Flashman and the Throne of Swords

Chapter 32

The aftermath of the battle was as miserable as it always is. Nosey was exactly right about that...as he usually was.(1) For all the celebratory mood in Kings Landing, there was still an unGodly mess to clean up. The harbour was in shambles, with burnt-to-the-waterline ships everywhere, often forming the most amazing tangles of wreckage. Corpses had to be gathered up and buried. The Silent Sisters, an order of Westerosi nuns who specialised in preparing and burying the dead, had enough work on their hands that Tywin had to deputise a bunch of convicts out of the dungeons, promising them remission of their sentences if they helped out.

As a noble, a knight and an accredited hero, I at least wasn't expected to turn to and lend a hand. Even so, the stench put me in mind of the Great Stink (2). I hadn't been in London for that, thank God, but I'd heard vivid descriptions of it from those who had. Some of the embassy people had been there, and they said that while London's Stink was far worse than this, it was still bad enough to bring back bad, vivid memories.

Elspeth, along with the other mem-sahibs, hated it. "Och, ma jo," she said, one evening, "yon stench is waur nor a' the tanneries in Glasga!" As always, when she was upset or tired, her native speech came out. From long experience with her and my family, I understood.

"I know, my dear," I said, taking her in my arms. "There's nothing that can be done save to wait. It'll abate in time, and the local people are doing their best to clean things up. They have to live here, after all."

"Let's hope it doesnae bring a plague on us!" she said. I had to agree with that. Between this endless, idiotic, multi-sided war, an oncoming winter that would probably last at least several years, and having idiots in charge, a plague was the last thing Kings Landing needed. Not least because we British would be just as likely to fall ill as the locals.

We British had lost a few men. Several Royal Marines were dead, and some of the civilians as well. They'd been pressed in to man the ramparts. While we were out of range of most of Stannis' weapons, some of his men had had more modern rifle-muskets than the Brown Besses we'd supplied the locals. They'd been able to fire at us and had a good chance of hitting, and with our Gatlings and Sniders blazing, they had plenty of muzzle flashes to aim for. We'd also lost a couple of men in that awful scrum that Tyrion had led us into, first over the ram, then on the bridge of boats.

Neither Dick Burton nor I had taken a wound, and all our womenfolk and non-combatants had come through unharmed, safe in the bowels of the Red Keep. When I got a chance to talk to him, Tyrion spoke admiringly of their conduct.

"Your women set an example that our ladies never will forget!" he said, one evening when we were relaxing together over Arbor Red. "Even my sweet sister is in awe of their courage!"

"Really?" asked Edmund Blackadder. He poured himself another cup of wine. While his manservant was standing by, there was no way that Blackadder, or anybody who knew him, would allow Baldrick near anything as delicate as a wine bottle. Baldrick could break, ruin or lose almost anything, and I never did understand why Blackadder kept him on. "What did they do?"

"They kept their heads very well, even during the times when the fighting was hottest. When Cersei explained to them that she'd given orders that none of the ladies were to be captured alive..." he paused for a second, and sipped his wine... "they pulled out 'barkers' and told her that they did not intend to be taken alive. They were going to fight, in the last extremity, and their final bullets would be for themselves."

"That does sound like them," commented Dick Burton. He smiled reminiscently. "My Isabel has been with me in some scary places, and I've never known her courage to fail her!"

"Same can be said for my Elspeth," I said, remembering Madagascar. "Most of the time, she's stayed back in Britain, guarding the home fires while I've been chasing all over, but when she was in danger by my side, she showed that she's got as much pluck and sand as any man."

"She's a fit mate for you, then," Blackadder said. Like Dick Burton and the rest of the fools at the embassy, he believed every lying word of the stories about my heroism and valour, and he'd seen some things since coming to Westeros that reinforced his delusions. I'd seen him watching, pop-eyed, as I rescued poor little Sansa Stark from that screaming mob. Seeing that would have convinced the Earl of Cardigan, damn him, that every word about my heroism was simple truth.

"Fitter by far to sit a throne than my sister," Tyrion drawled. "As I said when she saved poor little Lady Sansa from my royal nephew."

