Flashman and the Throne of Swords

Chapter Nineteen

by Technomad

A couple of days later, we set out for the South with an escort of black brothers. We'd have started sooner, but the weather had turned nasty, and nobody wanted to travel in the driving, cold rain. Even moping about Castle Black with John Charity Spring, of all people, was a cheerier prospect. I'd sooner have gone on a walking tour of Wales.

When the wildlings had captured us, Spring and I had both been well-found for money. We hadn't known what or whom to expect, and we both had spent enough time far-foreign to know that money could ease things enormously on a first meeting. However, we'd kept our mouths tight shut about our cash reserve while among the Free Folk. While they'd been quite hospitable, I knew all too well that the sight of money often is more than folk can stand. Spring was no fool, for all that he was mad. Fools couldn't have lasted as long as he had, bargaining with the black kings along the Slave Coast for his next cargo of human misery.

Jon Snow came out to see us off, along with Sam Tarly, the fat chap who was apparently Snow's chum. "We're sorry to see you go, Ser Harry, Captain Spring," he said, sounding so sincere that I thought he actually meant it. If he'd known Spring as well as I did, he'd have been delighted to see the back of him, at least. However, Spring had been well-behaved, for him. Apart from a few growls that seemed more or less for form's sake, he hadn't been showing his hairy heel. Could Westeros, of all places, have managed to civilise him? I shook my head, dismissing the wild notion. Westeros wasn't up to that task. I doubted that the ninth circle of Hell would be bad enough to frighten Spring into better behaviour. He was just waiting his time, I decided, and made up my mind to be extra leery of him. Not that that took much effort.

As we rode out, with our escort of Black Brothers all around us, I looked forward to getting to Kings Landing in shortish order. You'd think I'd have learned better than that by now; every time I think I'm safe, Fate delights in tipping me straight into the manure pile. Take the Crimean nonsense. At first, I thought I'd found a safe billet far from the fighting. Then our sovereign lady took it into her head (she can't resist my dark good looks and cavalry whiskers, bless her) that I'd be the perfect bear-leader for one of her many useless German relatives, William of Celle, so it was off to the war with poor Flashy. Then I managed, after Willy got his silly head blown off by behaving like a prime ass, to stand with the Thin Red Line, charge with both the Heavy and Light Brigades, and get captured by the Russians. And that was hardly the beginning of my horrifying adventures in Russia and the heart of Asia. (1)

At least, the first few days were unexceptionable. The countryside was wild and unpopulated, but since that meant little or no chance of howling mobs of bandits swooping down on us, thirsting for the blood of an Englishman, I was quite content. The Black Brothers were very capable woodsmen, and we slept comfortably enough at night. I did notice that the weather was coolish, and not warming up. When I commented on that, one of the Brothers, Eddison Tollett, gave me a crooked grin. "You know the Starks' words, don't you, Englishman? 'Winter Is Coming!' We've had a good long summer, but we're edging into autumn now, and soon the winter'll be here!" Thinking of spending a frigid winter up here, a winter lasting for years instead of months, made me shudder and wish fervently to be back in nice safe London, where the seasons made sense.

After a week on the road, we saw the Stark stronghold of Winterfell, off in the distance. It looked at first like a child's toy castle. However, I was a pretty good judge of distances, and for it to be visible at all at the distance I estimated it to be meant that it was huge. Just like the Red Keep. I honestly think that most English and European castles would be seen as barely adequate for a minor local lord, were they in Westeros. Of course, they'd been stuck in a medieval rut for millenia, until we British arrived to open the doors to a new world.

Winterfell proved to be just as impressive as I had estimated it to be. A huge, grim castle, clearly built for war and never "modernised" in the way of so many European and English strongholds that had been made obsolete by "villainous saltpetre," it loomed over the landscape like a great gray cloud. While I figured that European artillery and sappers could reduce it, it would still be a large job even for us. Riding up to the gate, the Black Brothers, Spring, and I were greeted by some of the guards, led by a man I had hoped never to see again.

