Flashman and the Throne of Swords

Chapter 33

by Technomad

After the wedding, life returned to normal, or as normal as things could ever be in Westeros. Along with the rest of our embassy's staff, I had much to do writing reports on the battle to be sent Home on the next ship, as well as the routine day-to-day work of any British embassy.

One of our duties was conveying congratulations to Lord Tyrion and Lady Sansa on the occasion of their nuptials, on behalf of our sovereign lady whose pop-eyed face adorns our coins. When we got our marching orders, Dick Burton poked his head into my office, where I was wading through a stack of paperwork.

"Up for a bit of official business, old chap?" He raised his eyebrows at the wilderness of paper on my desk. "At least this'll be an excuse to get out from behind that desk for a while!" He looked serious for a second. "We're to officially congratulate Lord Tyrion on his nuptials, on behalf of the Queen."

I smiled at him, and he gave me a wicked wink. I knew that he felt that paperwork was the invention of the Devil, and on days like that, I could hardly blame him for feeling that way. The fools at Home seemed to delight in thinking up new vexations to load on us poor diplomats' shoulders, never considering for a second that we did have many other claims on our time. I thought that requiring experience in the field for any such position would be enormously helpful.

Straightening up (and noticing my creaky back; when had I acquired such a thing?) I said: "Let me get into my formal togs, and I'll be delighted to assist you."

Some little while later, in my formal uniform with my medals all a-glitter on my chest, I accompanied Dick to the quarters that Tyrion had been assigned after being removed as Hand of the King. We knocked, and were admitted.

Tyrion received us graciously. "Welcome, Ser Richard, Ser Harry!" he said. "We have seen too little of you lately!"

"It's the press of official business, m'lord," Dick said, not untruthfully. "We've much to do at any time, and after the battle, things have been more at sixes-and-sevens than usual."

"Is there any chance that this endless fighting will end soon, m'lord?" I asked. "We British are here to trade, but trying to conduct business on a battlefield is impossible." Having heard Blackadder moaning on about the difficulties of conducting business in the middle of a war, I knew I was telling the truth.

Tyrion shook his head ruefully. "Can't say for sure, gentlemen," he said. From his expression, he really did regret that fact. I knew, from talks with him, that he considered their multi-sided civil war to be an incredibly foolish affair. As did I. I've seen more war than anybody I know (1) and I agree with Sherman that it's Hell. God knows, I'm no kindly soul, but to see the suffering in Westeros would have made the Devil weep.

"In any case," said Dick, "we're here to congratulate you on your nuptials, on behalf of our Queen."

Tyrion gave us a smile. "I thank you, sers. Please convey my thanks, and my lady wife's, to Victoria, First of her Name."

"How fares the Lady Sansa?" I asked. Ever since Elspeth had shielded her from that monster Joffrey, and I'd saved her from that ravening mob, we'd felt a certain bond with her. While I did not think well of her common sense, at her age that was nothing out of the ordinary, and I felt that she'd suffered far more than she deserved.

"I am well, Ser Richard, Ser Harry," came a voice from behind us. We turned and there was Lady Sansa herself. We bowed, and she curtsied to us. Her face was utterly blank, but I could see misery in her eyes. "Thank you for your concern."

"You are welcome, my lady, my lord," Dick answered. "We would be glad if you could come to dinner at our embassy sometime soon. We're already acquainted with Lord Tyrion, but we don't know you."

"That would please me, if my lord pleases," Lady Sansa said softly. Dick and I exchanged glances. If we could get them both into the embassy, our mem-sahibs could pump Sansa for the actual state of her marriage.

We'd been rather scandalised at how young she was, for all that Dick had pointed out that such marriages were not at all uncommon among high nobility in our own Middle Ages. I knew my Elspeth was eager to get Sansa aside for some heart-to-heart talks, and after the way she'd protected Sansa, I thought that Sansa might just open up to Elspeth.

If Lord Tyrion had indeed claimed his marital rights, no matter the letter of the law, I wouldn't have given much for his chances if Elspeth found out.

