Flashman and the Throne of Swords

A Flashman/Song of Ice and Fire crossover fic

by Technomad

Chapter 1.

(from The Flashman Papers, written ca. 1905-1915)

For all that I'm a monarchist myself, I can't deny that when kings and queens go bad, they have scope for going bad that we common folk can't dream of. In my time I've stood, quaking and trying to put up a brave show, before some of the worst of 'em. Ranavalona of Madagascar, Hung Hsiu-chuan of the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom, Gezo of Dahomey and Theodore of Abyssinia…aye, those monsters populate my dreams, when I'm unwise enough to dine on cheese and lobster. But the youngest, and one of the worst, was Joffrey Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms et cetera, who bid fair to become a worse tyrant than the worst I've seen or heard of. And all at age thirteen, at that.

I've no illusions about the young of the species. I was one once myself, and graduated from being a sneak and a toady to a bully and general rotter. But at my most powerful, all I had command of was the common-room at Rugby school, and the only subjects I had were the sniveling fags whom I could order tossed in blankets or roasted in front of fires.(1) Joff, at a younger age than I'd been when I'd lorded it at Rugby, was a king, don't ye see, and could order your head put on a spike if it occurred to him that he might like it better there. He nearly decided, several times, to do just that to me, and 'twasn't his fault that I survived my adventures in his benighted Seven Kingdoms.

'Twas in the year 1858 that our scientific johnnies learned that a certain mechanism could send our ships to another world-a world where seasons lasted for years instead of months, a world that seemed to be stuck in the Middle Ages. Even I, lacking all interest in anything more scientific than the best way to get the knickers off an upstairs maid, could not help but notice the results.

For a while, Westeros and Westerosi fashions were all the rage. Elspeth had several "authentically Westerosi" gowns run up (at a price no more than middling ruinous) which, I noted later, were no more authentically Westerosi than I am. Reams of bad poetry were written about the wars and history of Westeros. Reading between the lines, the place sounded decidedly dangerous, and I made up my mind to keep well away from it. I'd just made my way back to home and beauty from some hair-raising adventures in the Mutiny, and had no mind to stir from London again. Of course, I've made such resolutions many times in my life-much good they ever did me!

When I received an invitation-read, "command" from dear Vicky to attend her at Buckingham, I sensed that the writing was on the wall for old Flashy. There had been a Westerosi delegation there for some time, and as a well-known traveller and survivor of various far places, my opinion would be wanted.

The invitation found me in Zoola, where I had just concluded a particularly hair-raising series of adventures in Abyssinia, including enough peril to send anybody sane shrieking for asylum. I'd survived mad Emperor Theodore's court, being swept off a waterfall, the hostility of a princess, and several battles. Honestly, I sometimes think I'd have done better going into the Church, or reading for the Bar. I knew something was rum, and the next thing I heard confirmed it.

"Flash," says the cove I'm talking to, a Navy lieutenant, "we've been sent here with a short-list of people our dear Queen wants to see, toute-suite. Your name's near the top of that list. Good job I found you."

So, home and beauty beckoned, even though it included a stop at Buck House. Discreet inquiry told me, to my relief, that once I was in Alexandria, the ship wouldn't be stopping until we were dropping anchor at Portsmouth. I'd no desire to go ashore on French soil; the frog-eaters were still on the lookout for me for deserting their foul Foreign Legion in Mexico, even if I had done it at an Emperor's command (2). Austria might also be perilous; the kraut-eating admiral whose niece I'd debauched while escorting poor Max's corpse back to native soil (3) might still be nursing spite against me, and plotting vengeance should he lay hands on Flashy. It's hell sometimes, when people won't let go of grudges. Much I should talk, though-the next grudge I let go of will be the first.

I'd never have done for the Navy, but I must say, when they put their minds to a task there's nobody else like 'em. In what seemed like jig time, I was looking out at the English shoreline in Plymouth from the railing of my ship, and already fondly anticipating a reunion with my sweet, feather-brained Elspeth. She'd been notified that I was on the way, which I hoped meant that the little trollop had cleared out whatever fancy-men she had taken up with while I was safely out of the way. I'd no desire to walk in on her in a compromising position with some swaggering arrogant pinhead. The scene we'd had before I went off to the Crimea was still fresh in my memory,(4) and I didn't want a second act of the same damned farce.

