Flashman and the Throne of Swords

Chapter 27

by Technomad

For the next several weeks, nothing much happened, and we settled into the routine work of a British embassy in an exotic foreign land. We liaised with British merchants who wanted to find business opportunities, accepted mail from local Europeans and Americans who wanted to write home, and occasionally hosted some local dignitaries.

And, of course, we kept up our intelligence bandobast. (1) By this time, thanks partly to Livingstone and his colleagues' tireless work, there were enough Christian converts about for us to build up a network of informants, both in Kings Landing itself and the surrounding regions. Communication into the city was tricky, but we had found some ways that worked. Some of our ships made regular runs out of the harbour, and while out of sight of the walls, met some of the locals in boats, who passed on messages for us.

From what we could piece together, Stannis Baratheon was indeed planning to invade, and he intended to strike very hard at Kings Landing. We intended to give him a very warm welcome. Our Royal Marines were being drilled regularly, and while target-practice in the Red Keep, or the city, was difficult to arrange, we sent detachments of them out on HMS Penelope regularly, to land in some deserted cove or other, set up the "eunuchs" (2) and blaze away at them. We were very well-found for ammunition, thank God; the lessons of Cawnpore and Lucknow had not been forgotten.

One evening, I was eating a quiet dinner a deux with Lord Tyrion. He was busy as well, preparing the city and Red Keep for what we both knew would be a ferocious siege. At one point, he leaned back and said: "Ser Harry, a word of advice. Make sure all British ships are out of the Blackwater when Stannis' fleet is reported to be on the move."

I gave him a narrow look. In the time we'd been acquainted, I had learned that Tyrion Lannister did not speak idly. If he said we needed to evacuate the inner harbour before Stannis arrived, this was something that Dick Burton, and our nautical folk, needed to know. "Do you know when he'll be likely to come?" I asked, taking a sip of Arbor Red.

"Our intelligence says he's just about to set sail. You'll need to advise your captains to be elsewhere as soon as you can."

"Much obliged to you, old man," said I, and I meant it. I didn't know all the details of what Lord Tyrion had up his shortened sleeve, but I could put together enough from facts like his ordering a length of heavy chain from Britain to have some idea.

While I'm not nearly the scholar that John Charity Spring was, his statements at the banquet where we'd shown Lord Tyrion that picture of Isembard Kingdom Brunel and the chains that had held the Great Eastern had got my mind working. I hadn't the sort of resources for research that I'd have had back Home, but our embassy did have a well-appointed library. I had read up on the great chain that had sealed the Golden Horn in Constantinople off from enemy ships.

Lord Tyrion was planning to lure Stannis Baratheon's fleet, or as many of them as he could, into the harbour by making it appear undefended, and then raise the chain, trapping them in there. In the harbour, they'd be well within the range of muskets and catapults on the seaward walls of the city and the Red Keep, and almost certainly helpless to reply.

Of course, there was no guarantee that Stannis wouldn't have some clever counter-move to deploy. I was leery of that tame witch I'd met on Dragonstone, and not at all sure what she could do. If she were along, all of Lord Tyrion's plans could be knocked straight into a cocked hat.

Stannis also had firearms. One thing that worried me in particular was that, to judge by the evidence Spring and I had found on Dragonstone, he had rifled muskets. I'd seen enough in the Crimea and the Yanks' stupid civil war to know just how accurate those could be. They outranged the Brown Bess muskets we'd let the government in Kings Landing by a good deal. I hoped that Stannis hadn't been able to buy many of those from the Frogs, or that his men hadn't had much target practice.

At least our Snider breech-loaders were just as long-ranged, and could be loaded and fired more quickly. We also had our Gatling guns, and those were guaranteed to give Stannis and his tame witch some very nasty surprises if it came down to fighting.

"Is there any way to head him off?" I asked. I knew that Lord Tywin was in the field, with a powerful army of his own. "Or could your father reinforce the city strongly enough to discourage Stannis from striking at it?"

"I want him to strike us here," Lord Tyrion said. "Here, we've the advantages of strong walls, a well-equipped garrison, and knowing where he'll be. If he lands elsewhere, he could go almost anywhere."