"I have heard much about your valour and courage in the fighting, Ser Richard, Ser Harry," Lady Sansa said softly. "You are both true knights." I managed to keep a straight face, but inside, I was wondering what she'd have thought had she known the truth.

Had she known just how terrified and reluctant I'd been to get involved in the fighting at all, she'd probably have spat in my face. For all her troubles, the reports we got said that she still believed in a lot of the brummagem nonsense about spotless knights and deeds of chivalry she'd had pumped into her ears when she was little. How she could continue to believe any of that bumpf after what she'd been through was a mystery to me.

But unraveling the mysteries of Lady Sansa's mind was beyond my powers. Dick and I made our farewells, and as we headed back to the embassy, Dick said: "I wasn't speaking idly when I said I'd like to host those two at the embassy. In my last dispatch Home, I suggested that our gracious Queen invite Lord Tyrion to be a permanent ambassador in London. At present, there's no such official."

"When will we hear back from Home?" I asked. I was looking forward to another shipment of publications from Britain, and I was also running low on cheroots and brandy. While strongwine was very nice, and Arbor Gold and Red were both ambrosial, they were no substitutes for good old French brandy, particularly when I was feeling more homesick than usual. Luckily, I had more than enough on my plate to keep me from succumbing to the blues, the way I had at Christmas when I was a driver at Graystones in the States, in '49. (2) Work's a great preventer of that sort of thing, I find.

"Difficult to say. A lot depends on how fast those slowcoaches at Home get around to acting on our reports. The battle did delay some things. Good job your wife's cousin's ship, the Glasgow Lassie, was nowhere near the fighting. She's pretty fast and Captain Morrison's very reliable. As soon as he has our dispatches, he'll be making flank speed back to Kings Landing."

"Angus is a good man," I agreed. When Spring and I had been heading back to Kings Landing aboard the Glasgow Lassie, I'd been favourably impressed with his seamanship. I also knew he was unshakably loyal to the Crown, and would consider official dispatches to be a sacred trust.

A few days later, the Glasgow Lassie sailed into the Kings Landing harbour. With the Red Ensign flying proudly, she was not molested by anyone. The locals were primitive, but not at all stupid. They had learned from seeing what had happened to the rebel ships that had dared attack HMS Penelope on the night of the Battle of the Blackwater. To them, British ships were off limits.

Angus had come through very handsomely. There were bags and bags of mail, including the latest publications from Home. We men were delighted to receive boxes of excellent Cuban cigars, as well as pipe baccy for those who preferred pipes. There were cases of very good brandy and French wines, for use when we were entertaining the local people, or were feeling homesick.

The mem-sahibs, including Elspeth, fell on the fashion publications with squeals of joy. Soon they were deep in discussion of the new styles, and technical talk about how to get local seamstresses to make acceptable copies of them for occasions where they felt they had to dress in European style. They had almost all adopted the more comfortable Westerosi style of women's clothing, since it was just as modest as anything worn at Home, but on very formal occasions, they still preferred to go in European clothes, and wanted to be in the latest mode. Listening to them, I was privately glad that men's clothing did not change much from one year to the next, and privately blessed the memory of Beau Brummel (3).

And, of course, there was official correspondence. That mostly went to Dick Burton, as ambassador. I was given a lot of the routine stuff to deal with, but the important messages were for Dick's eyes only, at least at first. As ambassador, it was up to him whether or not they were to be shared with the rest of us.

One day he called me into his private office. Unusually for him, he looked uncertain. This made me nervous. I'm a windy sort by inclination and experience, but Dick Burton was one of the most single-minded people I knew. I think he could have stared down the Duke of Wellington if they had ever met.

"Have a seat, Flash," he said. Pouring me out a dollop of good old French brandy, he said: "How would you like to go north and meet up with Robb Stark?"

I took a long sip of my brandy before answering. "Personally, I'd rather be on my way back Home, with Elspeth. But if duty calls me, of course, I'll go." Then a thought struck me. "Is that harridan of a mother of his with him, by any chance?"

