Flashman and the Throne of Swords

Chapter 12

by Technomad

After the execution of Ned Stark, things calmed down, at least enough for most of the Britons and others who'd taken refuge in our embassy to leave and go back to their affairs. Lady Stark had disappeared, as though she'd vanished in a puff of smoke, and the mem-sahibs of the embassy worried about her safety.

However, Lady Arya was not really our concern once she left our protection. If she came back, she'd be made welcome, but we had other fish to fry. Without a King or a King's Hand in town, we had to deal with Queen Cersei, and she was not the easiest person I'd ever struck to palaver with.

Dick Burton came back from an audience with the Queen one evening and poured himself a stiff tot of "pusser's" rum, a souvenir from HMS Warrior. "Flash," he said, once he'd got outside his drink, "trying to get that woman to agree to anything would drive a saint to distraction! She's ignorant of almost everything she needs to know to rule this place, utterly unwilling to admit to ignorance, and expects to be applauded every minute of her life, for shedding the light of her countenance on us mere human beings!"

Feeling that he needed to be kept company, and noticing that the jug of rum still had a lot in it, I poured myself a drink and joined him, although I'd have preferred brandy. "Sounds rather like Lord Cardigan with teats!" He laughed ruefully. I had regaled him with many tales of the interesting times I'd had in the Cherrypickers (1), and he knew all about Lord Cardigan.

Just then, a servant entered. "Begging your pardons, Ser Richard, Ser Harry, but Ser Richard specifically ordered that he was to be reminded that tomorrow is the King's Name Day Tournament. His Majesty specifically commanded all foreign envoys to attend him on that day."

"And we mustn't disappoint His Majesty, must we?" Dick muttered, before turning to the servant. "Thank you; please inform my valet that he is to lay out garments suitable for such an occasion, and speak to my lady wife's maidservants about the occasion, so that she may also be ready." After the servant had bowed himself out, Dick sighed. "Well, Flash, there's never a day off in the diplomatic. Best tell your servants to have fine rig-outs for you and your good lady. Wouldn't do at all to have these Westerosi barbarians sneering at Her Majesty's representatives, would it, now?"

The tournament, to my disappointment, was rather a wash. There was not much of a crowd, and the event was small enough to be held in the main courtyard of the Red Keep, unlike the tournament that had been held in honour of Ned Stark when he had been Hand. We were seated in places of honour, not far from the King, and, to my surprise, Sansa Stark. From where I sat, I could see Lady Sansa, and while the resemblance to her mother was there, she was clearly cowed and terrified. Her father's head was still visible from where we sat, so I could see why she was so scared.

Elspeth, sitting beside me, muttered into my ear: "My maidservant told me that King Joffrey dragged her up onto the parapets of the castle, and showed her the heads of her father, some of his supporters, and even the septa who'd taught her! And then said that he planned to kill her brother!" I could tell that Elspeth was furious on little Lady Sansa's behalf, and rather pitied the King if Elspeth got a good chance at him. I didn't think that was good form on the King's part at all, and uneasily remembered some of the other mad, dangerous monarchs it's been my unwanted privilege to deal with.(2)

I'd never seen jousting before, but to judge from the reactions of those who had, the day's sport was disappointing, at best. The knights riding were by no means the best, mostly due to the war. Almost all the best ones were off with the armies, leaving the dregs, for the most part, to compete. I had no experience with this particular sport, but I judged that as a horseman, I was easily the equal of anybody competing on that day.

I was rather lost in a daydream, thinking longingly of being back in London for the Season, when all of a sudden, an altercation erupted. We were instantly on the alert; Joffrey's behaviour had always been erratic, and he had been known to order up executions on what seemed like little or no provocation. While, as British envoys, we were theoretically safe from his murderous whims, we all knew that meant little when we were far-foreign. Uneasily, I remembered Parkes, in China, saying "No harm will come to me! My person is inviolate!" And, later on, recovering him from a Chinese dungeon. (3) Much good his "inviolability" had done him!

