Flashman and the Throne of Swords

Chapter 02

by Technomad

Kings Landing, seen from the sea, reminded me of Constantinople. The main difference was that there were no minarets, and that these fortifications were in full working order and manned. We'd made good time from Portsmouth, aboard HMS Warrior, with HMS Black Prince and HMS Penelope as escorts, along with several colliers. The sight of so many of our ironclads(1) making the trip was worrisome; for all of Vicky's reassurances, this meant that trouble was at least possible, and any sign of trouble in the future sends me in the other direction. That is, if I can do it.

Unfortunately, we were on shipboard, and not only was Elspeth standing right by me, but so was Ruffian Dick Burton, along with his tiresome wife. The Westerosi delegation was returning home as well, after marveling at the miracles of modern civilisation. They were led by a couple of knights, Ser Lancel Lannister, some sort of in-law of the King, and Ser Dontos Hollard. Two of the finest fools it's ever been my privilege to meet. Ser Lancel made my darling Elspeth look like a proper genius, and Ser Dontos could drink a sergeant's mess under the table. Keeping up with him at one of the banquets we'd been at together had been extremely difficult, and if I hadn't managed to pour half of my drinks into a nearby potted azelea, I'd have been out for the count before dessert. Introducing them to card games had been a joy, however. Along with some of my colleagues, I had led them down the primrose path, and shorn them like sheep. King Robert had sent them out very well-provided-for in money, and a lot of that money now reposed contentedly in my possession.

They'd worked out a treaty with that greasy sharper D'Israeli, where we would supply them with modern goods in exchange for first dibs on whatever wealth we could find. The poor dupes thought that they had struck a wonderful bargain; they were astonished at what even obsolete flintlock muskets could do.(2) We had carefully kept them away from demonstrations of our most up-to-date armaments, and were absolutely not going to give them the formula for gunpowder, or show them how to make percussion caps. If trouble did arise, we didn't want to have to deal with enemies we'd armed ourselves. We'd learned that much from the Mutiny, at least.

"So that's Kings Landing," Dick commented. He gave the place a knowing look. "Rather reminds me of some Indian cities, doesn't it you, Sir Harry?"

I nodded. The details were different, but the overall effect was much the same. Including the smell. We were being given a "friendly" escort into the harbour by some royal galleys, and I could already smell the familiar smell. Beside me, Elspeth wrinkled her pretty nose, and a little way away, Isabel Burton raised a handkerchief to her face.

The harbour was too shallow for Warrior to tie up next to the quays, so we anchored out in the middle, and disembarked on to a royal barge that took us to shore. To my surprise, the barge was steam-powered. We'd been in touch with Westeros for a decade, and there was already a small community of expatriated British and other folk from our world there, eagerly looking about for profit. Among them was one of my Scotch in-laws, Angus Morrison, Elspeth's first cousin and one of the few of that tribe other than Elspeth that I could stomach.

Elspeth, of course, had written to her cousin telling him that we were on the way. He had written back, and between his letters and the official reports we'd received, Dick and I had had some very interesting reading indeed. We had learned that the current King, Robert, was the first of his line to occupy the throne, having overthrown the previous dynasty a few years before contact had been made with our world. He had apparently once been a great warrior, but, according to Angus, he'd taken to drink, women and hunting as though they were all there were in life. I liked the sound of him, and thought we'd get on well.

Angus also said that the Throne was in Queer Street. The King spent money like it was going out of style, and was arse-over-tip in debt, both to a band of leeches called the "Iron Bank of Braavos" and to his in-laws. He had married into a very wealthy noble family, the Lannisters of Lannisport, and they seemed to be willing to finance him drinking himself to death. Again, this sounded very familiar. The Morrisons had once had such hopes of me, but I was alive and my miserly father-in-law was probably roasting in Hell, if there was any such thing as posthumous justice.

At the quay, we were met by a formation of knights, all of them wearing white cloaks over their armour. We recognised them as the Kingsguard, an elite formation of knights sworn to protect the King. They reminded me of what I'd read at school about the Knights Templar, being, like the Templars, sworn to chastity. How they recruited new members was beyond me; the thought of never touching a woman again was more than enough to make me shudder. Aye, well…the supply of ambitious fools never grows the less. Otherwise, how would Parliament go on?

Their leader, I noticed, was wearing golden, or at least gold-coloured, armour. When he came forward, took off his helmet, and bowed, I heard Elspeth gasp beside me, and Isabel Burton's eyes went very wide. The man was an absolute Adonis, damn him. I instantly resolved to be on my guard and keep an eye on my pretty little featherhead. Dick had less to worry about; from what I'd heard Isabel thought the sun rose and set on him. Even so, though, this man was a threat.

"You are the British delegation?" he asked. For some unfathomable reason, the Westerosi Common Speech was almost like English, and with a little study, all of us had learned to speak it and understand it fluently. I'd say it was more like English than that beastly gargle they speak in Scotland, but I'd say that about Chinese. "Welcome to Kings Landing. My name is Ser Jaime Lannister, of the Kingsguard. I greet you in the name of my sovereign lord, Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms."