Dick looked glum. He knew, of course, about my previous encounter with Catelyn Stark. At the time I'd told him the story, he'd been just as indignant about that as I was. War had been avoided only by receiving earnest assurances from the government in Kings Landing that Lady Stark's actions had been completely unsanctioned by her husband or by the royal government. Even so, there had been a deal of indignation at home at such treatment of an accredited British representative, and the Thunderer (4) had printed some angry letters calling for war with the Seven Kingdoms.

"Yes, Harry, I'm afraid she is. I know this won't be easy for you. However, this won't be just you this time. I'm commanded to make formal contact with Robb Stark and do my best to broker a peace here. Her Majesty's government has been getting complaints about the unsettled state of this country, and our sovereign lady feels that, as neutrals, we may be able to talk sense into both sides here."

I felt like rolling my eyes to heaven in appeal. "Meaning no slightest disrespect to our sovereign lady, Dick, but only someone with no direct experience of Westeros could have come up with such a plan. These nobles are bone-headed and stubborn as mules, and they've the bit in their teeth, all of them. Persuading them to peace before one side's utterly destroyed the others is about as likely as building a flying machine."

"I know," Dick said wearily. "But you and I, and our good ladies, and a selection of others from our embassy are 'Requested and Required' to travel north, make contact with Robb Stark, and at least try to talk him into a compromise with the court at Kings Landing that won't leave this country utterly devastated. Our merchants have been caught in the fighting, particularly by those damned Iron Islands pirates, and they've been screaming for our government to do something about it."

When we went to seek the Hand, we found him indisposed. I wondered if he were really ill, or just tired of having to deal with that horrible grandson of his. I'd seen more than enough of Joffrey, First of his Name, to be able to sympathise with him if that were so. Had that awful brat been any of my grandlings, I'd have worn my belt out on his rump long since.

When he was informed that the British Ambassador had important business with him, Lord Tywin roused himself enough to summon us into his sickroom. Smelling the air, I could believe that he really was ill. Sickness has a smell all its own, and I knew it all too well. For a second, I was reminded uncomfortably of the Crimea, with the cholera demon haunting our army as it marched and camped. (5)

Lord Tywin was sitting up in his bed, and as we entered, he gave us a disinheriting glare. "Well? What's so important that you must disturb me, Ambassador?" Had we not been British diplomats, I rather think he'd have had us slung out on our ears. But he had to know by now just how potentially powerful Britain was, so he had to gang warily, as Elspeth would say.

Dick Burton came forward, bowing slightly. "Terribly sorry to disturb you, my lord, but we've orders from our masters at Home. We're commanded by our Queen to go north and make contact with Robb Stark. We would like to see this realm at peace once again."

Lord Tywin may have been old, but there was nothing wrong with his brains, damn him. "Oh? So your merchants can make more money, I take it?" He sneered. "Typical money-grubbers! All they care about is their greasy coins..."

Coming from someone so rich that he was said (behind his back, to be sure) to shit gold, this was incredible gall. Lord Tywin had never had to worry about money in his entire life, from what I knew of him. Of course, people like him love to sneer at those of us who do have to worry about it. Other than being much more intelligent, he put me, at that moment, very much in mind of Lord Cardigan and his frantic disdain for all officers who were not up to his high standards as regarded wealth and social standing.

I could tell that Dick Burton was just as unamused by Lord Tywin's attitude as I was. I knew him well enough, and while nobody who only knew him in passing would have noticed it, I knew that he was holding his terrifying temper in check with a real effort. "That may be, my lord, but nonetheless, we have our orders from our queen and her ministers. May we have safe-conduct through the lines?"

"Oh, very well. You may go north, and if you can find the Stark boy, you may talk to him with our blessings." He gave us a pawky look. "That is, if you can find him."