Ser Rodrik Cassel had been Lady Catelyn Stark's right-hand man when she'd had me and Lord Tyrion kidnapped at that accursed inn at the crossroads. He greeted the Black Brothers cordially enough, but his eyes went wide when he saw me.

"Ser Harry Flashman, as I live and breathe!" he finally said. "I never thought to see you seeking Stark hospitality!" At those words, the guards visibly bristled, looking leery at me and fingering their weapons.

"It's good to see you too, Ser Rodrik," I said, acting as genial as though talking with someone who'd helped kidnap me was something I did every day. Come to it, wasn't that just what I was already doing? After all, Spring had been complicit in my being forced aboard his d****d slave ship, the Balliol College…and when we'd met again in South Africa, he'd connived with that hell-b*tch natural daughter of his, Miranda, to crimp me aboard a Down-East ship and send me to Baltimore, with letters along identifying me as "Beauchamp Millward Comber," a former crewmate of mine, and a man wanted badly by the authorities in various Southern states. (2)

Ser Rodrik looked at me like he'd rather have kicked me on down the road, but after I'd won that trial by combat, he had to treat me as an innocent man. Which, for a change, I was. I introduced Spring and the Black Brothers, and he grudgingly offered us the hospitality of Winterfell.

We were shown to some guest rooms. "Freshen up and eat," growled Ser Rodrik. "The King's brother will want to see you shortly. We told him that you had come, and he is quite curious to meet you. He has never met British men before."

We were used to this by now, so Spring and I did our best to spruce up. Our British clothes weren't in the best possible fig, but that couldn't be helped. The Free Folk had been generous enough to give us outfits of their making, but we both knew that this "King's brother," whomever he might be, would want to see us looking as much as possible like the exotic British of whom he had heard. At least there was plenty of hot water. When I inquired about where it came from, I was told that Winterfell had been built on top of several hot springs, and the Lord's own chamber was heated year-'round that way.

"Sounds like an idea we could use in Britain," grunted Spring. Like me and many other Britons who'd spent years in tropical climes, he'd never really resigned himself to our sceptered island's cold, damp climate. Many'd been the time I sat at Gandamack Lodge, or in our townhouse on Berkeley Square, and thought longingly of the welcoming tropical heat of various places I'd been. If those places hadn't been infested with hordes of homicidal locals, many of them with a burning ambition to put paid to any English they saw, I'd have packed up and headed back.

Once we were presentable (not suitable for a formal occasion at Home, of course; what we were wearing was hunting togs, but quite different from anything the locals had) we were gathered up by a Stark retainer, and escorted down to the Great Hall, to meet the King's brother.

Lord Stark, for such he was, was very different from what I'd expected. I'd known his father, if only to say "hullo" to, and I'd expected someone like a just-grown version of the late Eddard. Instead, what awaited us on the Starks' throne-in-all-but-name was a little boy. For a second, I was reminded very uncomfortably of my ordeal in the Eyrie, with that horrid mad brat Robert Arryn pretending to rule. I cut my eyes to left and right, seeking Lady Catelyn. I didn't doubt that that pestilential b*tch was nursing spite against me, and having walked straight into the heart of her power, there'd not be anything I could do, even with my barker to hand this time.

"I am Bran Stark. Welcome to Winterfell, British men. I have heard much of your country, but have never seen any of your people. You dress very strangely," the child said. I raised an eyebrow. Was this the boy that Lord Tyrion had been accused of trying to have killed? I looked at him closely. Aye, he had "Stark" written all over him, for all that he wasn't three cheeses high, as they say in Germany.

Spring and I both bowed. Although the Starks had claimed, or reclaimed (I'm not clear on the details here (3)) royal status, we British only recognised one King in Westeros, and he was, unfortunately, Joffrey Baratheon, First of his Name. "I am Ser Harry Flashman, and this is Captain John Charity Spring of the Lady of Shalott. We were cast ashore north of the Wall, and the wildlings (I knew that they themselves preferred "Free Folk," but none of them were here, and I doubted that either the Black Brothers or the Starks themselves held them in any good esteem) were good enough to see that we were passed along to the Night's Watch. They're escorting us down to Kings Landing, since we British are neutral in the wars here and so are they."