However, the King wasn't shouting at us. As it turned out, Ser Dontos Hollard, one of the two dupes King Robert had sent to Britain, had been scheduled to ride in the tourney. However, he had turned up all but paralytic drunk, half-naked, and in bits of his armour. He stumbled around, trying to catch his horse, and finally sat down, yelling "I lose! Bring me some wine!" I had a hard time keeping a straight face, seeing him, and I could tell that behind her demure exterior, Elspeth was suppressing a laugh by main force. Not being as restrained as we British, the locals were all but falling over themselves, they were laughing so hard. The whole courtyard echoed to their mirth.

Joffrey, the ass, took all this as a personal affront. "He wants to drink, does he?" I heard him scream. "Then bring in a barrel of wine, and drown him in it!" At this, the crowd went quiet, and I felt Elspeth grab my arm tight. Dick Burton narrowed his eyes, and when Isabel whispered in his ear, he shook his head. This was internal Westerosi business, and the king, even more than most Westerosi nobles, had the right of high and low justice on all his subjects. There was nothing we could do that would not precipitate, at least, a serious rupture in relations, and us being summoned Home to explain our failure to our sovereign lady.

We could do nothing, but the Lady Sansa could. The clever little chit spoke up: "Oh, my gracious King, no! To do such a thing on your name-day would bring you bad luck!" She put her hand out, appealing for mercy.

Whatever else could be said of the Starks, nobody could ever say that they were cowards. In her shoes, I'd have let the fool drown and be damned to him. I'm not averse to a drink or six, but showing up more than half-seas-over at an event like that's the mark of an utter imbecile. I'd known that Ser Dontos was fond of a drink, but this was behaviour that would have got him cashiered had he tried it on as an officer in the Army. I'd seen enlisted men flogged to ribbons for much less.

Joffrey made as if to hit Sansa, but she was undeterred. "He's made a fool of himself, your Majesty, so make him a fool!"(4) That idea appealed to the sadistic little bugger; before you could say "Jack Robinson," ex-Ser Dontos was stripped of his clothes and put into motley, before being dragged off. We British sat back and gave sighs of relief. I'd not liked Ser Dontos much, and thought him a prime ass, but watching him being drowned in wine would have been a bit steep, even for me. And, let us not forget, we had our ladies with us. They would have been dreadfully upset.

Elspeth murmured: "It's a pity some folk we know can't be sentenced to the same fate!" From the way she cut her eyes to Isabel Burton, I thought I had an idea of whom she meant. There had been a commotion earlier, when Isabel had been caught preaching the Catholic faith to some castle servants and hangers-on. She'd been warned that some of the local septons and septas might not take well to this activity, and had only subsided after a private talk with her husband. After that, the servants had been quietly told to keep watch on her, and report her activities to us. I had to chuckle at the thought of Isabel Burton being sentenced to a lifetime of bells and motley.

Meanwhile, the King had ordered the tourney halted, but had apparently been talked into letting his little brother, Prince Tommen, ride at the quintain. To a chorus of sighs from our ladies, the gallant little fellow, no more than three pisspots high, rode out on his little pony, yelled in his high voice: "Casterly Rock!" and rode straight at the quintain. I noticed both his choice of battle-cry, and the fact that the helmet on the quintain had antlers, which was a Baratheon trademark. Of course, the King's uncle on his father's side, Stannis Baratheon, had raised his banner and laid a claim to the kingdom, but for a Baratheon prince to do this was rum, indeed. Could it be true that he and his sibs were no get of King Robert, but of Ser Jaime and his sister, the Queen?

Prince Tommen's lance hit the quintain, but he wasn't able to avoid it as it spun; the counterweight came flying around to knock him sprawling. All of our ladies moaned in protest, then cheered to see the brave boy get up and go after his horse, clearly intending to ride again. I cut a glance at the King, to see a sneer of contempt on his face. Well, you bloody swine, thought I; at least your brother's out there, riding, which is more than I've ever seen you do! Much I should talk, of course. I wouldn't mount up for a tournament for a pension and peerage. The sport's bloody dangerous, and no fun at all in my eyes.

