Flashman and the Throne of Swords

Chapter Seven

by Technomad

I had to admit, for all her other faults, Catelyn Stark was no liar. The dungeons at the Eyrie were designed to allow their victims to leave at any time they wanted. They were open chambers in the side of a cliff fully six hundred feet above the ground, with floors that slanted toward the open side. Unless one were released, the only way out was to jump. And I noticed, with a shudder, that some poor soul had written on the wall: Gods help me, the blue is calling!

I've been in a good few dungeons in my time, but this was easily the worst I'd ever struck. The designer must have been a devil who got up early every morning to sharpen his horns. To cap things off, it was cold and windy and all I had to bless myself with for warmth was a couple of ratty old blankets that somebody or other had left behind. I hoped they didn't belong to that poor wretch who had written on the wall. I'm not a superstitous man, but that would strike me as deucedly unlucky.

One stroke of good luck was that they'd bunged Lord Tyrion in with me. The dwarf lord was good company, with a great store of stories and gossip about the royal family. Over the next few days, he let me in on quite a few stories about their past lives, and, reflexively, I made mental notes. If I got out of this pickle alive, Dick Burton would want to know all of these things.

Our gaolor, a brute named Mord, delighted in tormenting us. When he reluctantly gave us the slop we were supposed to eat, he would do his best to goad us into trying to do something to him. I didn't much fancy my chances; he was big, ugly and almost certainly had guards backing him up out of our immediate line of sight. However, when he started threatening to throw Lord Tyrion over the side, I felt I had to do something. Normally, standing up to a man-monster of his sort is one of the last things I want to do, but even if I got out of this mess alive, reporting back to Kings Landing without Lord Tyrion would be very bad for me.

Mord discounted me, the fool, being focussed on Lord Tyrion. When he made the mistake of coming all the way into our cell, I pounced. While I bar hand-to-hand fighting as a rule, I did not spend years at Rugby without learning a good deal on that subject. It was the only way one could survive there. And even though I was not quite what I had once been, I'm six foot tall, fourteen stone (or a little less at the time; we'd not been fed well at all) and strong. And, as I've commented elsewhere in these memoirs, Flashy, when cornered, is a formidable opponent. (1)

Before Mord knew just what had hit him, I'd knocked him down, and was dragging him over to the edge to where he could get a good long look at the six-hundred-foot drop that yawned below our cell. "See that?" I snarled in his ear. "Fancy trying to find out if you can grow wings, you bastard?" I'd been working up a good head of rage, and having someone to take it out on was just nuts to me. I'd done something very similar before, in Germany (2) so this was nothing I couldn't handle.

If Lord Tyrion hadn't yelled: "No! Don't kill him, Ser Harry!" I might have done just that, and be damned to the consequences. I was furious enough to forget to be afraid, and this damned brute was too much like various swine who've tried to cancel Flashy's birth certificate for my taste. Giving him a sample of what I'd seen Yondo given in Abyssinia (3) would have felt very good.

Lord Tyrion came up beside Mord, who was gurgling and struggling; the arm I had across his throat, in best Rugby dormitory style, made it difficult for the poor lamb to breathe. "Tell Lady Catelyn…" he began, then his face lit up. "Tell Lady Catelyn that I want to confess!" He then turned to me. "Let him go, Ser Harry. I need him to carry the message back to his mistress." I gave him an are-you-off-your-bloody-loaf look, and he smiled and gave me a wink. "Just do it. Please."

In our short acquaintance, I'd formed a healthy respect for Lord Tyrion's brains, and I decided to put my trust in him. I let Mord up. He was gasping and shaking, and I reluctantly hauled him back from the edge, much as I would have preferred to kick the swine into space. "The blue is calling," indeed!

Tyrion was talking fast. "Do you like gold, Mord?" The great fool nodded. "Well, I have gold. Don't have it on me, but I do have it! You've heard how rich we Lannisters are, haven't you?" Another nod. "Go and tell Lady Catelyn that I want to confess my crimes, and you'll have all the gold I have with me!" At this, the moron's face lit up. I'd not have trusted any such promise for a second, but we were dealing with someone who made an ox look a proper genius. Mord scampered for the door (and I spared a moment's regret at not having slipped through it when we got him down, instead of wasting my time on futile revenges) and shut it behind him.

When he was gone, I gave Lord Tyrion a look. "So what's your cunning plan, then?"

Lord Tyrion grinned wickedly at me. "You'll see, Ser Harry. And, by the way…thanks for helping out. You've a Lannister in your debt, and we pay our debts."

I gave a modest shrug. "All in a day's work, m'lord. You speak as though this were something unusual." Believe me, I'd have much preferred this be an unusual occurrence, but ever since I was expelled from Rugby, this has been the pattern of my life; getting thrown into some impossible situation, bluffing, running, dodging for cover and blaming others till I get out, and then finding myself in an even more impossible situation. Honestly, I sometimes feel as though I've been dropped into one of those improbable boys' adventure novels. And if that were so, I'd give all the wealth of the Indies to have my fingers about the author's neck, just for five minutes!

