Flashman and the Throne of Swords

Chapter 13

by Technomad

A few days later, I managed to get Tyrion to join us for dinner. He was quite curious to meet my fellow-Britons, and I gave the cooks orders to lay on a feast fit for royalty. While Tyrion wasn't royalty, strictly speaking, he was effectively ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. Or at least those parts of the realm that still answered to Kings Landing. Rebellion was popping up all over, and I didn't envy him his position one bit. If Robb Stark or Stannis Baratheon took Kings Landing, his head would be on a spike.

Tyrion turned up right on time, with Bronn behind him and a squad of Stone Crows following, led by none other than Shagga son of Dolf. The man-mountain was now carrying two good steel axes, I noticed, and was just as hairy as ever, but rather sweeter-smelling. I wondered what inducements had been used to get him to bathe; from what I could see, and had smelled while among them, the clansmen of the Mountains of the Moon considered bathing to be a soft lowland custom.

Luckily, I had warned the servants about what to expect. I had heard that Tyrion went everywhere with his bodyguards, and I heartily approved of that precaution. The situation in Kings Landing was unstable at best, and Tyrion himself was far from popular with the smallfolk. John Charity Spring had reported that they blamed Tyrion for the bad times, since shortly after his arrival things had taken turn after turn for the worse. There were mutters to the effect that he'd somehow or other arranged "good King Robert's" death.

Once we had the clansmen, and Bronn, set up down in the servants' hall, with a generous but not over-plentiful supply of wine and food to keep them occupied, Tyrion accompanied me to the main dining area, where those of us whose places were above the salt ate. It wasn't a regimental dining-in with colours, but it would do for us.

There were a few Britons present whom Tyrion had not met, so as his host, I took it upon myself to introduce him to them. Tyrion was his usual charming self, and I could tell that he had most of my countrymen (and –women!) eating out of his hand. Aye, thought I, he's one to watch! Turn him loose in London during the Season, and watch the havoc he'd wreak!

Over dinner, he regaled us with the tale of how he'd come strolling into the Small Council chamber, much to the displeasure of his sister. I'd have paid well to be able to be present, even without the intelligence I could swot up. Queen Cersei had threatened to tear up the letter from their father naming him as Acting Hand, and throw him into a dungeon. That was just about as foolish an action as I would've expected of her. She was a dazzling beauty, but so ruled by her emotions that I thought Mary Queen of Scots would've been a better ruler for Westeros. And she'd molded her son in her own image. I shuddered at the thought of what Joffrey would be like as a grown man and a king.

However, there were too many witnesses to the existence of the letter, and Cersei couldn't rid herself of all of them. She depended heavily on them to do the things that she, a woman, could not do. And she had to admit that her brother, thoroughly as she despised him, had brains. They had forged an uneasy agreement, fuelled by the revelation that Tyrion had thought of a way to get their brother Ser Jaime back. Unfortunately, they only had one Stark to trade; Arya had disappeared, and Lord Eddard had been executed.

I glanced uneasily around the table at the mention of Arya Stark, but my countrymen and –women turned up trumps. To see them, they had no more idea of where Arya Stark had been, or where she had got to, than anybody else in Kings Landing. Apparently Lord Varys' spy system wasn't as complete in our embassy as it apparently was elsewhere in the Red Keep, or we'd managed to clear the spies out. The local servants had seen her, but we'd made a point of not mentioning her name or speaking to her by name when they were about. Arya, clever chit that she was, had twigged instantly to what we were doing, and had said little or nothing when the locals were in earshot. She also didn't look like what the locals expected a scion of an ancient, noble, formerly-royal house to look like, which was a big help in our deception.

When the conversation veered away from such dangerous topics, I breathed a little easier. Tyrion said that he was in the market for a chain. Not just any chain, but a huge, long chain, big enough to stretch across the mouth of the harbour.

Ruffian Dick spoke up: "Ah, like the chain that once protected Constantinople!"(1) I had no idea what he was talking about, but Dick Burton was as much a learned scholar as he was a suicidally-brave explorer, and I assumed that he knew whereof he spoke.