Then the main gate of the castle opened, and a strange procession came riding on in. Some of them, to judge from their livery and gear, were Lannister soldiers. I'd seen more than enough of those to recognise them instantly. They did not look nearly so pristine as the ones I'd seen at the inn at the crossroads; these men, to my eye, had clearly been in a scrap or two recently. Others were mountain tribesmen from the Mountains of the Moon. It was a bit far to see, but I thought I knew some of 'em. And, in the lead, was none other than Tyrion Lannister, with Bronn and Timett right by his side!

What, I wondered, was Tyrion doing back in Kings Landing, with such a following? Suddenly, I was glad I'd come. This looked to be very interesting. And I remembered that Tyrion had said he was in my debt.

Prince Tommen and his elder sister, Princess Myrcella, ran up to their uncle with squeals of delight. He greeted them both warmly, and I noted that they were about his height. The prince and princess avoided their royal brother as much as they could get away with, and I suspected Joffrey of venting his cruelty on them.

When he untangled himself from his niece and nephew, Tyrion strode on up to the King and went to one knee. It had gone very quiet, and I could hear every word that passed. All us British were as quiet as mice in a cat's house, not wanting to miss this. "Your Grace," Tyrion greeted his nephew.

"You," Joffrey answered. That was Joffrey all over…about as warm and inviting as a workhouse matron. Of course, his mother wasn't to be seen. The Queen detested her dwarf brother, but observed all the courtesies when others were present. Joffrey, being King, clearly felt he was above such details.

"Me," Tyrion agreed. "A more courteous greeting would be in order for an uncle and an elder, though." The scar-faced gyascuta standing behind the King said something I didn't catch, and Tyrion gave him a look. "I was speaking to the King, not his cur."

I looked at the knight more closely. When I recognised his heraldry, I shuddered slightly. That was Sandor Clegane, brother and enemy to the giant Ser Gregor Clegane. I'd noted him about court; he was a killing gentleman if ever I'd seen one, and intimidating enough that even John Charity Spring, who was too mad to feel fear, did not care to cross him. He refused to be knighted, saying that knighthood was a load of codswallop. Secretly, I had to agree, for all of my own "Sir." I knew too many knights, and nobles, come to it, whom I'd not trust behind my back for one second. The allocade doesn't make a wrong 'un good.

Tyrion and the King exchanged unpleasantries for a bit, with Tyrion pointedly condoling with his sister's children over the loss of their father, and making sure to include Lady Sansa. Finally, the King stood up and swept off, with his faithful Sandor behind him, and Lord Tyrion looked over and saw me. His eyes lit up. "Ser Harry! It's good to see you again!" He came over and offered his hand, his ugly face wreathed in a big smile.

` I grabbed his fin and wrung it. Whatever else, we'd been through some sticky times together, and that makes a bond between men. "You're looking well, Lord Tyrion! I hear you've been in the fighting!" I had, indeed, heard that, but Tyrion showed signs of having seen combat. He had bandages on him, and was bruised up in ways that had nothing to do with our mutual ordeal in the sky cells.

"Oh, you know how it goes. We Lannisters can't resist the sound of the trumpets!" Tyrion's mismatched eyes roved over the rest of the British delegation. "Are these your countrymen?"

"Pardon me! Allow me to introduce my wife, the Lady Flashman!" Elspeth clasped Tyrion's hand and gave him one of her dazzling smiles; Tyrion was plainly very pleased with her, and my sweet wife is so vain she'd stand preening in front of an avalanche in the mountains if someone had winked at her. Tyrion had charm by the bucket, dwarf or no dwarf, and I made a mental note to keep a weather eye on Elspeth. "This is Lady Burton, and her husband, Sir Richard Burton, the Ambassador to the Seven Kingdoms." I went on, introducing all the rest of the embassy personnel who'd come along to the tournament. "Will you join us for dinner? We'd be curious to hear all about your adventures!"

"I'd love to, Ser Harry, but duty calls. I need to pay a call on my sweet sister!" I knew Tyrion, and I knew that expression well. He had something up his foreshortened sleeve, something that the Queen would not like.

