Flashman and the Throne of Swords
Chapter 26
by Technomad
The morning after the ruction, I was on the battlements, looking out over Kings Landing. The trouble had turned into a full-blown riot, and I was very glad that as a foreign emissary, I hadn't been expected to turn to and deal with it myself. I'd had enough of riots, and near-riots, both in Britain (1) and elsewhere (2) to want no more to do with them.
Tyrion was up there with me, shaking his head. "Aye, it's bad, Ser Harry," he said, when I commiserated with him about the damage. "But at least the fires didn't get to the places I was afraid they'd get to." I gave him a quizzy look, and he grinned at me. "I trust you, Ser Harry, about as much as I do anybody in this snakepit," he said, "but at seventh and last, you're a foreigner and a representative of a foreign power. There are things I cannot tell you...yet."
I shrugged my shoulders. I'd not have been surprised to find that the locals were working overtime to try to make their own gunpowder, and a fire getting into some such laboratory could have had catastrophic consequences. Not that the fires they'd had weren't catastrophic enough. Half of Kings Landing had burnt; the poorer areas, the part they called "Flea Bottom," had suffered the worst, being almost all wood-built. At Tyrion's orders, the homeless were being provided with such supplies as were available to construct makeshift shelters. While the weather was still fine, the locals said that the signs showed that winter was on its way. I thought of a winter such as I had known in the Crimea and Russia (3), only lasting for years, and shuddered.
A day or so later, I found myself summoned to a formal audience with the King. I put on my finest civilian togs, with a row of my medals across my chest, as Elspeth and her maids fussed over her gown. Since this was an official occasion, we were both in the latest fashions from Home, and I blessed whatever fate decided that men's fashions would stay much the same from one year or another.
"Och, I'm sure I'm years out of style," Elspeth moaned. "Good thing we're no' at home, my jo...the other ladies would be sniggering behind their hands at me!"
"They'd be too busy being pea-green with envy of your beauty to notice what you wear, m'dear," I assured her. And I wasn't lying. Elspeth had changed little from when I'd first met her, in her father's house in Glasgow so many years ago. Oh, she'd gained a stone or two, but it was all in the right places, and her pink-and-white complexion compared favorably with most of the old mem-sahibs who had accompanied us. Only Isabel Burton had any claim to rival her among us British.
I'd also noticed that the local people had noticed her, and liked what they saw. While I couldn't really blame them, I devoutly hoped that Elspeth hadn't decided to see what the local marriage mutton was like. I'd been from home more than I cared for, and while I'd never been able to get clear proof, I had a good idea that Elspeth had put horns on my brow more than once back Home.
Dismissing such gloomy thoughts, I offered Elspeth my arm. "My lady! Shall we go forth and show these ignorant locals what true beauty is like?" She giggled, and took my arm as we sallied forth to see what His Spoilt Majesty wanted with us. As we left, a file of Royal Marines fell in behind us, which was reassuring. Reminding the locals that we were people who could not be abused with impunity was a very good idea. I'd seen more than enough of Joffrey's nasty whims to be leery of being on the receiving end of any of them. And he almost certainly hadn't forgotten how my bonny Elspeth had faced him down before his courtiers and the Kingsguard.
The Throne Room was filled with people there to see the spectacle. Up on the Iron Throne, King Joffrey sat, looking very regal for his age. His mother stood on one side of the Throne, and Tyrion, wearing his chain of office as Hand of the King, stood on the other. A fanfare was blown, and a herald announced us: "Ser Harry Flashman, and Lady Elspeth Flashman, attending the command of his Majesty, Joffrey, First of his Name!" We went forward and bowed low; as subjects of our own Queen, we did not bend the knee to Joffrey.
Joffrey stood. "We, Joffrey, First of Our Name, wish to let it be known that We extend Our formal thanks to Ser Harry Flashman, of the British Embassy to the Seven Kingdoms, for his valiant rescue of Our fiancee, the Lady Sansa Stark." Everybody clapped and cheered. I saw some of the Kingsguard giving me envious looks, and preened slightly. Well, if they'd been faster off the mark when things went bad, they might have been where I was, so snooks to them, thought I.