"I see." While he was young, Bran Stark was clearly no fool. "We can certainly see you safely on your way, but I would have you stay a few days. I would know more of this 'England' or 'Britain' you come from, Ser Harry, Captain Spring."

We bowed again, as the boy was lifted from his seat (and now I could see that his legs were useless, hanging limply; a souvenir of that fall he had taken, I'll warrant) and placed in a sort of saddle on the back of one of the Stark retainers, a silent giant of a man whom I'd noted earlier. He looked a bit simple-minded, but he seemed to be willing enough to be his lord's steed. Spring and I were escorted back to our chambers, to await dinner.

At dinner, we were the centres of attention, which I had known was likely to happen. People grilled us about Britain and our home world, asking endless questions about our ships of iron that didn't need sails or oars, our gunpowder weapons, and a million other things. Both Spring and I had travelled extensively, voluntarily and otherwise, so we could answer many of their questions.

Young Bran Stark was at the head of the table, as befit the nominal ruler of the castle in his mother's and brother's absences. As honoured guests, we were seated very near the high seat, and Bran had as many questions as anybody else. From what I could see of him, I thought him an intelligent, likeable little chap, and I regretted the accident or whatever that had robbed him of the use of his legs.

Since Catelyn Stark was off to the South with her eldest son, I figured that a few days' rest from the road at Winterfell was nothing less than what we deserved. The Starks' maester (a sort of tame scholar, required to be a master of many arts) sent off a messenger-raven to Kings Landing, telling them that we were at Winterfell and would be heading south as quickly as could be. I wondered why they didn't use pigeons, but said nothing.

While we were there, I took some walks around Winterfell, making note of the defences and how they were laid out. Soldier's habit…and I thought that having a good report on the state of Winterfell would be something that Dick Burton, not to mention Horse Guards back in London, would not be averse to. We had no plans to intervene in Westeros' civil war at that time, but one never knows what life will bring. And any soldier of my experience likes having all the wickets covered.

Rested and refreshed, we rode out a few days later. Spring was in a good mood, the weather was fine, and I was ready for a few days on the road. Our escort of Black Brothers were also in good fettle, and while I knew I was heading into a war zone, I had hopes that all sides would respect the Black Brothers' neutrality and let us pass. However, I wasn't nearly certain of that, so I made sure my barker and Whitworth were both loaded.

While we were at Winterfell, I had improved the shining hour by making some fresh ammunition for my weapons. Cozening the maester out of the ingredients for gunpowder had been child's play, and I knew how to make the stuff myself, having learned how at Rugby while helping to prepare a spectacular prank. "Corning" it so that it wouldn't separate out into its individual components was more of a problem, but nothing I couldn't handle. And there were all sorts of leaden whatsits around, some of which I had appropriated to melt down into bullets for the Baby Dragoon. I still had enough skill to do that, and part of my "going ashore" kit for landing on savage shores included a bullet mould. With the remains of an old book that I retrieved from the rubbish, I was able to make up some cartridges that would work well enough. I was fairly well-found for percussion caps, so that was no problem.

The Whitworth, with its special ammunition, was more of a problem, and I was almost tempted to leave it behind. However, it wasn't mine to abandon, and I knew that both Spring and Dick Burton would be furious with me if I allowed the locals to get their hands on it while I could prevent it. So, with a sigh, I ended up slinging it across my back before going down to get back in the saddle and continue on my road South.

All in all, my stay at Winterfell had proved to be enjoyable. I'd had separate quarters from Spring, which was rather a relief. While he'd been good as gold, I never let myself forget both his streak of homicidal insanity and the fact that he nursed several old grudges against me. When we'd been forced to bunk together, I'd slept with one eye open, always on the alert for Spring taking it into his scarred head to avenge his grievances with a dagger or pillow.