Tyrion, of course, didn't know what Dick was talking about, so Dick launched into an explanation. John Charity Spring helped out; he was a considerable classic and had read deeply in the Greek authors, including the medieval writers who described the formidable defences of Constantinople. Tyrion nodded thoughtfully as they explained what the Great Chain of Constantinople did.

"Ah, I see that we're reading from the same page," Tyrion said finally. "I'm going to be talking to the smiths on the Street of the Smiths, and have them all working on forging such a chain for our harbour here. I've some plans in train, and such a chain would make them ever so much easier to put into practice."

"But, my lord," piped up Elspeth, "why go to so much trouble when you can contract chains from Britain? We've got techniques you've never seen nor heard of, and can forge chains of the sort you want in any length you desire!" For all her pride in her father's boughten nobility, Elspeth was a Scots mill owner's daughter and had all her late father's commercial acumen.

Tyrion gave Elspeth a long, considering look. "I did not know that, my lady. Have you any proof?"

Edmund Blackadder, our commercial attache, said: "As a matter of fact, my lord, I've photographic proof. Baldrick," he turned to his manservant, a grubby idiot with a permanently vacant expression, "fetch me the scrapbook from my quarters, and at least try not to eat it!" To a chorus of snickers (Baldrick's reputation had permeated the embassy, along with his unfortunate odour problem) Baldrick nodded and ran off up the stairs to his master's quarters, returning with a thick, leather-bound book. Blackadder took it and opened it, looking for a particular page. When he found it, he nodded and passed it over to Tyrion.

"See, my lord? That's Isembard Kingdom Brunel, with the launching chains for his ship the Great Eastern." (2) Tyrion's mismatched eyes opened wide. I think that that photograph brought the industrial might of Great Britain home to him for the first time. He hadn't seen much of our modern weaponry, and apparently paid little heed to the HMS Penelope. Lying at anchor offshore, the Royal Navy ironclad looked deceptively ordinary.

In the photograph, Isembard Brunel was standing in front of the hugest chains I had ever seen, each link easily the weight of a man and three or so feet long. To someone from a medieval backwater such as Westeros, the implications had to be staggering. And Tyrion may have been short, and rather odd-looking, but nobody with experience of him (other than that sister of his, judging from his tales) had ever underestimated his wits.

"Seven save us all! I can hardly believe it! How did you make this picture?" It struck me that this was probably the first photograph that Tyrion had ever seen. "I can see every last detail of this man's clothing! Even the finest limners we have in Westeros couldn't do this!"

"Photography, my lord," said Blackadder. "It involves exposing a special plate to light under very controlled circumstances. It's rather an involved subject, but I'm sure there are people here who can explain, or, if you prefer, we could send for a photographer from Britain." I could see what was going on in his mind. If being photographed became the newest rage among the Westerosi rich, that meant more money flowing into British coffers, and increasing that flow was Blackadder's job.

"Please see to it, sir," said Tyrion. He was looking rather less cocky than he had when he had strutted in. I think that he was beginning to realise just how powerful Britain is, and how far behind Westeros was. Finding out unexpectedly that you're sitting in the lair of a lion is no fun at all, particularly when you've no idea whether that lion is well-disposed to you. I know the feeling all too well myself; many's the time I thought myself safe, only to discover that, once again, Flashy had been dumped arse-over-appetite into the soup.

"And, my lord, if you wish to purchase chain of that calibre, while the particular chains in that picture may no longer exist, British industry is quite capable of turning more of the same out," Blackadder said. His tone was all deference, but I could see his eyes, and he was inwardly triumphing. The more we could accustom Westeros to buying British goods, the more money would flow into British pockets. We'd conquered a good deal of India that way, after all, and the East India Company had been a great power in its own right well into my own lifetime. (3)

Tyrion looked thoughtful. "I will want to look into this. I've the power of the purse - in all but name, I'm effectively king, at least in my father's absence. Unless what you wish to charge for this is utterly beyond our power to pay, I would be greatly interested in purchasing a length sufficient to go across the harbour mouth."