Elspeth was delighted to see me, of course. She always is, bless her; she may well have been doing the mattress quadrille with half of Society while I was gone, but you'd never have guessed it from the fervor she showed, welcoming "her Hector" home. When I told her we were bidden to Buck House, she gave a squeal that nearly deafened me.

"The Queen wishes to see us! Oh, Harry! I must wear my finest gown, of the latest style, and you must wear your medals! What could Her Majesty want? Could she wish to ennoble you?"

Privately, I thought that me becoming "Lord Flashman" was about as likely as me joining the Plymouth Bretheren, but I left her to her fantasies. My knighthood had already made her monstrous snobbish, and I rather imagined that if I ended up in the Lords, she'd get her head so swollen with self-importance that we'd need to modify the doors at Gandamack to accommodate her. Although it did occur to me that if we did get bumped up high enough, I might find myself nobler than James bloody Brudenell, the Earl of Cardigan. Which would be very sweet revenge for the way he'd turfed me out of his moth-eaten regiment for marrying Elspeth, damn him.(5)

A few days later, we were being shown into Buckingham Palace, which is rather like a very large morgue with a lot of expensive paintings on the walls. The servants were as insolent as ever, and I thought longingly of having 'em in the Army under my command; a good flogging apiece was no less than what they deserved. By now my sweet scatterbrain was not flustered merely by being in the Royal Presence, so at least I was spared the task of calming her down sufficient to do the necessary.

As always, Vicky was dressed in deepest mourning. It was seven years since the fathead Albert had passed on, and I thought it a trifle excessive, but nobody could sway our gracious sovereign lady when her mind was made up. She welcomed us pleasantly enough, though. "Sir Harry! And Lady Flashman! Do please make yourselves comfortable! We have long awaited your arrival, Sir Harry. We have a most important mission to entrust to you!"

This did not sound good, not for a minute it didn't. Given my undeserved reputation for fire-eating derring-do, I didn't think for a second that Vicky had called for me to unstop some stubborn drains. Of course, that blithering idiot I married was all enthusiasm, burbling "But, your Majesty, of course dear Harry would love to do anything you require of him! He's so brave!"

Vicky turned her pop eyes toward Elspeth. "And you, Lady Flashman, shall have a part to play as well. The task at hand would be done better by a married couple."

At the thought of actually sharing in my exploits, darling Elspeth was torn between delight and puzzlement. Puzzlement won out. "Why, whatever do you mean, your Majesty? I'm just a simple Scottish girl who had the luck to marry the best, bravest, most unsullied cavalier that ever lived…" Had I had less self-control, I might have rolled my eyes in amusement. Either Elspeth, like every other fool in Her Majesty's dominions, believed all the stories about me despite having lived with me for so long, or she was much sharper than she let on, and was subtly pulling Vicky's leg. I've never been able to decide just which one was the case.

Vicky sipped at her tea, looking remarkably like her Hanover uncles. "We would never send an official envoy to a foreign court without his loving spouse at his side." At this, Elspeth and I exchanged puzzled glances. I'd had a little to do with the diplomatic, mostly during the Sikh imbroglio(6) but it was by no means what I was best-known for. And I privately thought that my talent for languages, and for getting along with various homicidal foreigners, disqualified me forever from her gracious Majesty's diplomatic service. At least, the diplomatic wallahs I'd met mostly lacked those qualities. For some of them (the Scots in particular) English was difficult enough, without trying to wrap their heads around whatever Mumbo-Jumbo-landish dialect was spoken where they'd fetched up. As for getting along with the locals…words fail me!

Elspeth gave a squeal of joy. "Oh, your Majesty, you honour us so highly! Imagine it…my Harry, an Ambassador!" Vicky shook her head, and Elspeth subsided, looking puzzled.