Now, this was interesting. The reports, official and unofficial, we had received had had much to say about this man. He had been in the Kingsguard of the king before the current incumbent, the one they called "Mad King Aerys." When Robert Baratheon had raised his banner of revolt, the Lannisters had stayed out of it like sensible folk, until the time was right to kick the Mad King right in the danglies. Then the Lannister patriarch, Tywin Lannister, had persuaded the king to let his troops into the city, and once there, they had turned their coats and joined the rebellion.

To cap it off, Ser Jaime had so far forgotten his oaths to the Kingsguard as to push the Mad King right off the end of the wagon with his own hands. That had won him the name "Kingslayer." Having a chap with that nickname in his own special guard meant that either King Robert was extremely brave or barking mad. Or, as seemed likeliest, so drunk that he didn't much care. Of course, he was married to the Kingslayer's own twin sister. He might have felt that gave him some protection from Ser Jaime deciding to see if he could pull the same sort of trick twice.

We introduced ourselves, me keeping a wary eye on Elspeth as she looked the knights over, and formed up to go into the city to the Red Keep. We'd been given a detachment of Royal Marines, and I was damned glad to see 'em. For all that I'm a cavalryman myself, I'll admit freely that Her Majesty's Jollies are a reassuring sight to see when you're in partibus infidelium, as John Charity Spring might have said.(3) Even though I knew that in the event of real trouble, they'd not be able to protect us, I knew that they'd go down fighting, and hopefully, give me a chance to disappear.

Walking along beside me, Ser Lancel muttered: "This is Flea Bottom, Ser Harry. It's a bad part of town. The people here are drunkards, whoremongers, and whores." This caught my interest, and I looked around carefully, intending to come back and investigate when I got a chance to do so. To my eye, it was like the East End of London, or other such purlieus in our own capital city. The details were different, but the overall effect was much the same. And the people seemed reasonably healthy and well-fed, which was a good sign.

The Red Keep was one of the biggest fortresses it had ever been my privilege to see. Windsor may have covered more ground, but the Red Keep had very little open space beyond a couple of small courtyards. It made Jhansi and the other Indian fortress-palaces I had seen look rather tame. I was glad of our escort; the place was huge and labyrinthine, and I'd have soon been lost on my own.

The overall effect was very like what I imagine a medieval castle would have been like. Tapestries on the walls told stories I did not know, and torches burning in sconces provided light where the windows did or could not. I noticed, carven into the stone, things like a seven-pointed star, symbolic of the Faith of the Seven, and a three-headed dragon that symbolized the previous dynasty.

Finally, we reached the throne room. The Iron Throne loomed at one end of the chamber, high up on a dais over the main floor. As I'd been told, it was made of hundreds of swords, all of them fused together with dragonfire, but still sharp. It was said that the Throne would cut an unworthy person who dared to sit in it. The throne room was crowded; everybody wanted to see the English ambassador and his retinue arriving.

King Robert lolled in the Iron Throne. He looked to me like an old soldier, past his prime, content to sleep, eat, drink and fornicate his days away. He reminded me of my own guv'nor, truth be told, at least before the drink really got him and he had to be carted away to the blue-devil factory for the last time. I liked him immediately, and thought that he might make a jolly companion of an evening.

Below him on the steps leading up to the throne was his wife, Queen Cersei. She was standing close to her husband, but anybody could see that she detested him. She was a real beauty, blonde and blue-eyed with a figure that would bring a stone idol howling off its pedestal. Had we been in Britain, she'd have been the belle of the Season, with a train of admirers longer than Watling Street. I glanced at Elspeth, and saw that my sweet wife was giving the Queen a stony stare, which was being returned. To my surprise, Isabel Burton was also clearly not feeling friendly toward Queen Cersei. This did not bode well for our diplomacy. I made up my mind to have a talk with Elspeth and find out what had set her off so.

The heralds introduced the King and Queen, and then the rest of the members of the "Small Council," which is what the Westerosi call a Privy Council. The King's youngest brother, Renly, stood out from the rest. He was another Adonis, only dark where Ser Jaime was blond, with a dangerously slantendicular look in his eye. I could see Elspeth preening when his glance fell on her, and even Isabel Burton was clearly pleased by his looks. Aye, thought I, another one to watch.

Of the others, Varys, the "Master of Whisperers," or spymaster, was probably the most distinctive. He was clearly not a local man, and from his lack of beard and high voice, I was certain that he was an eunuch. I'd seen enough of 'em, in China and elsewhere, to know the look. Dick Burton looked intrigued. One of his hobbies where ever he went was investigating the local sexual curiosities, and, unlike me, he didn't confine himself to the brothels. He'd got himself into hot water with our prudish countrymen, since he published his findings and didn't care about hurting their sensibilities.

The Master of Coin, or treasurer, Lord Petyr Baelish, had a shifty, untrustworthy look about him, and I wondered if King Robert was mad, to trust such a man close to the fisc. In his boots, I'd not have let Lord Petyr so much as into the castle. He looked us over like we were livestock brought to market, and he was figuring how much he could make off us.

