A/n: This chapter contains spoilers for Game of Thrones seasons 1 and 2. Because of the timeframe in which this story originally takes place, the Avengers have not yet watched season 3. ;)

(Also, sorry this is late! Been spending time with family over the holidays. I hope you all are having a wonderful holidays or surviving being back at work/school!)

[ TONY ]

"Was I altering the 'space-time continuum,' or whatever they called it in time-travel movies, just by existing right now? Perhaps I'd accidentally kill a mosquito that might have given some famous person a disease that killed them?" – J.R. Rain, Moon Bayou

Tony had never taken the time to imagine what the stocks would be like. Now that he was spending some quality time in one, he could say it was damn unpleasant.

For starters, his back ached, and he couldn't shift to a better position or otherwise relieve it. His neck hurt, and there was no way to wiggle out of the boards holding him captive. He was stuck fast. He shimmied his arms forward to get his weight off his forearms, but there wasn't a way to stand that didn't hurt after a few minutes. Tony let out an aggravated growl.

The sun beat down on him, and his exposed skin started to burn. His legs grew tired, but sinking to his knees to relieve them only made his neck and arms hurt worse. As if that wasn't bad enough, passersby of all ages and ranks gathered to jeer at him or even throw food (and worse, judging by the consistency and…smell). There was no way to avoid it; Tony simply had to stand there and take it.

He had no idea how he was going to last the day—or longer, if that was their intention. He wondered if they'd stuffed Alric into one of these somewhere else, if the knight would have to wait his turn in these ones, or if they were doing something worse to him. Tony closed his eyes. He recited formulas in his head so he'd stop focusing on the pain in his body or the rotten vegetables spattering beside his ear.

Or whatever might be going on back inside the Scottish castle's prison.

They left him there until sunset. He couldn't be sure of the exact passage of time—surely it'd been an eternity —though it must've only really been a few hours. Tony thought he'd experienced pain and exhaustion before, but it hardly compared to this.

Leader—Myhll emerged from the castle, his lips curled in a sick, amused grin at the sight of Tony covered in sweat and filth. He and three men opened up the stocks and Tony collapsed to the platform, shaking with pain. Myhll's two lackeys hauled him to his feet and slung his arms over their shoulders. Tony cried out with the stabbing pain of his spine changing position after so long and let them drag him into the castle.

He was bleary and miserable, sore all over, hollow, and incredibly hungry. He hadn't eaten since a few bites of breakfast before the attack, which had to be almost a full two days ago now. Or something. He honestly wasn't sure at this point, and his head still hurt.

Tony tried to take in his surroundings as Myhll and the boys went. Tapestries, stone walls, silent servants darting out of the way, more tapestries, goblets, paintings, rugs, stone, more stone…

They entered a large open chamber which had rows of benches tucked away to either side. The room was dim but lit with a dozen or so standing candlesticks. At the back was a carved wooden chair. On it, sat—

"Pepper?" Tony wheezed, a puzzled whisper.

The men drew him closer and Tony's eyes focused. Definitely not Pepper. Though she looked a hell of a lot like her. She wore dark, shining fabrics which only made her pale skin and red hair more pronounced.

The Scots dumped Tony onto the floor, fifteen or so feet away from the base of the chair. The regal woman waved her hand and the men stepped back. She gestured and a couple servants rushed forward to give Tony a cup of—thank God—water. It tasted like river and wasn't totally clear of grit, but he guzzled it all down in one breath.

"Thank you," he said and exhaled in a rush. It wasn't much but it instantly made him feel clearer headed.

She offered him the smallest of smiles and allowed him a second cup. This one Tony clutched and sipped so he didn't throw up.

"I am Lady Brae, wife to Lord Brae of Castle Eruch," said the woman. She folded her hands in her lap and watched him carefully.

She sat ramrod straight in the massive chair yet still managed to looked as comfortable as if she were lounging on a bed of silk. She had fiery red hair pinned up behind her head, and Tony couldn't help staring at her. Not only was she striking, but even up close, with that slightly amused spark in her eyes and no-nonsense set to her lips, she still looked a lot like Pepper. His heart ached and his spirits lifted, even though he was pretty sure he was about to be finally handed an execution sentence.

"And you," she added. "Are the Englishman who spoke ill to my men."