"No, Lady Flashman, We have another person in mind for the Ambassadorship. Your husband shall be an attaché to the embassy."

"Who's been tapped for the ambassador's slot?" I asked. This was getting rum-er by the minute, and my sixth sense for danger was screaming at me. Unfortunately, under the Queen's eye (not to mention Elspeth) there was nothing for it but to face the music, even with my guts threatening to do the polka.

The Queen looked inordinately pleased, as though she were a cat who not only had eaten the canary, but had got the dog blamed. "Why, who else but our dear Captain Sir Richard Burton? While We do not care for his wife's inordinate attachment to the Roman superstition, his record is unrivalled, even by you, dear Sir Harry."

That was one bit of good news to set against the oncoming catastrophe I could see barreling down on me. Ruffian Dick and I were much of an age, and his reputation for getting into, and out of, forbidden places full of savage niggers made even mine look rather second-rate. On this sort of biznai, there were few people I'd rather have along than Dick Burton. To add extra spice, he believed every word about my exploits and considered me a kindred soul. Many an evening we'd whiled away over drinks, yarning over various places we'd been, people we'd seen, and perils we'd escaped.

Of course, since wives were coming along, that meant putting up with that tedious rainy day he'd married, Isabel Arundell Burton. She could bore for England, and her idiotic attachment to the Catholic Church meant that she was forever and a day trying to convert everybody she met. As an atheist (attached C. of E.), I had had to tell her, politely but in clear English, that no, I was not interested in swimming the Tiber, and to leave me be. When I was out of Town, Elspeth had had words with her on the subject as well; afterwards, Isabel was reported to be sporting a black eye. Lucky that Dick was nowhere nearby. I don't know that he'd have come after Elspeth and forced me to confront him…but it was better that it not come up at all. I'd no desire to square off with Ruffian Dick Burton, not with fists, blades, barkers or in any other way. Anybody who writes whole books about proper swordplay is too deadly for me.

Elspeth, being her usual self, homed in on the one detail I'd missed. "Sir? I hadn't known he had a knighthood, your Majesty. Or has he inherited a baronetcy?" She's the original snob, my Elspeth is, for all that her late father was nothing but a miserly Scotch mill-owner before our lunatic Government of the day ennobled him as "Lord Paisley." She could put on the fearfullest airs, Elspeth could. I've known duchesses (and not just in the carnal sense, thank'ee kindly, although I've had a few of 'em) who were much less concerned with titles, rank and protocol. Not that Elspeth was ever unkind.

Vicky smiled, looking like a contented toad. "We have seen fit to grant dear Sir Richard the order of Knight of St. Michael and St. George, in recognition of his services to Our Realm." Well, this was a stunner and no mistake. I privately thought that Dick was far worthier of the allocade than any of the fatheads I knew who had it (and I include myself in that number) but his reputation, and his love of kicking sacred cows, should have prevented him getting anything of the sort. He'd offended too many powerful folk, and such people have ways of getting their own back, usually sneaky and roundabout. But if Vicky said it would be so…our sovereign lady may not have had much formal power, but she could face down any obstreperous Jack-in-office in her realm without breaking a sweat.

Well, I've always said, if there's no help for it, might as well at least put up a brave front while looking for a back way to slip out by. "Your Majesty? You haven't mentioned just where we're to go." Privately, I wondered if she planned to ship me back to India. God knows, I'd done enough there for her to think of Flashy if there was a bowl of steaming mulligatawny all ready for me to be thrown in. But India was quiet, as far as I knew, so where…?

"We have decided that We need to send an envoy to Westeros. King Robert was kind enough to send Us envoys, and We wish a firmer tie between Our realm and the Seven Kingdoms." At the mention of Westeros, my stomach started feeling like a big cold owl was trapped in it and flapping to try to get out.