With that, the conversation turned to other matters. Tyrion said that the Northerners were still holding his brother, and he was racking his brains trying to find ways to retrieve him. "I had hoped to make a trade, but Lord Eddard's dead and Arya's disappeared," he said; the Moselle wine we were serving had gone to his head more than he realised, I think. Like most Westerosi noblemen, even if not on the scale of the late lamented King Robert or the former knight, now fool, Dontos Hollard, Tyrion was one for punishing the wine at dinner.

"What of the Lady Sansa?" asked Isabel Burton. We British knew little of her, other than that she was the oldest of the late Lord Eddard's two daughters, and a great contrast to her hoydenish little sister. "Could you not offer her?"

"I would if I could, Lady Burton," Tyrion answered, "but it's no go. She was engaged to the King before he ascended the throne, and the Queen-Dowager has chosen to let that engagement continue. With the Lady Sansa as Queen, we've a claim on the North."

I could see what he meant, although, privately, I thought that with "King" Robb Stark alive and in the field, any claims put forth on his sister's behalf would likely fall on very deaf ears. David Livingstone had been informative; he'd been into the North country a time or two before we arrived, and apparently most of the folk there were devoted Stark loyalists. Robb Stark was young, apparently had buckets of charisma and charm, and, most importantly, had been winning victories in a steady stream. Had I been a Northerner, I'd not have wanted to swap him for Joffrey, even if the titular King of the Seven Kingdoms hadn't been an insufferable spoilt brat of the sort I'd once gloried in breaking, in my last two years or so at Rugby.

"So you're at an impasse," Dick Burton mused. "Would you be interested in help from Britain?"

Elspeth and I exchanged glances. Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly, thought I. I could see where this might well lead. British troops, once landed, tended to stay. We'd started out in India as nothing but traders, but our small holdings along the coast had grown into the mighty Raj that now held everything from Afghanistan and Tibet on down to Ceylon. And with our advantages in technology, combined with the relatively welcoming climate of Westeros making operations easier and death by disease not such a problem, we could conceivably end up owning all of Westeros.

That is, of course, if our rivals didn't get in there too. France would definitely be interested, and Napoleon III had made noises about increasing support for Catholic missions in Westeros. A lot of our empire-building had been at least in part to forestall the bloody Frogs. If the French got a good toehold, we might end up fighting them over Westeros just as we had in India. And I didn't see a Clive among my contemporaries. (4)

Even folk like the Dutch, Danes, Russians, Portuguese and Spaniards might be tempted by the wealth that could be had in Westeros. Not to mention the bloody Yanks. I like Americans…you'll not find better men nor bonnier women anywhere…but their greed is almost beyond satiating. Even with them owning the lion's share of their own continent, there'd be those among 'em who'd think planting the Stars and Stripes in Westeros was a dam' fine idea. All in all, keeping our world's involvement in this one restricted to trading, and letting the locals misgovern themselves to their hearts' content, struck me as a jolly good idea.

Tyrion shook his head. I'd not told him much about British history, but he was more than clever enough to see the implications of asking for help from such as us. "No, Ser Richard, not if I've any choice in the matter. We could use more of those wonderful armaments of yours, though. Word has it that Stannis Baratheon has been dealing with traders from your world, and I'd bet anything I own that he's buying arms from them."

If true, this was very bad news for the followers of King Joffrey. King Robert had wanted to be the only power in Westeros with gunpowder weapons; he had told Dick Burton that the previous dynasty, the Targaryens, had based much of their power on their monopoly of flying, fire-breathing dragons. Since the dragons had gone extinct some centuries ago (much to my relief; a knight I may well be, but facing off against a flying, fire-breathing monster as long as some ships is not something I ever want to do!) King Robert thought that cannon and muskets would do just fine as a substitute. Cannons and muskets also had the advantage of not needing constant expensive feeding, and not having minds of their own.

Dick steered the conversation in safer directions, and soon we were discussing the different crops found in Westeros and Britain. With Westeros' years-long seasons, they needed to store up food during the long springs, summers and falls, to tide them through the long, bleak winters. Tyrion was interested in more advanced methods of preserving food than drying, salting and smoking it, and some of us present knew enough to keep him on the edge of his seat, all but visibly wishing for a pen and paper with which to take notes.