A little while later, we were greeted by a squadron of soldiers wearing the Tully colours, who marched in and escorted us out. As we were marched through the halls, I noted in passing that they weren't too well-kept-up. I wondered who Lysa Tully had in charge of the castle. If Elspeth had seen Gandamack Lodge (4), or our townhouse in Berkeley Square, in such a state there'd have been some servants out on the street, toute-suite. Elspeth, bless her bonny blue eyes, may be a bit simple (or may not be; I've never been sure but that she puts on an air of simplicity to disarm folk) but she keeps our servants' noses firmly to the old grindstone. With her eye for detail and her talent for organisation, if she'd been born male, she'd have made an excellent sergeant in the Army.

However, I soon had things to worry about other than the state of the castle's upkeep. We were marched into the Great Hall, and there was Lady Lysa herself, standing beside a weirwood throne on which perched the weedy boy I'd seen earlier. Lady Catelyn was standing not far from her sister, and the two of them had looks of utter malicious satisfaction on their faces. I felt like a canary being confronted by two hungry cats.

"So," said Lady Lysa. "The sky cells always break them. You may make your confession, Lord Tyrion." I would have spoken up, pointed out that I was a British diplomat, demanded my immediate release on pain of the displeasure of Queen Victoria, but as I filled my lungs, the guard behind me jabbed me in the back with something sharp, and I held my peace. Inwardly, I was praying to whatever god watches over us atheists that Lord Tyrion would be able to talk us out of this jam.

"Oh, I am a vile little man," Lord Tyrion began, with a wicked grin. He went on to detail a life spent in debauchery and licence, with wall-to-wall wine, whoring, wasting and woolgathering, evil wishes for his lord father's death and that of his sister, the Queen (that last part was no surprise; we'd talked enough for me to know that Queen Cersei would have killed him years ago if she could have got away with it) and gambling. All in all, it sounded great fun, and I wished I could have been along for it. The part where young Tyrion hid a servant's dress when she was in bathing, forcing her to return to the castle naked, her tits a-bob, particularly charmed me.

Finally Lady Lysa had heard enough. She slapped the arm of the weirwood throne hard enough to shut Lord Tyrion up. "Enough! What do you know about the attempt on my nephew's life? What do you have to say about Brandon Stark?"

Lord Tyrion spread his hands, his face a mask of utter innocence. "Why, nothing, my lady. I had nothing to do with it, and I know nothing of it."

"Enough! To purge your insolence, I shall have you back in the sky cells. But a different one this time, with more of a slant to the floor!" The guards seized onto me, and I braced myself for a fight. I knew it was hopeless, but at that moment, I'd have rather died than go back to the sky cells, much less one with more of a slant to the floor than the one we'd been in. Several times, when we'd managed to sleep, I'd nearly rolled out. Even now, decades later, I dread sleep sometimes, for my dreams take me back to that cell in the sky. I hope the man who came up with it is burning in hell.

Lord Tyrion, bless him, knew what to do. "Is this justice?" he roared, in a voice surprisingly loud for such a small person. "I deny your charges, so you throw me and Ser Harry into a sky cell to freeze? Do the laws stop at the gates of the Eyrie? Are we still in the Seven Kingdoms here?"(5) I cheered him on mentally. Reminding those two madwomen of just whose brother-in-law he was couldn't hurt. Did they think they could just dispose of King Robert's own brother-in-law without repercussions?

Lady Lysa smiled evilly. "If a trial is what you wish, Lord Tyrion, a trial you shall have," she drawled. "And my son shall be the judge!" This was not good news at all. That sickly brat was utterly under his Mama's thumb, and would do as she said.

On his throne, Lord Robert bounced up and down with excitement. "Mama! May I make them fly?" I didn't know just what he meant right then.

"Of course, if you decide that they're guilty," Lady Lysa purred. She gestured, and one of the guards opened a door at one end of the hall. Outside, the mountains were visible. "We keep no headsman here at the Eyrie, Lord Tyrion, Ser Harry. Behold the king's justice!" Suddenly I knew what that poisonous brat had meant by "make them fly."

I'm a bad man. I've done a lot of bad things, and, God willing, will survive to do more. However, allowing people to be thrown off a seven-hundred-foot-tall cliff to please an insane child is a good long ways beyond what even I think is good form. Lady Lysa, of course, was barking mad.

Lord Tyrion smiled bitterly. "I would not put such a burden on my host. I call for trial by combat!" At this, everybody laughed, loud and long. The thought of Lord Tyrion, of all people, squaring off with one of the big, burly knights that were standing about was humourous, I had to admit. I'd have found it even funnier had my own neck not been in the noose along with his.

"You? You call for trial by combat?" At least this had thrown Lady Lysa aback a little.