"Yeah, that's me." He figured that ought to have been obvious given the fact that he was the guy who'd been just outside her castle, in the stocks, for half a day, and probably on her orders.

"Has your demeanor softened?" Her Scottish accent wasn't as thick as her men's, making her much easier for Tony to understand.

He pressed his dry lips together. A whole lot of things he wanted to say would've likely landed him squarely back in the stocks, so he opted for a tight nod instead.

Lady Brae's eyes twinkled, like she knew exactly how hard he was working to not insult her any further. "What is your name, stranger?"

Tony let out a short sigh. Couldn't she just get the execution over with? Not that he was in a hurry to die, obviously, but he was just damn tired of this whole ordeal. Better to end it then prolong the torture.

"I'm Sir Anthony Stark of Winterfell—a country far, far away—and I just want to go home." He also wanted to lay down and sleep and eat and have a shower and roughly ten thousand other things. He stayed on his knees and, with difficulty, waited for her to respond.

"Are you a spy, sent from England to infiltrate this place?"

"What? No, of course not." Tony's palms grew clammy with sweat.

She watched him with such intensity he thought she might be studying his very bones. "Would you relay to me if you truly were?" Another slight eyebrow raise.

Tony clenched his jaw. How the hell was he supposed to answer that?

Lady Brae watched him struggle with a reply before moving on without one. "What was the purpose of your journey, Sir Tony? You and your fellow knights."

"We were…we were on our way to Dunkeld. To aid our liege lord," Tony sputtered out. He doubted that adding they were supposed to be aiding the lord in battling Scotsmen would go over very well, so he held that part back.

"With what, pray tell?" Lady Brae prodded after several seconds of silence.

Tony swallowed. Shit. He cast around for something to say—to all his conversations with the knights. "Monasteries," he finally blurted. He remembered back to when he'd first met Mad John. "For King David. We're supposed to help build more monasteries."

Lady Brae's nod was slow and thoughtful, but Tony couldn't tell if she was buying his bullshit or not. Maybe she was just humoring him and would ask Myhll to step up and slit his throat. He shuddered and tried to pretend it was a shiver from the chilly room.

After several long seconds, she asked, "Who are you?"

"Uh, I'm Sir Anthony of Winterfell, like I told you—"

"No," Lady Brae pressed. "You've told me your name, not who you are."

Well, that's a long, complicated story, he thought. His mind flashed to memories of his mom and dad, to empty mansions and flashy women and leaving pointless awards behind in cabs, to his lab full of gadgets and tools and JARVIS's voice, to his suits and his team and waking up beside Pepper. A long, complicated story he couldn't tell her a word of, without adding stuff about cars and aliens and, "Oh, by the way I'm from the future".

He swallowed thickly. Tony gulped. What could he say that would not end with him getting killed? Or had that ship already sailed and she was just messing with him for kicks in his final moments?

He dug around in his fuzzy mind for something to say. "Okay, well," he started, chewing the inside of his cheek and stalling for time as his mind raced.

What the hell do I say? He couldn't make something up on the spot—he wasn't a storyteller like Thor, who was pretty much a master. What would Thor do if he were here? Probably come up with something epic and impressive about his battle days of yore . I need an epic battle story — c'mon, Tony, think — epic battle…

And then Tony said the only thing that popped into his genius brain:

"I'm the son of the Lord of Winterfell," he told her. "I am—was trying to become the King in the North, after he died, before I, uh, had to run away." He'd figure out why later.

He knew it was dumb the second the words left his mouth, but he blamed dehydration and exhaustion and the ache in his back and head and knees and everything else. Then again, it wasn't like anybody could call him on his bullshit—the world was still mostly a mystery in this time period. Who would know that the Wall and the snowy fortress of Winterfell didn't really exist? By the time anybody figured out there was no House of Stark, he'd be long gone.

"The sitting King came from the South to our house—uh, castle, and my father left with him to be his Hand. He left me in command and um, I defended our...lands from lots of threats."

Tony figured it didn't hurt to paint himself as Robb, who rose up to defend his house's honor when his father was killed by a petulant, horrible little king. Robb was a good dude—most of the Avengers were cheering for him to succeed when they binged the second season, especially Thor—and surely it'd sound good to Lady Brae.