From a shadowed spot beside the Throne, Lady Sansa herself came forward. Gad, she was young! "I wish to extend my personal thanks to both of you, Ser Harry, Lady Elspeth," she murmured, sinking low in a curtsy. I glanced at Elspeth, and saw tears starting in her eyes. She remembered, as I did, just what Lady Sansa was thanking us for!
Gently, I reached out my hands and raised Lady Sansa to her feet. "You needn't thank us, Your Majesty, my lady," I said. "To us it was...just another day." A murmur went around the court. They hadn't had much to do with our British style of understatement, and took my words at face value. I smiled to myself. Even though my own actions had been the work of a moment's impulse, and I'd really been fleeing frantically for safety, they'd been mistaken for heroism yet again, and I was due for some undeserved laurels.
When we were dismissed, we headed back to the embassy, where we were greeted like visiting royalty. "After this, we'll be favoured for a long time!" exulted Dick Burton. "I'll have to put this in my dispatches to Home!"
While I was by no means displeased to find that this would be coming under Queen Vic's eye, I was afraid that this would mean that I'd be stuck in Westeros for longer than need be. While I'd made some good friends here, notably Tyrion, I was more than ready to get on a ship for Home, and leave Westeros, its squabbling nobility, its interminable multi-sided civil war, and all to do with it well behind.
Later that day, Tyrion came around to see me, informally...he only had a few Stone Crows with him. Once the Stone Crows were set up belowstairs, with wine to keep them merry and the Royal Marines to talk to (and to keep an eye on them) Tyrion and Dick and I settled down with a bottle or two of Arbor Red to do some serious talking.
"Stannis is coming," Tyrion said, shaking his head gloomily. "He's got most of the old Royal Fleet with him...he was Master of Ships before King Robert died. "Varys has sources in a lot of unlikely places, and they tell him that all the signs are that he'll attack Kings Landing, directly."
"Strength to your arms, then," said Dick, pouring himself a tot of wine. "I hope that all he's managed to cozen out of the Frogs is small-arms. These city walls won't stand up to real artillery fire, I fear."
"Is that true, Ser Harry?" asked Tyrion. "No offense, Ser Richard, but Ser Harry's apparently seen more of war as your people wage it than you have. What say you, Ser Harry?"
Appealed to, I took a long drink of wine before answering. "A lot depends on what he can bring. Field artillery's deadly, but it'd take a lot of it, for a long time, to breach the walls of the city." Which was nothing but the truth. I'd made note of how thick those walls were, and in my opinion, you'd need real siege artillery, such as what I had seen at Constantinople when I was there, to make breaches quickly. Those walls were fifteen feet thick and solid granite.
"But it could be done?" asked Tyrion.
"Oh, aye, in theory, if he's willing to spend enough time. However, what would be worse would be if he brings mortars to bear," I answered. Then I spent some time explaining just what mortars were, and what they could do. I'd seen 'em in use in the Crimea, and during the Yanks' civil war. I thought about mortar shells landing in an unprotected city with no idea of how to defend itself, and shuddered. I'd been through the siege of Petersburg, with the Johnny Rebs. If I never saw another mortar shell landing near me, I'd have been happy for the rest of my life.
"D'you think he would do that? Could he do that?" Tyrion asked. "Would you help us if he attacks?"
"We don't know what he has," Dick explained. "And we are neutrals in this war, remember? If he attacks our embassy, or our shipping, we'll defend ourselves." Then he gave Tyrion a wicked wink. "Of course, not attacking our embassy if he goes after Kings Landing will be difficult, at best. Our embassy's part of the Red Keep, and if he's not targeting the Red Keep, he's a bigger fool than I take him for."
I thought about that little fact, and shuddered again. I'd have given anything to have Elspeth, and myself, on a fast ship for Home and leave this mess well behind us.
We were bidden to a formal banquet with the Court a day or two later. It was the anniversary of the first appearance of British explorers in Westeros, so it was deemed suitable to honour us. Dick Burton and I got into our best civilian togs once again, and the ladies fluttered about, uncertain about whether to wear Westerosi-style gowns "to honour our hosts' customs," or the less-comfortable styles from Home.
Discreet inquiry informed us that our hosts were equally willing to see our ladies in their styles or ours, so most of them went Westerosi-style. "Och, ye have no idea what a relief it is, not to have to fuss with tight stays!" Elspeth confided to me. While she still, of course, went corseted, her stays were comfortably loose, such as she might wear about the house on a day when no guests were expected.