Something about the way he said that sounded awfully rum to me, but I kept mum and let Dick do the talking. "Thank you, my lord. We'll expect our safe-conduct passes at the embassy. We know you aren't well, so we'll take up no more of your time." We got out of there as fast as we could, and I was glad to breathe relatively clean air again.

"Well, that was easier than I had expected," Dick said. "Let's go back to the embassy. I was serious about inviting Lord Tyrion and Lady Sansa around. We'll need to send them a formal invitation, and make sure that the cooks know to whip up a capital meal."

When Lord Tyrion and Lady Sansa came to dinner, we were ready. The cooks had outdone themselves with what they had available (food was still short, although not as badly as before), Blackadder had locked Baldrick up in his room to keep him from disrupting things with his trademark incompetence, and we'd set out a fine selection of wines, both locally made and imported from Home (or France).

Tyrion was his usual charming self. He greeted everyone, showing that he had forgotten nothing from his earlier visit, and I noticed several of the mem-sahibs, not just Elspeth, sighing over him. If I could bottle whatever he had and sell it, I'd be richer than the Queen. At that thought, I wondered just how our gracious sovereign lady would react when and if she met Lord Tyrion. I knew she was susceptible...she'd taken a shine to me on first meeting, mainly due to my manly bearing, six-foot-plus height, and cavalry whiskers...what would happen if she took a real shine to the dwarf lord?

From what I could see, Lady Sansa wouldn't have cared one way or t'other. She was perfectly polite and courteous, as she always was, but there was a frozen remoteness to her that made me wonder just what had happened. Had that royal monster forced her to submit, despite his uncle's threats? I didn't like that idea at all. There wasn't much I could do about it, but I'd not have put it past Joffrey to do something like that. I renewed my pledge to myself to keep Elspeth safe from him at whatever cost to myself. While I'm indifferent to most of the human race, I do value Elspeth highly.

The meal was good, and the wine flowed freely. We made sure that Tyrion got to try some fine French brandies. Blackadder commented to me upon seeing his reaction: "I think we've another item that'll sell well here." At a fat mark-up, I was sure, but between the effort required to bring such things to Westeros, and the fact that it was so much nicer than the local "strongwine," I could understand.

Tyrion was quite receptive to the idea of him becoming the first ambassador to the Court of St. James from the Seven Kingdoms. "I'd love to see your London," he said. "I doubt it's a patch on Kings Landing, but it does sound interesting." I smothered a smile. London could have swallowed up Kings Landing and never noticed it. I made up my mind that I definitely wanted to be there when Tyrion got his first sight of our capital. He might not be quite as full of bounce as he had been once he'd grasped its sheer size.

While we men talked shop with Lord Tyrion, the mem-sahibs were discreetly quizzing Lady Sansa. I caught Elspeth's eye while this was going on, but she signalled me to stay out of it. I knew she'd get me genned up later.

[1] Flashman may have been in more wars than anybody else in history. He is known to have participated in or witnessed the First Afghan War, a campaign against pirates with Rajah Brooke of Sarawak, the First Sikh War, the Crimean War, the Russian invasion of Central Asia, the Indian Mutiny, the Taiping Rebellion, the Second Opium War, the Harpers Ferry raid, the US Civil War, Custer's last campaign against the Sioux and Last Stand, the Sudanese Expedition against the Mahdi, the Anglo-Ethiopian War, and the Boxer Rebellion. In addition to these, he may have been involved in other campaigns; he mentions a decoration he got in South America several times, which suggests that he was an observer or participant in either the War of the Triple Alliance or the War of the Pacific.

[2] See Flash for Freedom! At one point in his first visit to the United States, Flashman was forced to spend several months as a "driver" on a Southern plantation.

[3] George "Beau" Brummel was a leader of men's fashion during the Regency period. It was largely due to his influence that men's garments became the sober styles we associate with the later Victorian period.

[4] "The Thunderer" was a nickname for the London Times. At this time, the Times was the newspaper of record for Britain, and by extension, much of its Empire.

[5] During the Crimean War, cholera was as deadly to the invading Allied armies as the Russians.