The New Order
Ninth Day of the Tenth Month 293 AC
Gerold Torchwood strode into the command pavilion with a purpose, the two massive assault troopers guarding the entrance saluting him by reflex even as he paid them no heed. His 'angelic' escort trailed in his wake, pausing only to pay Trooper Tarion her compliments for his performance a week prior during initial engagements with the Rebels, Gerold noted, one of the few times he had participated in the campaign from the front. The legionnaire bore the praise with stoic discipline and humble dismissal, making the slight smile from Ranael relatively effusive by comparison to her normal demeanor.
Gerold wondered if it was because of the rumors of how she had sent two squads to an infirmary for carousing and getting just a touch too friendly with her.
At anyrate, Pentos had never given up the practice of having 'concerned citizens' act as the local watch, and one they might have once bribed, the fact of the matter was that for the most part only a solid core of them had any practical military experience, with the rest being little better than armed thugs, and all were equal in his eyes far as he was concerned, complicit only-in-so-far that they imagined their former employers had too high a stake in retaining their slaves-in-fact if not name, whereas the Crown's forces and the Braavosi would give the choice of the Post or at best five years in penitent labor gangs working to gain skills other than those that wouldn't bear any use in a city without slums.
Gerold's logic was that if they had the short-sighted inclination to take those bastards' coin in the first place, they would just be tools to be utilized by other parties at a later date, and it was best to make an example of them now rather than later. It wasn't the same as beating the Lyseni out in the field, but making putting down average dissidents look routine discouraged the common rabble from walking into the Legion's teeth, or so he hoped.
A military machine like this shouldn't be used to kill peasants, Gerold thought,
in the case it does go that far, just kill the Lords and disperse them back to their fields and homes.
Truth be told Gerold couldn't imagine an Essosi freeman who would fight a real battle without being flashed quite a bit of gold before he had ever laid eyes on any mud or blood. And now the common sellsword was a dying breed. Part of him regretted his part to play in that, given his old calling, the other part exulted in the feeling of being part of something bigger. And if that Dornishman that the King has distracting those captains who stuck around, but more wisely pulled out of this continuing, low-ebb conflict, were of any indication, they too were aware of it.
"My Lady," Gerold greeted the Dragonrider before the long table cordially, the pair surrounded by captains, lieutenants and other officers or experts. He had sent a small detachment to accompany Colonel Aubert Flowers and his delegation to meet the Lorathi, and truth be told he missed the reliable and intrepid knight. Their absence more than made up for by Ranael, who had endured more war and bloodshed than the entire room put together, though most of her advice was direct and cut to the heart of the issue, having little patience for the subtle approach outside of tactics which required their discretion. She took up position by his shoulder, her judging gaze measuring him, and at least thus far finding whatever she saw in those black pools adequate to the task at hand. Colonel Beren strode up and took a seat beside the Crown's agent, who seemed to welcome their presence.
"Lord General," Nettles swallowed. "We cleared out section lotus-four. Sympathizers, but I'm starting to believe most of the Magisters who went to ground managed to make it over the border, or else out to sea. They would have had plenty of time to find their contacts, and I don't know any successful merchant who doesn't at least have some dealings with smugglers who could get them past even a Braavosi blockade." Her faint Narrow Sea islander accent gave him the impression she would know better than he, even for all the awkwardness in dealing with officers in the Legion despite technically outranking everyone in the room bar himself. And practically speaking he suspected their actual influence was less than equal. You don't throw around your weight casually against someone who commands a dragon, if not the intelligent variety.
"Indeed," Colonel Beren agreed, "the rebels will find it most difficult to put their roots down in the Hills after we have driven them off the Flatlands. The encirclement worked perfectly."
"Excellent work," he told both of them. "That was within my own expectations as well. The problem we face is the entrenched interests from Pentoshi factors who have made arrangements to avoided imprisonment and are currently
cooperating, for want of a given term, with the Braavosi in reordering the city and the outlands' administration. We will be done putting down brigands long before we are finished cutting away all of the clerical rot. It will take several reminders to local functionaries before we are through, reminders given by a dragon flying overhead like as not, seeing as how we can't just hang all of them."
"It would be much simpler to do just that," the younger woman muttered. "Begging your pardon, Lord General, but how useful would most of these people be compared to the Braavosi coin counters and scribes pouring in?"
"The scribes will eventually have to move on, for one thing," Gerold told her, thinking about the need for administrators, long-term ones, not just military logisticians turned upon the local potentates and checking their books for discrepancies or relieving miserable slaves or bondsmen of starvation until a harvest can be brought in and distributed fairly. "Their concern right now is fixing what's broken, and then training their replacements. Making the Pentoshi think some if not most of those replacements will come from their own number will reduce future problems." Reduce the number of people the Legion will have to cut down should any get it into their head to lead a populist uprising.
Be it as it may that the Bondsmen and even the freemen living in the outlands now would come to appreciate the rising quality of life, in one or two generations they could come to resent the increasing involvement of the administration on their affairs, whereas before Magisters would often pay their tithes in bribes rather than taxes, using poorly-written legislation as their armor and loopholes as their weapons, and a man with a full belly might be persuaded to think he can cover himself in gold or glory when all he has known is plenty. No one would be having any of those ideas if the Legion continued to grow, though, not without heavy reservations, and being associated with dragons on the wing working in concert, would only add to that image.
He looked upon the illusion painted above the table displaying known rebel holdouts, the spell woven by a mage of the third circle with a Valyrian cast to their features, the androgynous figure in the tent's alcove content to be ignored unless called upon, but their advice still valued for being one of the more experienced sorcerers for hundreds of miles. Men looked to him eagerly for orders, and he conducted an orchestra made to the sound of clashing steel and the march of thousands of booted feet just as often as the scratching of a thousand quills.
"We will crush the rebels to dust and install the New Order above the old, in the name of the Crown," Gerold told his staff, "Again and again."
"Hear, hear," Ranael murmured, true-silver clad fist hitting oak twice to punctuate her words.
OOC: Think it's about time Gerold gained another level of Marshal, @DragonParadox?