"If he reconciles with his brother Renly, their combined forces could outnumber yours," I pointed out. "Or if he comes to some sort of arrangement with Lord Stark."

"Unlikely," Lord Tyrion said, shaking his head. "The Young Wolf wants to resume his ancestors' role as King in the North, and Stannis won't settle for anything less than the whole Seven Kingdoms, undivided. As for him and Renly reconciling...that's very unlikely. They're too different, and Stannis sees his brother's claim on the throne as nothing less than an affront."

"He could come to the conclusion that half a loaf's better than none," I speculated. "Or he might find himself forced to lower his haughty pride enough to give the Starks the North, at least for now."

"Stannis Baratheon is too stubborn to compromise." Tyrion poured himself another drink. "He wants what he wants, and he's convinced he's the rightful heir of our late lamented King Robert. For all that he never got along with Robert when the king was alive...he saw Robert as wasting a great talent for war on frivolty and pleasure, and I'm not saying he was wrong, mind you...he's Robert's next brother. If you set aside Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen, he's the rightful heir."

"And he believes those stories that the king and his siblings are not the children of Robert Baratheon," I said. Privately, I thought the stories made a lot of sense, but I couldn't say that. I was a British envoy, and our official policy was to support Joffrey's claim. Ruffian Dick had said that we might offer Joffrey a chance to be educated in Britain, the way we often did child rulers of other countries that had come under our influence. I liked that idea a lot, myself. I thought of how I, and my friends at Rugby, would have welcomed Joffrey had he come there as a new bug. Tom Brown, damn his eyes, would have probably joined in with us once he'd been exposed to Joffrey's usual charm and tact.

"Aye, well," I said, pouring myself out some of the last of the Arbor Red. "All I can say is strength to your arms, my friend."

"And confusion to Stannis Baratheon!" We touched our glasses in a toast, and drank to that.

Some little while later, we got a report that Renly Baratheon was dead. Looking at it, Dick Burton could hardly believe what he was reading, and neither could I or the other Intelligence johnnies who were in the embassy.

"They say that a shadow appeared and killed Lord Renly?" Burton said slowly. "A shadow?" He shook his head. "That's very hard to believe."

"We've several eyewitness reports, Dick," I pointed out. "And I told you that red woman I met on Dragonstone, Melisandre of Asshai, could do some odd things."

"Yes, but killing someone with magic?" Dick put the papers back down. "If she can do that, why are Joffrey and Tommen still alive? Why is Myrcella still alive?" He picked up another paper. "If it were me, I'd strike at the main rival claimants."

"So would I," I said. I had known quite a few royals in my time, and thinking back on them, none of them would have contented themselves with taking out someone like Renly when there were others in line ahead of them for the thrones they felt were theirs. I thought about what Rani Lakshmibai, Ranavalona, or Yehonala would have done to a rival, and shuddered. Anybody standing between them and their thrones would have had a very sticky end indeed.

"We'll ask our sources close to Renly's court...er, his former court...for clarification on this point," Dick decided. I made a note of that, but shivered. All of a sudden, the brightly sunlit solar we were in seemed to be colder than it had been, and I disliked the look of the shadows in the corners. We were not, as far as I knew, particularly on Stannis Baratheon's death list, but I hadn't forgotten how John Charity Spring and I had had to take our leave of Dragonstone suddenly after discovering Stannis' dealings with the French.

"Maybe, as neutrals, we can get more of the truth out of them than Lord Tyrion's people," I said. Whistling past the graveyard, so to speak, but there was always the chance. None of the other contenders in this stupid multi-sided civil war had expressed open hostility to us British. Our merchants and missionaries continued to operate in their territories, as much as they could in such a war-torn country.

"Maybe," Dick said. I could tell that he was just as skeptical of success as I was, but we had to do what we could to find out what had happened.

A few days later, we got some reports that made marginally more sense. "Apparently this...woman...whom Renly made a member of his 'Rainbow Guard' (3) is under arrest and accused of his murder," Dick said, looking over the report we had received.

Unlike our pious countrymen, neither Dick nor I had trouble believing that women could be soldiers. I still shivered when I remembered the terrible warrior women of Dahomey, (4) and how close they had came to closing out Flashy's accounts. I'd also heard of (but not seen, at least not to my knowledge) women passing as men to serve as soldiers, sometimes for years. There'd been some cases that only came to light when the women were wounded in battle, and the surgeons found out their little secrets.