"Your royal nephew, if you'll pardon my saying so," said Blackadder, "is not fit to sit a privy, much less the Iron Throne."

"I've said as much, Blackadder," Tyrion said ruefully. "But he's what we've got. Speaking frankly, I'd rather see your manservant crowned and reigning than Joffrey."

"Oh, sir, I'm not worthy," Baldrick said, blushing...or as much as he could blush under his layers of ground-in grime.

"Even Piltdown Man, here, would be better than Joffrey," drawled Blackadder. "The worst he could do would be to break the Iron Throne. Your nephew, on the other hand, bids fair to wreck the Seven Kingdoms."

We all had to agree on that point. Joffrey was erratic, tyrannical, utterly unacquainted with the word "no," and, thanks to Westeros' foolish laws, in theoretical command of a realm nearly as large as all of Europe. I thought of Caligula, and Nero, and the other mad Emperors of Rome...and shivered. I'd almost rather have dared a return to Madagascar than stay in Westeros.

Needs must, though, when the Devil vomits into your lap. Thanks to our royal, pop-eyed sovereign lady, and her taste for my lancer figure, dark good looks and cavalry whiskers, I was stuck here for the foreseeable future.

"What news of Lady Sansa?" I asked, hoping to get the subject off Joffrey. While we thought we were fairly secure in our embassy, we were still in part of the Red Keep. I had thought before of having the rooms, corridors and stairwells of our embassy carefully measured, and plans drawn up that we could trust. I didn't know that there were spy tunnels in the walls...but I'd heard more than enough about Varys' bandobast to put nothing past that ballockless bastard.

"She's to be married," Tyrion said, shaking his head. "I'm not sure to just whom. Father will never, never let her go. Her claim to the North is much too valuable."

"Good luck getting the Northerners to acknowledge any such thing," I warned him. "While the Young Wolf is alive, the Northerners will back him to the hilt. Sansa could be twenty times over her father's daughter, but as long as she's seen as a puppet of your faction nobody will pay her any attention."

"I know. And Lady Arya is still missing," Tyrion grumbled. "If we had had both of them to trade, Catelyn Stark might have let Jaime go."

I had my doubts. My own experience of sweet Catelyn was that she was a b*tch from hell, and I pitied Jaime, a prisoner in her hands. I wondered uneasily if he was in one of the sky cells at the Eyrie.

"I don't think so, Ser Harry," Tyrion said, when I voiced my worries aloud. "Jaime's a high-value hostage, and doesn't know anything about what's been going on here in Kings Landing. The sky cells are used mostly to get people to talk." He grinned. "They got me to talk, after all!"

"Aye, I remember that! You should have seen their faces!" When the others pressed me for details, I told them all about Tyrion's "confession," and soon everybody present was howling with laughter.

"Your previous life sounds great fun!" snickered Blackadder. "Oh, to have been part of it!"

"Be careful what you wish for, Mr. Blackadder," Tyrion said. All of a sudden, he looked very sober and serious. "I wouldn't wish a lot of what I've been through on anyone. Even Joffrey."

That ended the merriment. Soon after, we broke up and went our ways, each with his own thoughts.

A month or so afterward, the worst reminders of the battle were gone. The air was as sweet-smelling as Kings Landing ever was, and from the battlements of the Red Keep, I could see signs of rebuilding and renewal going on. Even with a slight tinge of cold in the air, foretelling winter's advent, things were looking up.

Kings Landing was being re-victualed, mostly from the Lannisters' holdings in the Westerlands. When I ventured forth into the city, I noticed that despite the losses and destruction, people seemed cheerier than they had for a while. Regular meals probably were the cause.

Rather to my surprise, I found that I was popular in my own right. The story of my exploits, against the mob that had formed when Princess Myrcella had left and against the enemy troops who'd been trying to break into the city, had gone 'round, and as usual, had lost nothing in the telling.

A singer, Symeon Silver Tongue, had composed a song about me, which he insisted on singing in every tavern in Flea Bottom. Whenever I heard it, I cringed, but since not many people down there knew what I really looked like, it could have been worse. The one time anybody brought the subject up at the embassy, I made it clear that I didn't like it and would prefer people not talk about it. Much to my dismay, this helped cement my image as a modest hero. "Only a real 'ero won't talk about what 'e did!" said Baldrick, and many of the fools agreed with him.