"Welcome to Westeros, Ser Richard, Ser Harry, and your ladies!" boomed King Robert. "Normally, We'd have a tournament in your honour…" I could see my silly wife perking up at that announcement… "but, unfortunately, the Hand of the King, Jon Arryn,(4) has died unexpectedly and the court's in mourning." Elspeth drooped slightly. "We are planning a journey shortly, up to Winterfell in the north, to see Our good friend and comrade, Ned Stark, the Lord of the North. When We return, then we may well have a tournament. In the meantime, there shall be a feast tonight, in honour of your safe arrival."

The feast was everything I had ever imagined a medieval feast to be, complete with musicians scraping and twanging away in the galleries as we glutted ourselves down below. We sat through an invocation to the locals' Seven Gods, and Elspeth took it fairly well while Isabel Burton was plainly seething for the chance to make a rebuttal. I'd have sworn that Dick had her by the arm, very firmly, as long as the High Septon was droning on.

While Dick and I were both excellent sailors and had had no trouble with seasickness, our wives had suffered on the way to Westeros and were very glad of the food. Westerosi cuisine was rich and wonderful, and the wines were a revelation. To my relief, they had stuff called "strongwine" that I gathered was made by taking wine, freezing it, and throwing out the ice. It wasn't a patch on brandy, but it would do for the present.

When the feast was ended, we were shown to our quarters. We had a whole large tower to ourselves, and the Union Jack fluttered from its battlements to show that it was serving as the Crown's embassy in Westeros. Our Marine contingent were also sleeping there, in rooms that had been revamped into barracks. Our own chambers were richly, if barbarically, appointed, and I decided that the diplomatic service had its benefits. Instead of roasting or freezing on campaign, huddled in a tent and eating leather to keep from starvation, I was cosily ensconced in a luxurious set of chambers with my own beloved brainless beauty to keep me company and warm my bed. Aye, I thought to myself as I poured out another dose of strongwine, things could be much worse.

A tap at the door alerted me, and I sidled over to the door, signalling Elspeth to be quiet and putting my hand on the Colt Baby Dragoon I had in my pocket. I'd enough memories of Lahore, Jhansi, Tananarivo and Pekin to not let my surroundings put me off my guard completely. The door opened silently, and Dick Burton slipped in, quiet as a shadow.

He gestured for quiet, as Elspeth's eyes went wide. In a low voice, he said in Arabic: "Be very careful what you say in here. This tower is riddled with spy tunnels."

I looked around, but couldn't see any spy holes, which meant nothing at all. The furniture was heavy and hard to move, and could have concealed them easily. The decoration was overdone enough that they could have been lurking anywhere. I nodded.

Elspeth asked: "Harry? What's that language you're speaking?" I wrote the word "Arabic" down on a sheet of paper and handed it to her. Her eyes went wide. Elspeth may seem a fool, but I had told her more than enough for her to twig quickly that we were doing this to avoid being overheard. And Westeros had been in contact with our world long enough for them to have speakers of the commoner European languages about. Arabic, on the other hand, would almost certainly defeat them, and both Dick and I were fluent.(5)

"I don't trust that Varys creature as far as I could throw him," Dick went on, "and that treasurer's got a lean and hungry look about him, if ever I've seen one. We'd all best be on our toes, and if we really want to speak sub rosa, use languages that the locals won't understand." I nodded, and he slipped back out.

In a very low voice, and in French, which she did speak fluently, I explained what had just happened to Elspeth. Elspeth, to give her credit, twigged immediately to what we were doing. In French, she said "But of course, Harry. I can see how that would work in our favour. We are perfectly honest, but still, we don't want the local people to know everything that we're doing. And in this Varys' shoes, I'd have us watched without cease."

And then she wrapped her arms around my neck and gave me a passionate kiss. She purred, in English this time: "Since we're sure they're watching us, my jo, let us give them something worth the watching!" I smiled, and began undoing her gown as she began unbuttoning my clothes.

[1] Warrior was the first ironclad warship built for the Royal Navy. Black Prince and Penelope came later.

[2] As part of the treaty between Westeros and Great Britain, the British government sold thousands of obsolete "Brown Bess" muskets to Westeros, to re-equip the royal forces. The formula for gunpowder was kept a closely guarded secret, and gunpowder sales to Westeros were closely regulated.

[3] See Flash for Freedom! John Charity Spring (1810-1875), M.A., was a disgraced Oxford don who had captained the Balliol College slaver on Flashman's involuntary voyage to the Slave Coast and North America in 1848. One of his distinctive habits was salting his speech with Latin tags, whether or no the hearers could understand them.

[4] Hand of the King was rather like an Eastern vizier. In the event of the King's incapacity or unavailability, he could make royal-level decisions as though he were king himself.

[5] One of the few Britons more multilingual than Flashman himself, Sir Richard Burton was said to speak thirty-nine languages fluently. His Arabic was good enough for him to pose as an Arab and make the pilgrimage to Mecca, where being exposed as a Christian would have meant instant death.