But being a Westerosi warrior was far different from soldiering in our own safe, sane, modern nineteenth-century world. In Westeros, most people who made war their profession had to start training very young, and make it their full-time occupation. I'd seen the young aspirants, hard at work in the tiltyard, and it brought back memories of my early days in the 11th Light Dragoons, under our sword-master's unsparing eye. For all that I'd been an officer, I, and the other young officers who'd joined about when I did, had not been spared.

Swordmaster Metcalfe had been a strict taskmaster. "Every officer and man in this regiment will be a skilled swordsman, or I'll know the reason why!" he'd bark. "I don't fancy explaining to the Colonel how one of his men lost a sword fight he should have easily won!"

At the time, I'd cursed him and his diligence. Many times afterward, though, I'd had good reason to bless his memory. While I'd far rather run than fight, I've found fighting skill to make the difference between life and death more than once. Most recently, in the Eyrie of cursed memory.

Since I'd been in Westeros, I'd sparred with Dick Burton on a regular basis, and Dick was one of the finest swordsmen I'd ever run across. Privately, I wondered how he'd have done against some of the best Westeros had to offer, and had suggested to him that we invite some of them to the embassy for matches, to compare styles.

"I'd love to do that, Harry," he'd said, wiping sweat off his brow after a very challenging bout, "but I prefer to keep my skills to myself until the time comes to show them. A reputation for swordsmanship would bring challengers crawling out of the woodwork, and that would never do." He grinned at me. "I'm not a wild young man any more. As an ambassador, I've got to maintain a certain amount of dignity and decorum."

I could see his point. I was rather glad that Lord Tyrion hadn't seen fit to tell everybody about just how I'd saved both our arses at the Eyrie. Lysa Arryn was, at last report, still holed up there, and Catelyn Stark, damn her eyes, was traipsing around with her son, the Young Wolf, as they continued to rack up victory after victory.

Privately, I thought that if I'd been Robb Stark, I'd have forted up in the North, where people were fanatically loyal to my House, and bid the rest of the accursed Seven Kingdoms to be damned to them.

A few days later, we were bidden to a ceremony in the throne room. We'd been going over reports of the disposition of Renly's army, and a break was welcome, even though it did involve dressing up in full uniform with medals.

In my quarters, I strapped on my sabre and checked to make sure my barker was loose in its holster. Elspeth sighed to see me in my uniform. I gave her a wink.

"Terribly sorry, old girl, but duty calls me. This'll be a boring ceremony, but there's always the chance of something going badly wrong. We'll have some alone time, later." Kissing Elspeth, I left to go to the durbar. I'd suffered through many dreary ceremonies both at Home and elsewhere, so this was nothing I couldn't handle. I'd rather have been handling Elspeth, though.

Along with Dick Burton, Ed Blackadder and the other embassy wallahs, I stood and watched as some new men were named to the Kingsguard. I wasn't impressed with their quality, but I supposed that with the realm at war and much of it in arms against Joffrey, the applicants were what was available.

After the ceremony, and some fuss by merchant skippers who were upset that their ships had been grabbed by the authorities for some scheme of Lord Tyrion's, we were breaking up when Lord Tyrion came over and greeted me.

"Ser Harry. It's good to see you. I see you too seldom. Will you walk with me?" I looked at Dick Burton, who gave me a nod and went off with the rest of the British. Granted permission, I accompanied Lord Tyrion to his solar in the Tower of the Hand.

I looked about myself curiously, not having been there before despite my friendship with Lord Tyrion. Unsurprisingly, there were books everywhere, and I noticed a good few British books there among the locals' hand-made volumes. Curious, I wandered over to see the titles. I've always said that to know half of a man, know what he reads. As for the other half...find out whom he's sleeping with.

Lord Tyrion motioned me to a seat, while he poured us out a tot apiece of Arbor Red. After we'd clinked glasses and taken our first sips of the ambrosial stuff, he leaned forward and handed me a sheet of paper. "What do you make of this, Ser Harry?"

