, she couldn't help but observe that ever since Sir Dean's departure with his brother the previous evening, the Prince had been…melancholy. Or more melancholy than usual, blue eyes sad and reflective. The Prince was a very handsome man, much admired both by noble ladies at home and princesses abroad, but despite the pressure from the King and public to marry and get an heir, the Prince remained determinedly a bachelor.
Castiel stopped by the Glass Lake to observe the icy water. Spring was coming, and the snowdrops were starting to bud at the shores as the surface thawed and cracked. Ice broke to prisms, making rainbows, but the Prince seemed scarcely to notice the sight.
"Hello Charlie," he said.
Charlie almost jumped out of her skin, and fell head-first into the hedge she was – sort of – lurking behind.
"I – um – my lord – " she stammered, springing up and brushing twigs from her cloak:
"It's alright," a hint of a smile curved the Prince's mouth. "You are not on duty?"
"No," said Charlie quickly. "If I was I would be on duty. I mean I'd be working. I mean-"
"Come here," said the Prince. Charlie stood before him and bowed. "You are troubled."
Yes. She was very troubled, and afraid of Lord Crowley, and she wanted the Winchesters to come back and look out for the Prince.
"It's nothing," she said.
"Charlie," the Prince narrowed his eyes, considering. "You are to serve at the banquet tomorrow night, yes?"
"Yes my Lord."
The Prince sighed. "Charlene Bradbury, you are young, but your soul is pure and your heart is faithful. I would not see you in endangered."
"Endangered? How-?"
"You are my friend," the Prince reached out a gloved hand and clasped her shoulder. "I think we both know that I have few friends remaining."
'He knows,' Charlie realised, staring into the Prince's face. 'He knows that Lord Crowley is going to
betray the Eagle'.
"But – your guards, and the King's Watch, and-"
"It's been a cruel season. We are sheltered behind these walls, Charlie, but outside the people are hungry.
There is unrest in the east and the north. Many tongues sow discord."
Charlie could feel her face crumpling. The peaceful life she had known seemed to be collapsing around her.
"The Eagle does not command the fealty of yesteryear," the Prince said gently. "Charlie, I would not see you hurt. Do not come to the banquet tomorrow night. I promise you – no-one will be counting the servants."
"But – what about iyou/i?" Charlie said. "I don't want to see iyou/i hurt either!"
"I must serve my liege," Castiel said resignedly. "Royal birth has its curses."
"But they-" she wanted to say, 'they'll kill you', but was afraid to say the words out loud. The corner of Castiel's mouth quirked up, sadly. Charlie thought he was still too young to look so sad.
"What can I do?" she asked.
"You can run," he suggested, then drew himself to his full height: "Charlene Bradbury, you have served the Eagle faithfully, as have your parents before you. I, Castiel Prince of the North, hereby release you from your service to my Household, and all the duties and obligations entailed therein. Accept this gift in token of my gratitude for your service." He handed her a small cloth bag that clinked with coins and a few other objects. Then he sighed, and seemed to shrink visibly with the close of the formal words. "You are a free woman, Charlie. Good luck."
Charlie gripped the bag. "But I don't know where to go," she said quietly, though the seed of a mad idea was taking place already in her mind, but she wasn't looking at it, not yet.
"My cousin Gabriel has a small stronghold by the Summer Mountains," Castiel said. "There is a letter for him in the bag. He is not a rich man, and his ways are….unorthodox, but he is kind at heart."
"Then why isn't he here?" Charlie exclaimed, "Helping?!"
Castiel looked rueful. "There is nothing to help with. Officially. Besides," he sighed, "It would make little difference. Gabriel commands few men, and his first allegiance is to his own safety. He will aid his friends, but I know him too well to believe he would die for them."
Charlie bit her lips. She felt as though she would cry at any moment. She looked down at the bag in her hand, and then up at Castiel.
"Pack your things," he said quietly, in a tone that let her know she was dismissed.
In the end, she couldn't leave without seeing what happened. She didn't ihelp/i - not that she could have – but she was hiding on a balcony concealed by a heavy curtain. Lord Creedy denounced the King as a traitor and the cause of famine in the outlands he held. Crowley was too subtle to do it himself of course: he'd clearly been working on the weaker man, had him in his cups, and soon half the lords of the provinces were in arms against the King, and Charlie was gaping, horrified at the thinness of their loyalty. Crowley slid his rapier into the King from behind, and Charlie believed that in the thick of the fight, she was the only one who saw it. And then he looked up. In that instant, his dark eyes held hers like a snake transfixing a rabbit, and he sneered, said something to one of his henchmen who nodded and made for the staircase.