"Of course. I name my brother Ser Jaime Lannister as my champion." Now I saw the little genius' strategy. If they sent to Kings Landing for Ser Jaime, they would have to say where they were holding Lord Tyrion. Ser Jaime would come, hotfoot…and almost certainly would have a great deal of the Royal army with him, along with as many troops as the Lannisters could bring up from their lands in the West. While the Eyrie was immune to storming, once it was cut off from re-victualling, the rest was a matter of time.

"No, that would take too much time. And you have a fine champion right beside you. We have heard much of the exploits of Ser Harry Flashman in his own lands. He will make a fine champion for you, and his prowess will determine both of your fates." That was Lady Catelyn. She'd apparently swotted up enough about me to be taken in by my spurious reputation. "Ser Harry has led neck-or-nothing charges into the teeth of enemy armies, saved fortresses from certain capture, and evaded death time and again! What better champion could you have, Lord Tyrion?"

I could have strangled the bitch. Once again, my hair-raising, mostly-undeserved reputation had landed me straight into the sewage. I'd have been perfectly happy to let Ser Jaime do the fighting, but that wasn't to be. I found myself being shoved forward, and someone handed me a sword. Lady Lysa looked around, her protuberant eyes reminding me uncomfortably of our own sovereign lady for a second. "Who will face Ser Harry for me and the Eyrie?"

I was quite disturbed at the number of volunteers that came forward. Of course, Lady Lysa was the mistress of the Vale of Arryn, and de facto ruler of one of the quondam "Seven Kingdoms," so there'd be no lack of ambitious toadies trying to please her and possibly parlay that into marriage to her and a huge rise in their status.(6) If it hadn't been my neck on the chopping-block, I'd have rather envied them the chance. Of course, bedding Lady Lysa and putting up with that brat of hers would take some of the fun out of it.

She picked one knight named Ser Vardis Egen, and he came forward. He was still in his armour, and I didn't like that at all, not having any of my own. I turned to the singer Marillion, who'd been an interested witness to the proceedings, and called out: "When you make a song of this, singer, make sure not to forget the part about how the knight of the Eyrie was so afraid of the Englishman he faced that he refused to remove his armour, despite the Englishman having none!"

In his shoes, assuming I'd been mad enough to offer myself willingly for a trial-by-combat, that taunt wouldn't have moved me an inch out of my steel clothes, but Ser Vardis was, like many other Westerosi knights, an honour-mad fool. And I noticed that the audience that had gathered were murmuring. With a thrill, I realised that sympathies had swung to me, and Lord Tyrion. From being accused of attempted murder, we'd become underdogs, and a lot of people were hoping I'd win. Of course, I was one of that number myself. Dying on Ser Vardis' sword or being thrown off a seven-hundred-foot cliff held no appeal.

At Lady Lysa's shout of "Lay on, and Seven defend the right!" Ser Vardis and I were suddenly locked in combat. I concentrated on keeping him at a distance for a while; I hadn't spent all those years in practice with some of the most experienced swordmasters in the Army, not to mention sparring with Dick Burton, for nothing. While I would far rather run, I'm a fine swordsman. And I noticed, with delight, that Ser Vardis was not only not in my league, but was much too used to fighting only in armour. And all the swordwork he knew was with the edge, while I knew that swords have points for a reason.

Ser Vardis cursed me, sweat pouring down his face, as I parried his slashes. An imp of mischief possessed me, and I decided to show off. Easily parrying his latest cut at me, I pinked him in his right shoulder, producing a howl of pain that was balm to my soul, as well as slowing him. With his hand slick with blood he couldn't hold his sword as easily. He roared with rage, and lifted his sword…and I ran him very neatly through the centre of his chest. With his sword out of the way, he couldn't have parried my thrust at all, even un-wounded.

Ser Vardis' eyes went wide, and his mouth opened, releasing a torrent of blood, as the shouting and betting was suddenly silenced. His sword arm relaxed, letting his sword clatter to the floor of the Eyrie, as his life left him. The last intelligence I saw in his eyes was directed at me, and I could see that he was utterly dumfounded at having been defeated so easily by someone like me. Serves the bloody brute right, for underestimating Flashy.

I shoved him forward, off my blade and out of the door, to fly. Just as that horrible brat had said. I then bowed to Lady Lysa. "May Lord Tyrion and I have our gear back, and an escort to the gates, please?"

[1] This statement is found in Royal Flash.

[2] Again, this is a reference to Royal Flash. Flashman had thrown an enemy of his, a man named de Gautet, off a mountain.

[3] See Flashman On The March.

[4] Gandamack Lodge was the Flashmans' home in Leicestershire, near Rutland. It was named after the dreadful battle Flashman had been in in the First Afghan War. For details, see Flashman.

[5] The laws of the Seven Kingdoms did give nobles a good deal of legal protection. Lady Catelyn and Lady Lysa were on very shaky ground here. Even if Lord Tyrion had not been the King's own brother-in-law, reports of their high-handed treatment of him would have had dreadful repercussions.

[6] Flashman is quite correct. Lady Lysa was one of the most eligible widows in the Seven Kingdoms at this time, and many noblemen would have happily overlooked her shortcomings to gain control of the Vale and its associated lands.