At least Elspeth understood, once I figured out how to explain why I didn't like the song. "Those are not good memories, m'dear," I said, while unloosening her buttons and manouvering her toward the bed. "I do these things because I must, not because I love doing them. Beleive me, I'd far rather be with you than out in the middle of some desperate fight." Her gown hit the floor, and I scooped her into my arms.

"Och, ma jo," she purred, snuggling in close and doing something with her hand that no respectable married matron should have known about, "I understand completely. I was terrified for you when you were out there in the last big fight." As I lay her gently on the bed and began working off her shift, she looked up at me with her guileless blue eyes. "I ne'er kent just how brave ye are till we came here!"

"Oh, I'm not brave at all," I assured her, as I slipped off my nightshirt and crawled in with her. "Sometimes I think I'm the biggest coward in this or any world!" As we buckled to, I took a second to reflect that I had told her nothing but the truth...and that she'd never, never credit it.

The next day, the Red Keep was rocked with some amazing news. Sansa Stark was to be married, all right. The identity of the groom took us all well aback.

"She's to marry Lord Tyrion, or so I was informed," Dick Burton told us at dinner. It was Britons only, and the lodge was tyled, so he was able to speak freely. As he no doubt expected, that news put the cat among the pigeons for fair.

"My God!" Isabel Burton crossed herself. "She's only twelve years old! Lord Tyrion's old enough to be her father!" A general murmur of agreement greeted that statement. While we were fully aware that girls that young or younger were frequently married off in India and other countries, this was the first we'd seen of it in Westeros.

"Keep in mind, people, that we're in what amounts to the Middle Ages here. During those times, noble girls were routinely married off at what seems to us like very young ages," Dick pointed out. "Isabelle of France was married to Edward II when she was about the age Lady Sansa is now. And Isabelle of Valois married Richard II when she was about seven!" (3) A murmur of general shock went around the table. We didn't doubt Dick's word for a second. While he was not on the level of John Charity Spring (who had finally managed to secure passage to Britain, and was certainly hot on the trail of his absconding crew) Dick Burton was a learned scholar and knew whereof he spoke.

Blackadder gave me a look. "Sir Harry, you're close to Lord Tyrion. Have a little chat with him, will you? See what the real story is."

"An excellent idea," Dick said.

Over the next few days, I did try to run Tyrion to earth, but between both of us having demanding duties that took up a lot of time and the Red Keep's sheer size and complexity, it was no go. We did receive a formal invitation to the wedding, which threw our mem-sahibs into frenzies as they rooted out their finest Home fashions to wear.

"No matter what you wear, m'dear, I'll only have eyes for you. And so will the other men present, if they've got eyes and sense in their heads," I assured Elspeth, who was in an agony of indecision over which overpriced Parisian confection would look best on her.

"D'ye think I'd outshine the Queen?" Elspeth asked. As always, flattery had distracted her.

"You'd outshine any woman in any company. You're the ideal all women should aspire to." I had known this would get her mind off fussing over dresses, and it did. If we hadn't had to get presentable to go to the wedding, we'd have had at each other. While she'd gained a stone or so (4) since our wedding day, it was well-distributed, and I wasn't joking when I said she was far more attractive than the other ladies at the embassy. Even Isabel Burton, her one real rival, looked rather shopworn next to her.

When the servants knocked to deferentially announce that our presence was required, we were ready. Elspeth looked smashing in a dark-blue dress that matched her bonny blue eyes, and I was in full uniform, with all my medals ablaze on my chest. We strode forth, her hand on my arm, ready to show these Westerosi barbarians what British nobility was.

We were met by Dick and Isabel. He was also in full uniform, and looked very much the dashing adventurer he was. Isabel clung to his arm, sending him worshipful glances. She worshiped the water she thought he walked on. The other embassy wallahs were either in uniform, if they were entitled to wear it, or civilian togs. I was relieved to note that Blackadder had left Baldrick behind. The thought of that antediluvian shambling along in our party forced me to repress a wicked snicker as we trailed out of our embassy and over to the Great Sept.