After our guest had left, thankfully without any incidents between his followers and our servants, Dick took me aside. "Flash, old man, I hate to ask this of you after what you've been through already, but we do need one of our best men to find out how much truth there is in this story of 'King' Stannis dealing with folk from our world for modern armaments." To his credit, he really did look regretful. "I'd go myself, but I'm trapped here in Kings Landing. And most of our folk don't have anything like your talent for getting into and out of sticky situations." If he'd only known the truth! I'd survived the various hellish messes I'd found myself in over the years by funking, turning tail, whining and prevaricating as hard as I could, but somehow or other, I'd this reputation for fearlessness and derring-do saddled on me, and it was a worse burden than the Old Man of the Sea!

I had seen this coming, and had braced myself. "Of course, Dick, I'd be delighted to go. Do I go by land, or is HMS Penelope available?"

Dick shook his head. "We've got to keep Penelope close to Kings Landing. If Stannis, or some other enemy, tries an attack by sea, she's an ace-in-the-hole we can't afford to be without." I could see his point. The locals' ships were almost all galleys, and none of them mounted cannon as far as I was aware.

"So do I hire a local ship?"

"No. We've just the fellow here. He's been active in local shipping since he arrived, and has extensive experience from our own world." At that statement, I felt a cold chill go over me. There was only one Briton in Westeros that I knew of who fit that bill!

Sure enough, a familiar voice rasped in my ear: "Aye, it'll be good to be back at sea with my old supercargo! Amicorum omnia communia!" (5) I turned, to find myself staring into the pitiless pale eyes of John Charity Spring. "Sir Richard found out that I once commanded a trading ship in the Africa trade, and I've been back in that line since I came here. And, as always, my services are at my country's call!"

Little good though it might do, I had to try to get out of this. "Er, Dick, are you sure about this?" I asked, glad that my voice was steady. "Captain Spring and I have had our differences in the past…" Well, me being shanghaied aboard his d**mned slave ship (6) and then being crimped off from South Africa to Baltimore to face a bunch of charges under Yankee law (7) gave me good reasons to be leery of him. He'd blamed me for being crimped in his turn, out of Susie Willnick's bawdyhouse in New Orleans in '49. (8) And I knew him well enough to know that his diseased ingenuity could cause me all sorts of problems. He wasn't one to bother much about minor details like murder being against the law.

Spring shook his head. I noticed that his scar, which went darker the angrier he was, was pale as the skin surrounding it, so at least he hadn't taken offence. "Never fear, Sir Harry!" He grinned at me like a Death's-head. "Bonum est iniurias oblivisci!" (9)

Well, when life hands me lemons, I do my best to make lemonade. "Very well, Dick. I can be ready to go in a day or so. When are the tides most favorable, Captain? Audentes fortuna iuvat, (10) eh?" Seldom have I uttered a bigger lie, but I knew what was expected of me…play up, play up and play the game, as Newbolt would have said.

Spring's face lit up in a real smile. "By Gad! If I'd had the molding of you, Sir Harry, I could have made a real scholar of you!"

[1] In Byzantine times, and as late as the Ottoman siege of 1453, the inner harbor of Constantinople was protected by a huge chain that stretched across the mouth, just under the water's surface. Ships trying to cross it commonly came to grief; only a few, such as those of the Viking leader Harald Hardrada, managed to negotiate their way over it. The chain can be seen today in an Istanbul museum.

[2] The Great Eastern was, in her time, the largest ship ever built by a good margin. A sidewheeler mounting auxiliary sails, she never really made a profit, being used for various purposes such as laying the transatlantic cable between Britain and New York, and ended her days as a breakwater and tourist attraction.

[3] Flashman had started his rise to military glory in the service of the East India Company, after having to leave the 11th Hussars due to his marriage to a woman his commanding officer considered unsuitable. See Flashman.

[4] Sir Robert Clive, "Clive of India," was one of the two men (along with Warren Hastings) more responsible than anybody else for the British Raj in India. He defeated the French in battle and ensured that their influence would be confined to a few cantonments along the Indian coast.

[5] "Among friends all is in common."

[6] See Flash for Freedom!

[7] See Flashman and the Angel of the Lord.

[8] See Flashman and the Redskins.

[9] "It is good to forget injuries."

[10] "Fortune favours the bold."