"I rode around the country, um…gathering support from all those sworn to serve House Stark. They called me the King in the North, the rightful true King." He paused, watching Lady Brae carefully, but she gestured for him to continue. "Right, so…"

He roughly recapped a number of things for the Scottish woman, making it sound like Robb's life was his own. He left out any mention of magic elements and made stuff up when he couldn't remember what happened on the show, working to explain how he ended up here. Lady Brae's expression remained neutral for a while but then she slowly got into his story, leaning forward slightly as she listened, intent and focused.

"So then, uh…I ran away. After, yeah—we lost a battle, like, really bad, and everybody—my army was decimated. And my family killed," he tossed in, hoping to gain Lady Brae's sympathy, and to explain why he was here instead of still trying to become "king." "So, um, with no choice except die or hide, I, uh, fled."

He ducked his head as if ashamed and swallowed.

"Oh, bravo, Sir Tony, bravo." Lady Brae smiled softly at him and he wasn't sure if she was screwing with him or not. "That was quite a tale. I'm incredibly saddened to hear of your great losses. I do not think it cowardly to flee when you had naught else."

"Uh, well, thanks, I guess." Tony shifted, hoping to ease the pain in his knees a little. The stone under him was unforgiving. "So does this mean I get to live, or…?"

"I think that will be something left up to you and God above," she replied. "I do not you think you false, nor an English spy, which is in your favor to be sure." She waved over one of her attendees while Tony tried to process what she said. "Give this man a hearty meal from the kitchens and a cot to rest on."

"Begging your, uh—but what do you mean?" Tony twined his fingers together to stop them from trembling.

"I believe you speak truly in regards to history and intentions, and you amuse me—your tale was quite compelling. Alas, as my husband forbids I take on any further servants nor another consort—"

Tony's gut squirmed. That was an option?

"I have therefore decided to leave your fate in God's hands." She leaned back in chair and folded her hands neatly in her lap. "You shall be allowed the chance to win your freedom."

"And I would do that…how…exactly?" He dreaded the answer before it came.

"Well, in a small tourney, of course. I will allow you a place in tomorrow's tournament. Should you survive three rounds of the sword, then God has seen fit to grant you your freedom."

A string of colorful curses ran through Tony's head and he held them in with difficulty. "And what about my friends?"

"Should they prove themselves to me, they will be granted the same opportunity on the morrow as well."

Crap, crap, crap… He supposed this was a much better option than the doom and gloom Alric had earlier predicted, but still. So much crap. A tournament? Three rounds with a sword? She might as well kill him now and save him the pain.

(No, not really, he was just really freaking out. Breathe, damn it, breathe. )

"Now," Lady Brae stood, an elegant swooping gesture that sent her skirts swishing. "Rest up, Sir Tony. You have an important day to endure tomorrow."

After washing his face and hands in the bucket of water provided, Tony sat down to eat the hot meal they left for him. He wasn't surprised to find that the food sat like a rock in his gut. It was nicer than the fare he'd had with the company, and he'd been so hungry he hadn't cared what kind of fare it was, but the thought of the impending tourney kinda stole the rest of his appetite.

And he wasn't at all surprised to discover he couldn't sleep, either, despite the cot being way comfier than the ground and mat he'd grown used to. He stretched gently, working out the ache in his back before laying down. He gingerly touched the bump on the back of head, which was still tender. Tony got up to pace, then laid back down. Lather, rinse, repeat. Somehow moving was better than not, even while he knew he should be trying to sleep.

He discovered there was a pair of guards stationed at his door, probably to keep him from bolting; they told him to stay in his room. The window was too small for Tony to climb through—and yeah, he tried. So barring using his washbin as a weapon and fighting his way out of the castle, he was stuck.

Was Alric still down in the dungeon? Would they put him in the tourney, same as Tony? God, would Tony have to fight him? His heart pounded with worry at the idea. Or would Tony simply never see Alric again? And what about Dommal and the others?

Tony rolled over on the cot to stare up at the gray stone wall, wishing he could talk to Bruce again. Or any of his team. Wishing he had some sort of clever solution out of this mess. Wishing harder than ever that this whole medieval nightmare was over. Tony scrubbed his hands over his face and sucked in slow deep breaths, hoping to relax enough to fall asleep.

Though he might've finally dozed off for a few short hours, before long, it was dawn. Too soon, Tony was going to be fighting for his life.