Inside, the Sept was all but jammed with the nobility of Westeros, at least those who were in Kings Landing. We'd had places reserved for us, and were deferentially shown to them. So far, it was very like weddings at Home. Once everybody was seated, an organ began to play. The music was different to what we would play, but I enjoyed it.

The new High Septon was standing up by the altar. He didn't have his predecessor's crystal crown. A new one was being prepared, but until that was done, he'd have to perform his duties without a crown. Tyrion was standing there, looking resplendent in garb of his House's red and gold, wearing a cloak with the Lannister arms: gules, a lion rampant or. Another cloak was over his arm.

Sansa Stark was led in. She was also resplendent, in a silver-trimmed white gown, with a cloak over it bearing the arms of the Starks: argent, a wolf passant proper. She looked white and drawn, and as though she'd been crying. I have to say I felt bad for the poor little chit. From what I'd heard, she'd dreamed all of her life of marrying a handsome knight, and had been taught to expect to be the lady of a great manor. Marrying Tyrion Lannister instead had to be yet another crushing blow, and the poor little girl had already suffered more than enough of those thanks to the monster who now sat the throne and his family.

As they went past us, Sansa and I locked eyes for a second. I could see terror and appeal in her eye, and I did my best to encourage her with a wink and a nod. I felt for her, but there was literally nothing I could do.

"Look, Elspeth," I'd said, when Elspeth had begged me to intervene somehow, "we're diplomats and foreigners here. We have no say in local affairs, particularly the affairs of the ruling houses! If I raise a rumpus, the local government will have us kicked out, and good Queen Vicky will roast me over a slow fire!"

She had looked mutinous, but she had finally accepted my ukase. The thing was, I was telling the unvarnished truth. While we were privileged people here, we were always present on suffrance only. One complaint from the Throne to Home, and any or all of us could be recalled. And our good Queen would not be pleased at all. She expected her envoys and diplomats to be good examples of British behaviour, to teach these foreigners proper ways by example.

The actual ceremony was not terribly different to what I'd have expected at home. The biggest difference was that, at one point, Sansa's attendants removed her Stark cloak, and Tyrion wrapped the other cloak in his arms...Lannister colors, just like the one he'd been wearing...about her shoulders, to signify that she was now a member of House Lannister. I thought this was a good idea, and wondered if armigerous families in Britain might consider adopting it.

At the wedding feast, we did have some excitement. At one point, Joffrey called out an offer to see to it that Sansa's children, at least, were normal.

At this, I had to put my arm very firmly over Elspeth's shoulders to prevent her starting from her seat and going after Joffrey. Ever since the incident in the throne room, she had felt very protective toward Sansa. The rest of us British were just as shocked and angry, but most of us had had enough experience of erratic, autocratic rulers in India to not show it as openly as my wife did.

Tyrion showed that he was just as much a Lannister as his warrior ancestors. He snarled that if Joff touched his wife, he, Tyrion, would see to it that he pleasured his own wife with a wooden cock. This would never have done in Britain, and I could see my countrymen and –women struggling to hide shocked laughter. While there was a lot of unabashed crudity among the lower orders, in the social circles we moved in, such things were never discussed openly in public, particularly in mixed company.

I was glad there was no "bedding" ceremony. While the thought of seeing bride and groom stripped before the wedding party and carried off to bed had its appeal, Tyrion was no prize to look at, however fine a fellow he was, and Sansa was too young to appeal to me or anybody with a smidgeon of decency.

[1] "Believe me, nothing except a battle lost can be half so melancholy as a battle won." This statement is attributed to Wellington after the Battle of Waterloo. Despite his reputation, the Duke cared deeply for his men and sorrowed at the heavy losses he had had to incur and inflict to defeat Napoleon.

[2] The "Great Stink" was an event in 1858 during which the Thames, due to hot weather and the primitive sanitary methods in use, nearly stank out most of central London. It was one of the impetuses for the installation of London's sewer system.

[3] Burton is not quite correct. Isabella of Valois married Richard II of England when she was six. Since she was still well under age at the time of Richard's deposition and death, the marriage was never consumnated, but she appears to have sincerely loved him and mourned his death.