"You don't need 'em, m'dear," I assured her. And while that was the sort of gallantry expected between a husband and wife, I wasn't lying...much. She'd kept her figure in fine shape, despite having several children, and could easily have passed as the guileless little lass I'd lured into the tall grass, by the banks of the river Clyde, so long ago.(4)
"Wheesht, ye shameless flatterer!" While her words were reproachful, her expression and the look in her eyes told me different. Had we had more time, I'd have set about her and shown her that she still had "it," but the clock dictated different. Sallying forth, we were joined by the Burtons and the other diplomatic wallahs and their ladies, and proceeded in a stately procession through the halls of the Red Keep to the banqueting room.
However, we weren't all there. Dick Burton was a downy bird, one of the downiest I've ever known, and he'd made sure that the local people didn't have an exact count of our embassy's personnel. If this banquet turned out to be a lethal trap, there were people still in the embassy, including nearly our entire contigent of Royal Marines. They would button the embassy up tightly, signal HMS Penelope that we'd been betrayed, and prepare to sell their lives dearly. With our Gatlings and Sniders, they could make the locals pay a very high price indeed for any treachery.
When we got to the banquet, all seemed to be in order. We were announced by a herald, with appropriate flourishes, and shown to places of honour at the foremost table. The King and Dowager Queen, of course, dined in state, above all others on a raised dais, but we weren't invited to join them. I was just as glad of that. The less I personally had to do with Joffrey, the happier I was. And Tyrion had told me more than enough tales of his sister's behaviour to make me very wary of her.
Once we were all in place, the King arose and gave the first toast. "To our honoured guests, the British Ambassador and his party!" We all drank, and with that out of the way, the feast began. I was startled at the number of courses served, and noticed that nobody was taking more than a few bites of each one. This might have been nothing out of the ordinary in normal times, but the city was still hard-pressed for food. Feasting this extravagantly was less than wise, thought I.
I looked at the servants carefully. Their manner was as expressionless and blank as well-trained servants back Home, but I wondered just what they were thinking. I'd made inquiries, and found out that, as at Home, the "broken meats" and other remnants were their prerogative. I'd no doubt that some of them made nice sums selling what they couldn't use or didn't want themselves, but that's another prerogative of servants, both in Westeros and Britain.
Even so, though, I knew the servants were recruited in Kings Landing. While they themselves might have been eating regularly, I wondered how many of them had relatives or friends in the town who were in desperate need. Seeing your kin and friends half-starved, while having to watch a bunch of wasteful nobles stuffing themselves like Christmas geese, would make anybody start thinking about changing their rulers.
Uneasily, I remembered that ass Charles Dickens' book A Tale of Two Cities. I'd read it over a rainy weekend at Gandamack Lodge not long after it'd come out, and the descriptions of what had happened during the French Revolution had stuck with me. My pater had served in the army against old Boney, and he'd nothing much good to say for the Frogs' revolution. (5)
Since there was nothing much I could do, I applied myself to my food. I'd not eaten much that day, knowing that this banquet was waiting, and I had to admit that Westerosi cooking beat anything we do at Home into a cocked hat. I thought that some enterprising soul might do well opening a Westerosi restaurant in London.
When I suggested that to Elspeth in a low voice, her eyes lit up. "Och, aye, that'd be a fine way to mak' a muckle!" she said. As always, when excited, angry or thinking about money, she slipped into her native tongue. I can follow it easily enough, but that's from a lifetime of living with her (and her poisonous family. Elspeth herself's a peach, but the rest of them could all go to Hell for all me.)
Tyrion was sitting near me. Following the local custom, he was punishing the Arbor Gold and Red hard, and I could see his face flushing. "Enjoying the banquet, Ser Harry?" he asked.
"It's lovely, m'lord. However, with Stannis hovering in the distance waiting to strike, it feels to me a bit like the Ball at Waterloo." Tyrion, of course, knew nothing of this, so I found myself describing it (6). Tyrion was absorbed with the tale, prompting me to go on when I paused. When it was done, he shook his head.