Dick and I exchanged glances, and he nodded slightly. "With your permission, my lord, may I accompany you?" One of my jobs was to gather information, and having a source as highly placed in the government as Tyrion was a godsend. He thought of me as a friend and his loyal companion, and if I could use that connexion to gather important facts as grist for our mill, so much the better!

Tyrion gave me a quizzy look. "I'm not sure." He pulled out a rolled sheet of paper with what I recognised as his father's seal on it. "My father is Hand of the King, but he's not able to be here in Kings Landing, so he deputised me to act in his stead until he can return." He carefully tucked the paper away. "I'm for the Small Council meeting, directly I'm out of here, and I don't know how they'd feel about me bringing you along. That said, I would if I could. I've not forgotten how you stood shoulder-to-shoulder with me."

That gobsmacked me, and I exchanged glances with Dick. On the surface, Dick was as impassive as a Comanche chieftain, but I could tell that he wanted to dance and sing for joy. This was a windfall that any diplomat, or intelligence-wallah, would cheerfully sell his soul for, and it had dropped straight into my lap! I wrung Tyrion's hand warmly. "Well, congratulations, old chap! Couldn't happen to a worthier fellow! You'll do the job proud, if I'm any judge!" Tyrion beamed. In our time of acquaintance, he had let slip enough for me to judge that he was well aware of his capabilities, and starved for praise by his family. The more I toadied him, the more likely he was to let slip important facts.

And the thing was, I wasn't really toadying, for once in my life. Tyrion was an intelligent chap, and save for the fact of his dwarfism, he'd have been one of the foremost men of the realm long since. I've knocked about the odd corners of the worlds enough to be aware that judging by appearances can land one, arse over appetite, straight into the mulligatawny. Like the time some yokel had run into me when I was accompanying Kit Carson, on my first trip West, and refused to believe that Kit was really Kit, since he didn't look like much and I look like every schoolboy's dream hero. Kit had been quite amused to see me taken for him, but it was a lesson I'd not forgotten. (5)

Tyrion strode off into the castle, his oddly-assorted entourage following him, and I turned to find myself facing Dick Burton. Dick was shaking his head rather ruefully. "Flash, I've got to say, our sovereign lady knew what she was doing when she tapped you for this post!" He smiled, a rather frightening sight. "If I don't look sharp, you may end up in my job and I'll be back on Fernando Po!" (6)

[1] Flashman's military service had begun in the 11th Light Dragoons (later, Prince Albert's Own 11th Hussars), known as "Cherrypickers" after an incident in the Spanish campaign of the Napoleonic Wars.

[2] Flashman may have met more mad, or at least dangerous, monarchs than anybody else in history. The list includes Akbar Khan of Afghanistan, Gezo of Dahomey, Ranavalona I of Madagascar, Maharani Jeendan of the Punjab, Rani Lakshmibhai of Jhansi, Hung Hsiu-Ch'uan of the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom, Empress Cixi of China, Theodore of Abyssinia, and possibly others in packets of the Flashman Papers that have yet to be opened. Joffrey of the Seven Kingdoms fit right in with the others, and when Flashman speaks of him as mad and dangerous, he speaks with the voice of great experience.

[3] Sir Harry Parkes (1828-1885) was an envoy, fluent in Chinese, who was operating in China at the time of the Second Opium War. He was with Flashman just before they were captured, but they were separated in captivity. Parkes survived his ordeal, but other British prisoners did not. See Flashman and the Dragon.

[4] Westeros, and some of its neighboring kingdoms, had a tradition of "court fools" very similar to that followed in medieval and Renaissance-era Europe.

[5] On his first trip into the American West, Flashman had fallen in with the great scout and pioneer Kit Carson. Even as early as 1850, there were "dime novels" being published about Carson's supposed adventures, and people would often come a long way to see him. See Flashman and the Redskins.

[6] Due to his talent for rubbing important people the wrong way, Sir Richard Burton spent years of his career at the unimportant British outpost on Fernando Po Island, in present-day Equatorial Guinea.

END Chapter 12