I looked it over. It was in the local handwriting, but I'd perforce had enough practice at deciphering that script to make it out. "This says that Winterfell was taken by Theon Greyjoy." I looked up at Lord Tyrion, who was regarding me intensely. "Isn't 'Greyjoy' the name of the ruling family on the Iron Islands? We'd heard the news that Winterfell had fallen to the Ironborn. Does this have any particular significance?"

I'd puzzled about just how the Ironborn, who by all accounts had a dodgy reputation on the mainland of Westeros, and few if any allies there, could have done such a thing. Winterfell, as I had noticed while I was there, was a very strong castle, strong enough to even give us British, with our advantages of gunpowder and artillery, a lot of trouble to reduce it.

Tyrion gave me a very odd sideways smile. "Theon Greyjoy spent ten years there, as a hostage to ensure that his father and the Iron Islands didn't rebel again." He chuckled mirthlessly. "Apparently the hospitality he received there wasn't to his taste."

Having experienced Catelyn Stark's hospitality myself, I found myself sympathizing with this Theon. "Catelyn Stark does have a talent for rubbing her guests the wrong way, doesn't she now?" I said, taking another sip of wine. I loved the stuff, but I knew that when dealing with Tyrion Lannister, it was best to keep a clear head.

Lord Tyrion was well-disposed to me, but his first loyalty was to his family. If his horrid father had ordered him to do so, he'd have slipped a knife into my back without a second thought. Of course, my main loyalty was always to Britain, and I'd have done as much to him if commanded by the Queen...or by Dick Burton, who was her representative in Westeros.

"How do you think Greyjoy did it?" Lord Tyrion asked me. I thought about how I'd have done it, in his shoes. Of course, taking heavily-armed castles is not something that Flashy normally wants anything to do with. I've better things to do than go clambering over high walls into hordes of screaming foemen, all of them waving weapons and looking to make me into shish-kebab.

When I thought about it, the answer was obvious. "They thought he was allied to them and friendly, and let him and his men in without suspicion. Once inside, Theon would have known every inch of that castle, and would have been able to secure the areas he needed to have to ensure that the garrison had to surrender."

Lord Tyrion nodded. "That's about how I thought it went, but it's nice having it confirmed by a soldier of your experience." If he'd only known! Most of my "experience" was running for my life, begging for mercy, whining, and shirking duty as hard as I could.

It also occurred to me that something was missing. "My lord, where are your tribesmen?" While the hairy barbarians had not been comfortable company (rather like Afghans, but without jezails, thank God) they had been an assurance that nothing bad would happen to Lord Tyrion. Since I liked the dwarf lord, and considered him one of the best chaps I'd encountered in this Godforsaken medieval madhouse, this concerned me. He was also a staunch friend of us British, unlike many at court.

Lord Tyrion scowled. "They decided that it was time to head back to the Mountains of the Moon. They've got the armaments I promised 'em, and with those, I daresay they'll give Lysa Arryn and her folk a merry time."

"But what'll you do for protection?" I asked, slightly aghast. I knew that his poisonous sister longed to rid herself of him, and I didn't deceive myself for a second that the worm Joffrey had forgotten or forgiven the part his uncle had played in his public humiliation, the day Elspeth had stood up to him for Sansa Stark's sake.

"I've got Bronn still, and have hired mercenaries," he answered, with a rueful shake of his head. A knock came at the door, and Lord Tyrion looked up. "And now it's time for you to go, Ser Harry. This is nothing personal, but the people coming now are making reports that aren't for foreigners to know about."

When I got back to the embassy, I reported in to Dick Burton. He was interested in everything I'd been able to swot up, and agreed with me that we'd need to have HMS Penelope on high alert and out of the harbor proper.


[1] Bandobast is an Indian word used by Anglo-Indians to mean "organization" or "activity.

[2] "Eunuchs" were slang for the man-shaped targets used for target practice by the British military at this time.

[3] The Rainbow Guard was instituted by Renly Baratheon as a personal guard unit after he raised his banner and made a claim for the throne. Their cloaks were in stripes of all the colors of the rainbow, in contrast to the Kingsguards' white unadorned cloaks.

[4] See Flash for Freedom! Both Flashman and John Charity Spring had close calls with Dahomey's warrior women after a trip to Dahomey went wrong.