Between having privacy for the first time since we'd been the involuntary guests of the Free Folk, and my own six-feet-plus of dark good looks, cavalry whiskers and charm, it had been no problem at all to cajole one of the serving wenches that were about the castle into bed. Her name was Bessa, and she had interesting tales to tell of the folk of Winterfell, including one Theon Greyjoy, who was apparently the son of the lord of the Iron Isles. According to Bessa, Theon had been taken to Winterfell as a hostage at age ten, after the failure of his father's attempt to break free of the rule of King Robert. I was minded, involuntarily, of being packed off to Rugby at about the same age, and could easily imagine how overwhelming the change would have been for Theon. At least he didn't have people like the sixth- and seventh-formers who ruled Rugby when I was a new bug to deal with!

While I'd liked Winterfell much more than I'd thought I would, I was eager to be back on the road to Kings Landing. As we'd been assured they would, the Northern folk had respected the Black Brothers' neutrality, not hindering us in any way. We might have even left a day or two sooner, but Spring was busily poking around looking for potential sources for future profit. He was as single-minded about making money as he was about all other things, including his beloved classics.

As we travelled south, we saw more and more signs of war. We passed villages that had been plundered and sacked, and more than once, we saw corpses by the road or not far away, being worried by feral dogs or crows or other beasts. As a longtime soldier, I was inured to this, and Spring and the Black Brothers all took it in stride as well. However, I felt increasingly uneasy, and was glad of it when we were offered a night's hospitality in some lordling's keep. Having soldiers and stout stone walls between me and the chaos engulfing the Seven Kingdoms was a great source of comfort.

After about two weeks' riding, we came in sight of the Twins castle. As I'd been told, it consisted of two identical castles, on either side of a huge river, with a mighty stone bridge between them. This was the only way to cross the river, which I was told was the Green Fork of the Trident, and I could see why controlling it had made its lords, the Frey family, rich.

Looking at the river, I thought that Her Majesty's Sappers could probably throw a bridge across it without much trouble, but with the methods and knowledge available to the locals, it would be much more of a difficult job, particularly since the Freys would, no doubt at all, take violent exception to anybody presuming to end their monopoly of crossing that d****d river.

Spring scowled. "Yon castle's a masterwork, I'd say," he growled under his breath. "Aye, Gaius Julius Caesar could maybe throw a bridge across the Rhine (4), but Caesar didn't have to worry about the local folk interfering! Come, Sir Harry! Let us see what Frey hospitality is like, and how much it'll cost us to cross that d****d bridge! For I'll warrant that crossing is by no means free!"

With a heavy heart, I followed along as my companions rode up to the gates of the Twins and asked admittance. Had I known what waited for me on the other side of that river, I'd have found my own way home if I had to swim every inch of the way.

[1] See Flashman At The Charge. After an ordeal at the hands of the Russian Count Ignatieff, Flashman escaped and joined the people of the area in destroying a Russian army at Fort Raim, on the shores of the Aral Sea.

[2] Beauchamp Millward Comber was actually a Royal Navy officer, assigned to gather intelligence on the slavers' activities by joining John Charity Spring's crew as a junior officer. He was killed by the "Amazon" bodyguards of King Gezo of Dahomey, dying aboard the Balliol College. He passed on his information to Flashman, and Flashman found it useful to pose as him in various adventures he had in the American South. For all the details, see Flash for Freedom!, Flashman and the Redskins, and Flashman and the Angel of the Lord.

[3] Before the Targaryens' conquest and unification of Westeros, the Starks had held the title "King in the North," which Robb Stark reclaimed at the outset of his war against the Baratheon-Lannister faction holding Kings Landing. Unlike some other Kings of the quondam Seven Kingdoms, the last King in the North, Torrhen Stark, submitted to Targaryen rule, exchanging his title as King for "Lord of the North." This spared him and his followers the fate of some others, who found out to their great cost that they could not fight against dragonfire.

[4] During his campaigns in Gaul, Gaius Julius Caesar was annoyed by raids from tribesmen who came across the Rhine River into Gaul, thinking that the Romans could not follow them there. Caesar threw bridges across the Rhine, which had never been done before, on two occasions, each time taking but a few days to do so. However, as Spring points out, the local opposition to his activities was much more primitive and disorganised than what he would have faced had he tried to bridge the Green Fork.