'He's coming to kill me', Charlie thought, and unfroze, darting down the corridor and out by the servants' staircase with no horse, weapon, food or water, but only the bag of coins clinking under her shirt.
It was only later she realized she hadn't seen the Prince die.
"And be it known, that so following this vile treachery, Lord Alistair Crowley, Chief Advisor to the King, declares himself the Regent and Protector of the Realm until such time as the Prince return or, God prevent it, be known dead."
The crowd murmured and grumbled.
"What's he gonna do about the granary?" an anonymous man shouted. Charlie wove carefully through the crowd, keeping her head low and her hood over her face. It was the first thing she'd bought after fleeing the castle, before a wineskin and a room for the night. That was easy. The inns were buzzing with news of the battle at the castle, and the people were pouring into the streets to see what was happening. She hadn't slept a wink, but sat on her bunk by the light of a single candle, fingering the scroll the Prince had given her and trying not to wonder how he had died.
Now her head snapped up: "Return?" she asked the woman in front of her, a stern-looking matron in the lined cloak of a well-to-do innkeeper or blacksmith's wife.
"Aye," said the matron. "Have you not heard? The prince fled in the night without so much as a royal guard, and after the traitors was put down too." She shook her head, and though it could not be voiced, Charlie could see the indictment of cowardice written all over her face. Charlie frowned:
"Well what else could he do?"
"Why take up his hereditary seat!" chimed in a younger a man, "And not leave his responsibilities to such as the good Lord Crowley to manage! Did you know the Lord Crowley himself stabbed the King's killer?"
"In the back," someone murmured.
"In the chest," the young man asserted.
Charlie felt like bursting. On the one hand, the Prince had escaped. On the other, half the people believed that Crowley had saved the day, and put the rebellion down whilst the Prince ran like a dog with his tail tucked under. The herald who had spoken stepped down.
"Treachery is the most heinous of crimes," said Crowley solemnly. He was sitting in an ornate chair with the royal sceptre folded across his lap. He wore no crown – yet – but a thin circlet of gold sat nestled in his dark hair. Charlie ground her teeth to see it. "There can be but one punishment. Lords Redd and Kenton, it was your misfortunate to survive last night, unlike the rest of the traitors," he shook his head. Charlie's eyes went to the kneeing men on the other side of the dais. Their heads were bowed, hands chained behind their backs, and Crowley's men held swords at their backs. 'Say something', Charlie urged mentally, 'Tell them Crowley set you up!'. Then Lord Redd of the Burnt Hills raised his head and his mouth opened, and she
understood why they didn't speak.
Crowley had taken their tongues first. Well, naturally.
"Your confessions were taken from you in the dawn hours," said Crowley solemnly. "Then you admitted the full extent of your terrible crimes, how you plotted the vile murder of His Grace beneath the traitor Lord Creedy-"
At that there was the faintest murmur in the crowd. Creedy's reputation was that of a weak man, and slow-witted. Not the most likely candidate to engineer a King's death. Crowley silenced the crowd with a sharp glance.
" – and your serpent's tongues removed thereafter, lest the vile poison of your words spread any further."
At that the crowd rumbled approvingly.
"Now in the sight of God and man, let the full extent of justice be exacted upon you," Crowley's voice rang. He did, Charlie must admit, have the theatrics of a King: "My lord executioner: off with their heads."
The crowd cheered. Charlie winced. If she lived a hundred years, she would never understand the bloodthirstiness of some of her fellows. The executioner, black-hooded, stepped up and bowed to Crowley. The crowd's noise rose. Terror was clear in Redd's face, but Kenton kept his head bowed, unreadable. Charlie watched transfixed as the executioner raised his axe, but her eyes slammed shut involuntarily as metal met bone, and half of the crowd's cheers turned to gasps whilst the other half cheered louder. She kept her eyes tight shut through the second swing, but the thud of the head landing on the dais and bouncing was inescapable.
"Justice is served," said Lord Crowley, shaking the tiniest droplets of blood from the edge of his robes. "I declare this evening a feast to honour our beloved King, and praise God for the defeat of the traitors and restoration of peace in the realm."
The crowd's cheers were weaker this time. Someone shouted,
"What of the Prince?"
"Riders are sent to the Four Corners of the Kingdom to seek him," said Lord Crowley.
'I just bet they are!' Charlie thought. Suddenly she knew where she was going. The Lord Gabriel in his mountain stronghold would have to wait. Castiel still had friends, two at least, and luckily Charlie knew the road on which to find them.