Had I been alone, I could have wept and danced with frustration. It wasn't fair, by Jove! I'd just come back from years of Hellish adventures, between being caught up in the Yanks' stupid, useless civil war, being a reluctant assistant to Wild Bill Hickok (not that he needed it; that man was all cold steel and rawhide, and one of the two fastest gunslicks it's ever been my pleasure to see; I'd have given good money to put him at his best up against Tiger Jack Moran and see who walked away) trying to save Max of Mexico's useless Hapsburg hide, evading an angry Austrian admiral, and finding myself the prisoner of a mad emperor in Abyssinia!(7) I'd had enough! I'd bloody well resign…but that blethering nitwit I'd married was burbling: "Oh, your Majesty! What an honour! I'm sure that my Harry will acquit himself with perfection! He's so intelligent, so strong, so brave…" And with those two women's eyes on me, I'd no choice (if I wanted to keep a shred of credit) but to face up to my fate.

"Very well," I said, trying to sound like a trip to Westeros was just what I wanted, and a jolly good idea. "When are we to leave?"

Vicky smiled, and Elspeth gave a squeal of glee and clasped her hands together. "We wish to give you a few months to settle things in England, dear Sir Harry," said our sovereign lady. "Therefore, you shall leave here in four months' time. The sailing should be better then."

The rest of the audience was mercifully short. While our Vicky always had a partiality to me, with my six feet of dark good looks, lancer figure, and whiskers, and she couldn't help but like Elspeth (Elspeth's such a ray of sunshine that even other women take a shine to her, bless her) she did have other claims on her time. We were dismissed, and once I was back at Berkeley Square, I sat Elspeth down for some serious talk.

"Elspeth, darling, I want you to understand something. This is not just some house party. Westeros is seriously dangerous." That was an understatement, if anything. I'd read enough, and heard enough from folk who'd been there, to know that Westeros was, at best, a medieval mess, with a King whose morals would have shocked Jeendan(8), a court that made the Chinese court look straightforward and easy to understand, and not a drop of distilled liquor or a decent cheroot to bless itself with. Personally, I'd sooner have bearded Henry VIII than go within a thousand miles of the accursed place.

"But, Harry! How could I be in danger? I'll be with you, my jo! I remember how you protected me and kept me safe in Madagascar, when those awful folk were after us…"(9) I had to admit, Elspeth had a point. Then her eyes went all dreamy. "And I so look forward to meeting all those gallant knights, like heroes out of King Arthur's story! Maybe they'll have a tournament, and I might get crowned Queen of Love and Beauty! Would that not be wonderful, Harry?"

And that was another objection I had to this whole lunatic scheme. I knew my lawfully-wedded featherbrain, and I had no intention of standing by while she put horns on my head yet again with half the chivalry of Westeros. Like most of the women I knew, she'd been reading that fathead Tennyson's Idylls of the King, and I could just imagine her picturing herself as Guinevere or Igraine or one of the other noble sluts in those poems.

"In any case," Elspeth said, "the Queen requires it of us. You have always done your duty, my love, and now I must step up and do mine along with you. And we shall do credit to our country." That stopped my mouth, but good. Married men know that when two women make up their minds about something, no mere man can get in the way, but when one of them is the divinely-appointed monarch whose pop-eyed features are on all the coins, there's nothing for it. Elspeth came closer, and put her arms around me. "And it's early afternoon. Let's to bed early, dear." I saw a lecherous gleam in her eyes. "We shall soon be very busy, and I doubt there's much privacy for us on shipboard."

Elspeth had the right of it, and bed sounded just fine. I let her lead me away.

Footnotes:

[1] See Tom Brown's Schooldays.

[2] This occurred some time before Flashman On The March begins. The Flashman papers do not as yet explain all the details, but somehow or other, Flashman made his peace with the French authorities.

[3] Admiral Tegethoff. See Flashman On The March.

[4] See Flashman At The Charge.

[5] See Flashman.

[6] See Flashman and the Mountain of Light.

[7] These adventures are detailed in Flashman On The March.

[8] Maharani Jeendan Kaur of the Punjab. See Flashman and the Mountain of Light.

[9] See Flashman's Lady. Flashman had been a prisoner of Queen Ranavalona of Madagascar, while Elspeth had been concealed by the Queen's son. They escaped together under circumstances of great peril.

END Chapter 01