"We've a good idea of when dear Stannis is coming," he assured me. "A lot depends on the tides and currents. Our ships can't ignore those the way your wonderful ships seem to be able to. While he could land along the coast, we're pretty certain he'll strike at Kings Landing. You see," he winked at me, "we know Stannis very well."
"And you think he'll hit at Kings Landing?" I asked. Had I been in command of his side, I'd have almost certainly landed some place not well-defended, and made a good solid lodgement, before having a slap at the royal capital. Kings Landing may not have been quite as well-fortified as Constantinople in its heyday, but by local standards, it was a very hard nut to crack. Attacking from the sea was not a trick I'd've tried. But then, as I've said, I'm no seaman, and Stannis had been in command of the Royal Fleet before things went to sixes-and-sevens. He'd have to have a better idea of what he could do than I did.
"Stannis is one of the most upright, honest, moral men in the Seven Kingdoms," Tyrion told me. "He's also one of the most rigid-minded men you're ever likely to meet. You're likelier to turn lead into gold than to change his mind, once it's made up. And he's convinced, utterly, that he is the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms."
"So that means he'll strike here?"
"Aye, that it does," Tyrion said. "He's heard the charges that our beloved King is the product of his mother's incest with her brother, and he believes it." From Tyrion's expression, I gathered that he believed it, too, but had to spout the official line in public, particularly to foreign emissaries. "At first he was taken up with his brother Renly's claim, but since Renly's come to grief somehow...I'm not sure how, there are various stories, many of which I can hardly believe...he'll be focussing on us."
"What of Robb Stark?" I asked. "He, or his faction, has your brother Jaime as a prisoner. If he joins forces with Stannis, you could be hit from the land and sea at once." I'd heard more than enough tales of the Young Wolf's precocious generalship and the devotion of his troops to know better than to discount him.
"That's not too likely," said Tyrion. "Robb Stark's resumed his ancestors' style, and calls himself 'King in the North.' Stannis believes he should rule all seven kingdoms, and that includes the north. Robb, from what I can gather, would be content to merely rule the north, but neither we nor Stannis would be willing to let it go so tamely. Whoever wins when we and Stannis meet will eventually have to have it out with the Starks."
"Too bad for Lady Sansa, then," I murmured, cutting my eyes to where she sat. She was just down the table from Joffrey, and looked utterly blank. I noticed that her food had hardly been touched, and wondered if she could stomach much.
"Too bad indeed." Tyrion shook his head. "If Stannis takes the city and she survives, she might have a chance of not ending up with her head on a spike, but only because of her claim on the North. That's why Joffrey's not put her aside, although he would very much like to. She'd have been a hundred times more fortunate to be born the daughter of a minor lordling or hedge-knight. But as her father's daughter, she's a pawn in the game of thrones."
By this time, the banquet was breaking up. Unlike Tyrion, I'd been very moderate in my wine intake, and had kept a clear head. When we got back to the embassy, I wrote down everything I could remember of what Tyrion had said and passed it along to Dick Burton.
"Aye, you were in intelligence before, in India and elsewhere, weren't you, Flashy?" he said, grinning wickedly at me. "This'll go into my next dispatch Home."
[1] Flashman had originally been sent to Glasgow due to riots threatening among the working population there. See Flashman. Later on, he witnessed the Chartists' rallies, which could easily have turned riotous. See Flashman's Lady.
[2] Flashman had seen a good deal of rioting in 1848, in Bavaria. See Royal Flash. And later on, in India, he'd seen the outbreak of the great Sepoy Mutiny. See Flashman in the Great Game.
[3] See Flashman at the Charge.
[4] Flashman seduced Elspeth while staying with her family in Glasgow. When this fact came to light, he found himself obliged to marry her. See Flashman for the details.
[5] Flashman's father, Sir Buckley Flashman, had indeed served in the Peninsula under Wellington's command. While it is not known whether he'd been in France during the earlier revolutionary turmoil, he was easily old enough to remember it. See Black Ajax.
[6] Just before the Battle of Waterloo, the Allied high command in Brussels held a ball, not realizing how swiftly Napoleon had advanced. This ball became part of the legend of Waterloo, with distant cannons' thunder alerting the revelers that Napoleon was almost on them. It figures in poetry and fiction of the time, such as Lord Byron's Childe Harolde's Pilgrimage and the novel Vanity Fair by Thackeray.