Again, damn it.

Tony heaved his sore body off the bed. He carefully stretched some more, working out the kinks in his back and neck from his hours in the stocks. Sunlight streamed in the small window, casting a long line of brilliance on the thin, faded rugs covering the stone floor.

Tony paced and pictured his limited experience in battle. Pictured Anselm and Mad John saving his ass. Super-helpfully pictured the more grotesque and graphic scenes in Game of Thrones. The man he personally killed in the forest, the bodies Alric had to bury... He wondered how the hell he'd survive a freaking tournament of swords against people who actually knew what they were doing.

"Tony?"

He fought off a shudder, lost in his own dark thoughts about what was to come. He didn't realize someone was talking to him until he heard it again.

"Tony, are you there?"

Tony's heart jumped. "Bruce?"

He forgot about everything else and searched for the source of his friend's voice. His attention landed on the bucket of washing water by the door. Tony dove for it, his sore knees banging against the floor. He grinned at the image of his friend in the murky water and unbidden tears sprang to Tony's eyes.

"God, Bruce, you have no idea how good it is to see you," he said. He smiled so hard his cheeks hurt. Overwhelming relief and hope billowed through him.

"Tony…my God, what…" Bruce stared in unfiltered shock.

"Geez, Bruce, hi to you too. Do I really look that bad?" Tony joked. He scratched at his thickened beard and could only imagine what Bruce was seeing. He was pretty sure he'd scrubbed off the blood and dirt from battle, but maybe he'd missed a spot. Maybe he looked more haggard than he knew.

Bruce peered closer, his face lined with worry. "How long has it been?"

Tony shrugged. "A few weeks, I think. Or a month or something. It's hard to keep track."

The physicist's eyes went wide. "A month? Oh, Tony…" The image wavered.

"What? Hey, Bruce, don't—no, I'm fine, it's fine—how're things—" Tony sucked in a sharp breath, struggling to marshal himself. If his last conversation with Bruce was anything to go by, he had precious few seconds to talk with his friend. He had to make this quick. He wasn't going to waste words promising he was okay (especially when he really wasn't).

Instead, he said, "Tell me you're bringing me home." He didn't mean to sound quite so sad and desperate.

Bruce's expression crumbled into something apologetic and hope had never drained out of Tony so fast.

"Oh," he managed, before Bruce came up with a reply.

"No, it's not like that—look," Bruce sighed. "The farther out you are, the more time is passing for you. We—it's barely been—" Bruce winced and stumbled over his words. "We're trying, but we haven't had enough time to—"

"We?" Tony prompted but plowed on again before Bruce could answer. "Look, you gotta get me out of here, Banner. I'm a freaking prisoner of war in a Scottish castle! And they're about to make me fight for my freedom in some duel, and I'm pretty sure I'm gonna die here if you don't—"

Bruce's likeness flickered and disappeared. Tony's heart skipped a terrible beat and the image was back. His friend squinted, his face scrunched up like he was concentrating very hard on something.

Stay with me, buddy, Tony thought. He swallowed down a flash of panic over losing all contact with his friend. Over being stuck here forever. Over dying here before Bruce could get him out.

"Just hold on, Tony," said Bruce through almost clenched teeth. "Stay alive. We're coming, I promise."

Tony opened his mouth to ask what Bruce meant by that—we're coming—but then his friend was gone.

"Bruce? Bruce? " He watched the stagnant bucket of water but nothing changed.

Tony sat back, pulse racing. He didn't know how to feel. Bruce said he was coming—with "we", whoever that meant. Who was he with? One of the other Avengers or someone else? He couldn't stop the flash of jealousy that Bruce had someone to get through this crap with.

Tony figured he should be excited, brimming with hope again and ready to rescued from this medieval hell. But that was only if he survived long enough to be rescued and he had no idea how long "long enough" needed to be. The thought that some angry Scots would kill him before Bruce could fish him out of this time and place made him sick.

Maybe Tony could buy himself some time somehow. Maybe he could still get out of this on his own until Bruce was ready. Maybe he could actually survive the tournament.

Right. And maybe I can also walk on water and build a rocket ship out of wood planks and burlap.

He had a million more questions he wanted to mull over about the little information he'd gotten from his friend, but there was a polite knock on his door.

"Sir Stark? It is time."