"The Southland Courts, you say! My, my, my. That's no place for a pretty thing like you. You don't know what they're like to young girls in Azazel's court. " The cart driver leaned back on his seat and relaxed the reigns. He was an older man with a large belly and the roughened hands of a labourer. The back of his cart was filled with rough sacks of vegetables and grain, his horses of the sturdy farming type. He had a slow way of speech and an unhurried manner: "No, that's not the sort of thing you'd have any experience in."
"I don't want to live there," Charlie told the cart driver through gritted teeth. "Just to get there."
"Sorry darlin'….wouldn't want to get mixed up in any of that. They say he's as cruel to simple folk as his whims take him. Not every ruler is kind as the Good King, God bless and rest his soul. No, no, not at all. The Lord Azazel is quite another type."
"How about half way?" Charlie asked desperately, "Or just – as far as you're going." At this rate, she'd be meeting the knights Winchester on their way iback/i from court in any case. "I can pay," she jingled the bag of coins, which, it had fast turned out, hadn't made her as wealthy a woman as she'd thought they did. Charlie had never had any money, but conversely, food, shelter and clothing had been provided for her. It seemed she had little idea of the price of things, and how quickly they added up. And even if she could buy a horse, bridle and all the accoutrements, she was starting to realize that nobody without a sword and armour travelled alone.
"Well now, I might be inclined to take you half way," said the cart driver, and Charlie perked up, "Were it not that my road lies eastward instead of south."
Charlie gaped a little.
"Well why didn't you just isay/i that?" she exclaimed.
"Now, now, now, young lady, there's no need to be rude," said the cart driver slowly, and Charlie threw her hands up and spun around. In her exasperation, she didn't manage to stop herself colliding with the person behind her.
"Charlie!"
"iChuck?/i" she exclaimed, as they untangled themselves and stood up. Then she hugged him. It wasn't that they'd been great friends at court, or even known each other that well, but the little jester was a welcome sight now that she found herself alone and friendless. "I thought you were dead!"
"Um…surprise?" Chuck suggested and smiled hopefully.
"I mean I'm glad you aren't," she hastened to assure him. "I'm really, really glad. How did you escape?"
"I hid in the pigsty," Chuck admitted.
"Well….that…worked," said Charlie.
"Yeah. What did you do?"
"I ran out the servant's staircase. Crowley saw me watching though. He wants me dead."
Chuck gulped. "So…what are you doing now?"
Charlie brightened: "I'm going South! The Knights Winchester are on their way to Azazel's court. I'm going to meet them on the Great Road, and then we'll find the Prince and restore him!"
Chuck stared at her: "Are you crazy?"
Charlie blinked.
"You are crazy," Chuck sighed. The little man glanced left and right nervously, then lowered his voice. "Every man left at court is either one of Crowley's or too afraid to challenge him."
"That's why I need the Winchesters," Charlie patiently explained. "You know they're the greatest Knights in the land, that's why Crowley had to get – oh my God!" her hand flew to her mouth suddenly. "Chuck, what if it was a trap? What if Azazel is waiting with his guard to ambush them?"
"Trap…?"
"No, they're too clever to fall for that," Charlie shook her head. "They're alive. I know it. Look, don't you want the Eagle restored?"
"Of course," said Chuck, and he whispered: "I just want to not die even more." His eyes widened, terrified by his own daring.
Charlie narrowed her eyes: "For a jester, you don't exactly lift the mood."
"I know," said Chuck gloomily. "I don't know why the Good King ever took me on. But Father always said I was a joke, so I suppose it's appropriate."
"Your father…." Charlie frowned. "He's rich, isn't he? A baron or something?"
"Oh, yes. Self-made man in the liquor business. I was supposed to go into it too but he said I drank too much
of the product?"
"Would he lend us horses? To go South?"
Chuck screwed his face up. "He might. He doesn't like doing me any favours, but he's loyal as any to the Eagle. If you think really believe there's a chance – wait, what do you mean, iwe/i?"
"Well he's not going to do it on my word, is he? He doesn't even know me!"
Pause. Chuck sighed and ran his hands over his long face, into his unruly curls. He was a small man, more or less of a height with Charlie, and with his habitual slump he was actually raising his face to her.
"Alright," he said at last, "We'll try it. Now the King's dead, I'm sure I'll end up getting killed one way or another. It might as well be for the sake of a good cause."
"That's the spirit," said Charlie. "Let's go see your father."
Sir Eamon Shurley, distiller, importer and purveyor of fine spirits, lived in a large house on the outskirts of the city, set back from the road by large iron gates. The family crest, a hogshead, displayed proudly on the twin pillars. The grounds accommodated a modest stable and room for carts and waggons. Two guards barred the doors with pikes.
"Halt!" said the first guard, a white-haired man, then recognized Chuck: "Oh. Master Charles." He made a
perfunctory bow to them: "You and your company are welcome."
"Hardly," said Chuck. "How are you keeping, master Richard?"
"Well enough," said the elderly man.
"Is my father home?"
"He is meeting with members of the merchants' guild in the sun room," said the guard. "Since the King passed,
God rest his soul, it's been non-stop comings and goings here."
"Oh well, he's busy, maybe another time…." Chuck started to back away.
"Not so fast," Charlie grabbed him by the back of his jerkin. "I'm sure he can make time for a visit from his son."
When they entered the sun room, however, she was forced to rather revise that opinion:
"God in Heaven, not you again," Eamon Shirley complained. "What must I do to be rid of you once and for all?"
"Hello father," said Chuck meekly. "I hope you are well."
"Hardly," snorted the old knight. Like his son, he was a small man, and age had left him spare and lean. She
could see the relation to Chuck in the bones of his face, but his eyes were harder and the set of his mouth firmer. "The trade routes are threatened by bandits and half the King's Watch is dead: those drunkards alone provided a nice little market. Still, men must drink," he shrugged. There were three other men in the sun room of varying ages, and one woman: they wore the well-made cloaks and visible jewellery of prosperous merchants. A platter of small, brightly coloured decanters and sweet dates was set on a carved wood table, and two of the men had out ledgers and quill pens. None looked particularly pleased to be interrupted. "Who are you?" Sir
Eamon asked Charlie directly.
"Charlie Bradbury at your service sir," she bowed politely: "A humble page."
"And what is a page doing in the company of my son? That is never advisable."
Charlie looked at Chuck.
"We were wondering, sir," Chuck said, "If it might be possible to borrow a pair of horses?"
Sir Eamon narrowed his eyes. "Why?"
Charlie looked to the other merchants in the room. Then she looked at Chuck. He had said that Sir Eamon was loyal to the crown, but could she speak freely in front of the others?
"To….make our fortune?" she suggested.
Sir Eamon snorted with laughter. "In that case, you certainly need a new partner."
"I….have other partners!" she lied. "My cousins, the Knights Winchester. I go South to bring them news of our business venture."
"The Knights Winchester are alive?" Sir Eamon looked up abruptly.
"Oh yes," said Charlie.
"Gentlemen, Lady, excuse me a moment," he said to his business partners. He swept past Charlie and Chuck into the hallway and gestured for them to follow him.
"You are no cousin," he said to Charlie . "You have nothing of the Winchester or the Campbell look. I had assumed that the Winchesters died fighting for the King-"
"No!" she cut him off in excitement. "Crowley knows they're better than him. He sent the brothers South to
Azazel's court to get them out of the way. I took the message," she admitted, then: "I didn't know."
"Then Azazel has had them killed," said Sir Eamon.
"We hope otherwise," said Chuck quietly.
"We have to try, at least," said Charlie.
Sir Eamon folded his hands together and pressed his index fingers to his mouth. "If the Winchesters are alive, and the Prince too, there is more hope for the city than I believed. I would send a fast rider and good horse – but in truth, there is no-one here I trust absolutely, not even your brothers," he addressed Chuck.
"But – me?" Chuck appeared slightly awed.
"You're a fool," said Sir Eamon tiredly, "And you drink too much. You have no head for business and I'm damned if I've ever seen a man of less use with a weapon. But," here he sighed: "I am sure that there isn't a treacherous bone in your body."
"Father," Chuck's chin trembled as though he would cry with happiness. "I – I - thank you sir!" he seemed ready to embrace his father, then thought better of it, and bowed deeply instead.
"If you fail it will be through stupidity, and that is far less dangerous."
"Yes," Chuck nodded several times.
"And you don't look like an idiot," he glanced over Charlie. "He's trustworthy?"
"Well this was all imy/i idea." Charlie was put out. "Also, I'm a woman."
"Don't advertise that on the south road," advised Eamon: "Dress as you are. I've a couple of hackneys that will
suit. I daresay you're more used to palfreys for riding, but two on palfreys without a sword is an invitation
to brigands. Wear your daggers and hide your purses."
Twenty minutes later, after a hurried repast of cheese, bread and dried plums, they saddled up a pair of brown sturdy horse with placid expressions. Sir Eamon had provided them with wineskins, filled saddlebags, and even a few more coins for the road. Charlie was starting to feel uncomfortably like a beggar, but she told herself that when the Prince was restored everyone would be better off for it. With hoods drawn up over their faces, they passed the inner gates, then the crossroads, and took to the south roads.
TBC